Nearly half my lifetime ago – in October, 1983 – my friend Bill Geary and I took a taxi to the Kathmandu’s old Tribhuvan Airport and boarded a sturdy Twin Otter for Lukla, the gateway to the world’s highest mountain range. We trekked for nearly four weeks, exploring the three main valleys of what would soon become Nepal’s Sagarmatha National Park. Our adventure climaxed atop Kala Patthar: a “black hill” which, cresting at 18,200’, affords a panoramic view of the Khumbu Glacier, the saw-tooth face of the Lhotse/Nuptse wall, and the commanding anvil of Everest, towering yet another 11,000’ above our struggling lungs.

I didn’t know if I could do it again. I’m in my 50’s now — fit enough for sea level, but cashing in on my genetic inheritance: high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and a hardwired risk of heart failure. This year, in fact, I outlived my father, who passed away in September 1984 – less than a year after my first Everest trek, and mere days after his 54th birthday.

There are no guarantees in the mountains. I would not have been the first “healthy” trekker to collapse in the thin, cold air, struggling up flagstone trails that climb as much as 2,500’ a day, into an atmosphere that holds only 50% of the oxygen at sea level. And if that had happened – had I died on the trek, surrounded by impassive yaks and single-minded lichen – it would have been all right. By the time the Dakini and I began the long, slow climb up Kala Patthar, we had seen visions of such breathtaking beauty that it might seem almost selfish to wish for more.

You know the ending of this story. I didn’t die. We stood atop Kala Patthar just after noon, the sky high angstrom blue, the sun a bleached yellow star of halogen brightness. My ears beat in the wind. Crows hovered alongside our perch, hoping for power bar crumbs. The shifting Earth, with its myriad expressions of DNA, lay all around.

We tied a string of multi-colored prayer-flags at the summit. I dedicated their blessings to the memory of my father, and his good heart.

Indra Jatra is one of the Kathmandu Valley’s most treasured holidays. In shorthand, the 10-day celebration commemorates the capture and ransom of the rowdy god Indra, who was caught stealing a bunch of the Valley’s famous jasmine. The trussed-up god agreed, in return for his freedom, to provide the morning mists of late autumn, essential to the cultivation of winter wheat.

On a recent Friday afternoon, the city’s Newari population was gathering for the climax of the beloved festival. I parked my rented scooter, strolled past the saffron merchants and copper smiths, and took my place with the celebrants flowing into broad Basanthapur. The square soon filled up in anticipation of the evening’s traditional dances and rituals. Hundreds of women, dressed in brilliant saris, covered the temple steps like spilled confetti. Men milled around three worn wooden chariots, lifting their children for a better view. Soon, the ancient vehicles — festooned with flowers and fitted with thrones for Bhairav, Ganesh, and Kumari, the Living Goddess – would be pulled through the streets. Here, the old Newari spirit of Kathmandu was very alive — though the old palace square is now surrounded by cement high-rises.

Every year during the climax of Indra Jatra, dozens are water buffalo are sacrificed in a ritual to honor Kumari, the Living Goddess: a pre-pubescent girl who serves as Kathmandu’s protector deity. This year, though, the recently elected Maoist leadership decreed – at the height of the ceremony — that this year would be different. The secular government, citing extreme financial pressure, claimed they would not allocate government funds to buy sacrificial animals.

The reaction morphed instantly from disbelief to violence. Riots erupted. Police posts and tourist ticket booths were burned, and tires set on fire. The usually jubilant festival turned into a melee. The first wave was led by the kusain, the traditional butcher sub-cast. The yearly festivals of Indra Jatra and Dasain (a bigger and far bloodier event, starting October 4th) are their Thanksgiving and Christmas, providing most of the year’s revenue. By Sunday, though, a large part of the Valley’s indigenous Newari community had joined in.

Eventually, the government capitulated – but it was too little, too late. For the first time in living memory, the festival ended prematurely. There was no blessing from the Kumari to the nation’s new President; no procession of god-bearing chariots through the crowded streets.

What fascinated me most about this debacle was that it ignited a passionate debate about ritual sacrifice. This occurred last Dasain, as well, though on a much smaller scale. During the past week, emboldened or inflamed by government’s decision, Op-Eds and articles have filled the local dailies, addressing both sides of the argument. Is the ancient tradition of sacrifice – during which the heads of goats and buffalos are severed with a mighty stroke of a long-bladed kukri — an essential expression of Nepalese identity, or a primitive and barbaric display of animal cruelty?

The discussions that followed Indra Jatra (and that will no doubt greet Dasain) were diverse, but all paid homage to the obvious: ancient customs die hard. Even those adamantly opposed to animal cruelty were careful to hedge their views – admitting that such festivals are an indelible part of life in what was, at least until last April, “The World’s Only Hindu Kingdom.”

Even after 30 years of visiting Nepal, sacrificial rituals make me queasy. But I have to be fair: the meat is brought home for supper, or distributed, and the feasts that follow are a much-anticipated event. Yes, the animals are decapitated in a fearsome, bloodthirsty ceremony. But “barbarity” is a subjective term, and the Nepali method of slaughter (even on a day-to-day basis) is no worse than what you’ll find in… well, many Western abattoirs. One might even argue that if you are going to kill an animal for consumption, ritual sacrifice – where there is first-person awareness of the act, and a spiritual motive – is preferable to mindless butchery.

Someday, such large-scale animal sacrifices will likely end, and symbolic gestures will take their place (in Sri Lanka, for example, coconuts are smashed at the foot of holy shrines). But the transition will not occur overnight. For now, Nepal may be the only country in the world where Cybercafés and animal sacrifice share the public square, and angry Nepalese text message each other to report that the chariot of the Living Goddess has been stalled by protests.

The Nepalese may be enchanted by iPods, cell phone cameras, and other modern gadgets. But they cling savagely to tradition. Gods and goddesses will long remain central characters in the life of Kathmandu – and they like their meat raw.