Tibet’s Forgotten Kingdom
A JOURNEY THROUGH NANGCHEN COUNTY
Read time 10 mins
Having just left my full-time job, I developed a burning desire to go to Tibet, which seemed the furthest place from global capitalism I could imagine.
Like many Westerners, I dreamed of encountering the magic and mystery of old Tibet. I wanted to meet reincarnated Lamas, meditate with monks, watch yogis levitate, and live with nomads in black tents on green pastures.
Despite a hunch that this Tibet was long gone and I would be greeted by monks wearing fake Gucci T-shirts – I opened the atlas to search for the remotest corner of Tibet that I could find. My finger followed the contours to reveal Nangchen County in Eastern Tibet.
To my delight, an internet search generated only one short post. I arranged a three–week trip with Tashi, a Tibetan guide who had previously worked with National Geographic Magazine, and booked my flight to Yushu.
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Hundreds of years ago, the Lamas at this monastery flew to ceremonies,” says High Lama Kungsang Dhundup, his eyes flickering between attention and reflection. “Modern Lamas have lost those powers of great concentration,” he continues, with an air of humility. When I examine his face for a hint of irony, he laughs gently, and offers me another momo.
I survey the room full of awe-struck nuns, kneeling amid a treasure trove of Buddhist art – executed using a hallucinogenic palette of pigments and dyes – and decide to suspend my disbelief. Something I would do many times during my journey through Nangchen County.
As recently as 1994, French explorer Dr Michel Peissel described this land of lush green hills as ‘no doubt the last of the truly unexplored old Tibetan kingdoms’. Until 1949, Nangchen was an independent kingdom in eastern Tibet, with its own language and royal family – entirely separate from Chinese or Tibetan influence. The last king of Nangchen was King Tashi Tsewang, who was killed during the cultural revolution of 1949.
After reading Alexandra David-Néel’s book ‘Magic and Mystery in Tibet’ – an account of her travels in Tibet in the 1920’s – I was determined to seek out the remotest corner of Tibet that I could reach. In the hope that there might be some trace remaining of the fantastical old Tibet that she describes so vividly.
It seems that my guide Tashi and our driver, Kinga, are as captivated by the old Tibet as I am. When I mention that I have a book of old Tibetan photographs. “Pre-1949?”, they replied in unison, their eyes alive with possibility. Photographs pre-dating the cultural revolution are rare in contemporary Tibet.
It seems that my guide Tashi and our driver, Kinga, are as captivated by the old Tibet as I am. When I mention that I have a book of old Tibetan photographs, they reply in unison: ‘Pre-1949?’, their eyes alive with possibility. Photographs pre-dating the cultural revolution are rare in contemporary Tibet.
In Nangchen county, the older Tibetan orders such as the Drukpa continue to flourish and legends abound. One such tale tells of a time when Buddha’s cremated sariras (remains) were gathered up into pagoda-shaped shrines and sent to lie in stupas around the world. One of these precious relics was brought to Nangchen, which prospered and produced many renowned Buddhist scholars and Lamas to become known as ‘Gomde’ – literally ‘land of great meditators’. Over the centuries, however, the stupa built to house the remains fell into ruin and Nangchen was forgotten.
I had met Lama Kungsang Dhundup earlier that morning on the road to Zamerchen nunnery. He recognised my guide – his cousin – Tashi, and had his driver pull over. Easing out of his Lexus, he adjusted his robes, drew a deep breath, and asked “Shall we sit?”. Such was his presence that this simple sit-down by the side of the road felt like a momentous event. Regarding me with a gaze at once piercing and jovial, he told me that since I had travelled so far, he would like to invite me to witness a ceremony that he was conducting that afternoon at the nunnery. It was only when we arrived that I realised the stature of my roadside acquaintance: on exiting the car, the High Lama was mobbed by a crowd of waiting nuns, crouching eagerly at his feet to be blessed.
Easing out of his Lexus, the High Lama adjusted his robes, drew a deep breath, and asked “Shall we sit?”. Such was his presence that this simple sit-down by the side of the road felt like a momentous event.
Basking in the divine radiance of the High Lama provided access to the inner sanctums of the nunnery and lavish spreads of food – fresh fruit, momos (dumplings), thenthuk (noodles) and sho (yoghurt) – far in excess of the diet of tsampa dough, butter tea and Yak meat that I had become accustomed too. Tashi tells me that Lama Kungsang Dhundup spent ten years in solitary meditation to attain the ‘great realisation’. As I struggle to comprehend this fact, he expains that this was a short meditation retreat – Lamas of old spent up to 30 years in solitary meditation. I ask him what he thinks of his cousin’s claim that the Lamas of old once flew. “He is a great teacher,” he explains matter-of-factly, “Of course what he says is true”.
Tashi tells me that Lama Kungsang Dhundup spent ten years in solitary meditation to attain the ‘great realisation’. As I struggle to comprehend this fact, he expains that this was a short meditation retreat–Lamas of old spent up to 30 years in solitary meditation.
‘High Lama’ is a title officially extended to the few dozen Buddhist monks in Tibet who have achieved the highest level of spiritual development. Lamas preside over ceremonies and are believed to bestow good fortune, wealth and health. These venerated spiritual masters have a long tradition of magical storytelling. Flying lamas are a familiar part of this terrain, along with other superhuman feats such as the slaying of demons, seeing into past lives, slipping through keyholes and disappearing into rainbows. Sitting in a cave for ten years seems tame by comparison.
The following day we drive through a blanket of cloud to Lamagon hermitage cave, where it is rumoured that many Lamas have attained enlightenment. The cave lies on a mountain high above a drab housing estate where nomadic families have been re-settled by the authorities. Weather-beaten prayer flags lie scattered around the cave entrance, while a solar-powered speaker in the shape of a flower plays the Buddha’s mantra on a loop through a tinny speaker. A lone wooden chair sits inside a wooden frame with torn plastic sheeting nailed to it. It is difficult to imagine a less-likely place in which to discover nirvana.
“Weather-beaten prayer flags lie scattered around the cave entrance, while a solar-powered speaker in the shape of a flower plays the Buddha’s mantra on a loop through a tinny speaker. A lone wooden chair sits inside a wooden frame with torn plastic sheeting nailed to it. It is difficult to imagine a less-likely place in which to discover nirvana.”
The cave looks as though it has been recently occupied. In one corner lies a makeshift bed that seems too tiny to sleep on, at the foot of which lies a blackened pot on a cast-iron stove. In another corner sits a wooden table, scattered with tea lights and burned-out matches. A single brightly coloured thangka hangs from a rusty nail on the bare rock walls. Tashi beckons me over to see an imprint of a hand that has been carved into the rock. He explains that this cave is rich in gnas (loosely translated as ‘place power’), bestowed by its previous illustrious occupants, and was often visited by monks who wish to absorb this power.
Meditation caves are of great importance to the sacred geography of Tibetan Buddhism. Potala Palace – Tibet’s most sacred site – was founded upon the site of a meditation cave used by Tibet’s first Buddhist king, Songsten Gampo.
Gazing at the constellations of Chinese construction sites in the town below, I try to imagine what sitting up here year after year – watching the changes taking place in the valley below – might entail. It proves too much, and I wander over to where Tashi is sitting on a rock – wrapped in a red throw – in mock meditation. He confides that he was once a monk but could not stand the disciplined lifestyle; he moved to Chengdu and became a tour guide, while his cousin emerged from his years of solitary meditation as a High Lama.
Later, we drive to a temple built into a large cave, where a monk is on a long meditation retreat. Tashi said that he last visited two years ago and wondered if the monk was still there. After two hours of driving along rutted mountain roads, in a Chinese-made car completely unsuited to the task, we arrive at our destination. ‘No!’ Tashi exclaims in horror – the cave is now a building site. He wanders dejectedly past piles of building materials, while our usually cheery driver, Kinga, sits on a breeze block and scratches his head.
As we wander into a half-constructed building, Tashi spies a hole in the newly plastered wall at the back of the room. Ducking through the bare rock entrance, he beckons me inside: the temple remains intact, and the monk sits meditating. The new building has been constructed around him. Such dovetailing of ancient and modern is common in Nangchen County.
Following the devastating earthquake in Yushu in 2010, the Chinese government has built new schools, hospitals, hotels and tarred roads linking the city with Nangchen. But venture into the hills beyond and tarmac soon gives way to dirt and old ways remain. At Dhokam Choten Karchung – a large and remote stupa nestled in between green, fairytale hills – Tashi tells me that I am possibly the first Westerner to see it. ‘This is a powerful stupa. Walk clockwise around it three times, for good health,’ he says, as we watch a man performing his kora or circumambulation of the stupa on a moped.
“Venture into the hills beyond and tarmac soon gives way to dirt and old ways remain. At Dhokam Choten Karchung – a large and remote stupa nestled in between green, fairytale hills – Tashi tells me that I am possibly the first Westerner to see it.”
Some things are harder for him to explain though, such as the arcane roadside sculpture we pass resembling a winged yak – perhaps an example of the Tibetans’ natural bent for visionary mysticism and worship of mountain deities.
We follow a dirt road that threads its way up a 5,000m mountain pass. As we stop to take in the view at the top, I notice a dismembered yak’s head lying among the weather-beaten prayer flags. The rain turns to a deluge and we make our way down a precarious muddy track towards Jichu, a village in the valley below. With food supplies running low (restaurants and food shops are a rarity in the mountains), we knock on the door of a monastery to ask for food. A surprised young monk ushers us into a room where locals are queuing to receive acupuncture – in this area, monasteries function as community centres and doctors’ surgeries as well as religious centres. Although we donate a few coins, food at monasteries is given freely to all.
As I contemplate my bowl of watery noodles, I glimpse a framed picture of the Dalai Lama peeking from behind a bench, presumably hidden upon our arrival. Photographs of the Dalai Lama are forbidden in Tibet and the penalties for possession are harsh. The difficulty of access has meant that these remote areas have largely escaped the attention of the Chinese authorities, so the sudden arrival of a Westerner probably encouraged caution.
“As I contemplate my bowl of watery noodles, I glimpse a framed picture of the Dalai Lama peeking from behind a bench, presumably hidden upon our arrival.”
Only once on my journey did I have a brush with the Chinese authorities. While sitting in a pool at the hot springs near Dompa with Tashi, Kinga and two monks, I saw three Chinese police officers in neatly pressed uniforms walking up the valley towards us. After greeting me they exchanged a few stern words with Tashi, who looked nonplussed, before marching back down the valley. Tashi explained that he was reprimanded for allowing me to stay with a nomad family and not registering me at an ‘approved’ tourist hotel. This struck me as optimistic, as I did not see another tourist during my entire journey – most visitors to Tibet overlook the east for the grandeur of Potala Palace in the Tibetan Autonomous Region.
“While sitting in a pool at the hot springs near Dompa with Tashi, Kinga and two monks, I saw three Chinese police officers in neatly pressed uniforms walking up the valley towards us.”
The day before I left, we visited a purpose built ‘debating stadium’ filled with over a hundred Buddhist monks vigorously debating the nature of reality. As we watched, Tashi told me that he had heard there was a rumour of a large cavern with a monastery built inside it, hidden somewhere in Nangchen County, and that he would investigate for my next visit. To hear this from a Tibetan seemed incredible and gives me hope that there may still be pockets of wonder to be found in Eastern Tibet. The Lamas of Zamerchen may have lost their powers of flight, but in Nangchen County there is still plenty to astonish.
Photography notes: Nikon Z7You might also like
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