The "Visard" Of Oz

It’s that time of the year again when Tibetans run into each other at the Chinese embassy. Not proudly in front of the building in order to demonstrate but embarrassingly inside the building to apply for a visa to Tibet. - Welcome to hell. For a Tibetan born free this is probably one of the more humiliating tasks to go through in life: Dealing with the brutal reality that we lost control of our country and others now pull the strings. Not my hour of glory.

If you don't go to Tibet then that's that. But if you do then there is no way to avoid the ordeal. 

I thought I could spare myself the humiliating trip to the Chinese embassy this year because we decided to spend our summer family vacation elsewhere. But when my mom declared all of a sudden that she had to see Lhasa one last time before she would be too old to travel, that’s when I knew I had to make the cursed trip into the lion’s den.

Time to dig out the invisible armour.

It helps protect your mental sanity because when you wear it nothing will get to you and when you take it off, you are again at peace with yourself. The invisible armour is built from nerves of steel, Buddhist “egolessness”, and the single-minded focus of an archer. Wearing the armour you are less prone to become impatient, take things personally or forget your goal in a dash of anger.

Where can one find such an invisible armour?

I saw people in Tibet wear it. It seems they are keenly aware that each time they have to deal with the authorities they are in a disadvantaged position by default and so they always stay focused on what they actually want to achieve from an interaction. Whether it is obtaining an ID, a driver’s licence, a marriage certificate, just any kind of credentials: They try their best to skillfully manoeuver around corrupt officials and the bureaucratic cliffs and whirls because that is the only way they can hope to come closer to their goal.

It took a while until I could recognise it. But after I caught a glimpse of the invisible armour, I tried to put it on when the situation required it. Applying for a visa to Tibet at the Chinese embassy was such a situation. It was one of the biggest challenges. The armour wouldn’t fit from the start. After a while though, it felt less awkward.

Humor helps too.

If Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz”, which I loved watching as a child, had her pair of sparkling red shoes that would carry her home to Kansas, I had the invisible armour that would help me get to Tibet. And while Dorothy had to battle a mean, green-faced witch, I had to overcome miserable bureaucrats and weird procedures. It was “Mountain Phoenix in the Visard of Oz" :--)

Chinese consulates and embassies in areas with a larger Tibetan population sometimes have a special officer attached to the visa section who specifically deals with applications from people of Tibetan descent. This officer is usually not part of the foreign relations department but from an internal office called “United Front” or Tongzhanbu. They are in charge of “overseas Tibetans” even when the latter are bona fide citizens of a third country. 

This time, when the clerk finally showed up, a young Asian man leapfrogged me. I clearly heard him say in Tibetan: “Gen-la, I brought a gift.” Then the clerk noticed me standing behind the youngster and so he waved both of us to the back door.

While we were made to wait again in another room, I said I hoped to receive a visa for Lhasa. The youngster said he wanted to go to Dege and visit his parents. Then he fumbled in his pocket, which made me offer him a pen. I thought he wanted to fill in the empty visa form before him. But to my surprise the Degewa said: “I can’t write. I have to ask him to fill in the form for me.”

Poor fellow!

Maybe he already made a trip here and was sent back to get a gift for the extra work? The travel document I saw lying on the table when we both entered the room, was it his? Uneducated, nyamchung Tibetans were at a higher risk to be exploited by corrupt officials.

With his hair dyed pitch-black and styled in Kunga manner, the Degewa reminded me a lot of the lads back in my hometown. Some tried to obtain identity cards which they needed to buy domestic flight tickets. The police told them to come the next day since they were busy. They marched miles back to their village. On the second day, they were told that the machine producing the ID cards was broken and they didn’t know when the person to fix it would get in. On the third day, when they brought fresh butter, cheese and eggs, the machine was miraculously working again.

My only comforting thought with regard to the young man was that he probably was “street-smart” and experienced in dealing with corrupt officials from back in Dege. He would certainly manage to get his permit even if he couldn't read or write and didn’t have proper papers.

Make sure you have your relatives’ contact details down, best of all in Chinese or Pinyin. Their names and address, their profession, their work place - add it even when they are retired – and list a telephone number so the local office at the other end can contact them to verify the information you hand in over here. Use an extra sheet if the form provides insufficient space.

It is also a good idea to ensure the family members you are hoping to visit, can be reached by phone on the day you are in the embassy. In case the bureaucrat asks you a question about them you’re unable to answer, you can ring them up right then and there in his very presence and get the required information first-hand. I sometimes also get asked irrelevant stuff in the style of: "What's your relative’s uncle’s friend’s daughter’s second child’s name? One phone call and I can tell him: "Dolma Yangkyi!” – A waltz! Et voilà jack-in-office, eat this!

Relief: There were no formal issues with my mom’s application. It was graciously deemed “complete”. Now started the real anxiety: Will she get a visa for Lhasa or not? When will they let us know? 

Since the visa procedure for Tibetans can be intransparent, it is up to you to try and figure out where your application stands. Pull out all the stops you have. I learned the hard way. Once I didn’t get a permit on time because the dork never forwarded my application. Laziness? Oversight? Evil intention? Just acting important at my cost? Maybe a hint to bring a “gift” and I didn’t get it?  I’ll never know but here’s the lesson learned:

When you don’t hear back from the embassy within two weeks, ring your relatives in Tibet and ask whether they were contacted by the local United Front. If they have, the process is on its way. If they haven’t, ring the clerk without delay and ask in a friendly manner where your application stands, adding an innocent “it seems like the local office hasn’t received the request”. Remind him of the planned departure date. It’s advisable to give him an earlier date than planned. Don’t give in to your impulse to complain about how slow the process is. Keep up the farce.

For people who aren’t used to this kind of culture this is probably the hardest part: To play along and jump through hoops. Often it took me a month and longer, multiple calls and at least three trips to get a permit. That's if I was lucky. If I was unlucky, it took even longer, more calls and I still wouldn’t get it. Don't forget you wear the armour.

On my way out from the embassy I crossed a group of Tibetans. They looked like they just recently came from Tibet. We waved a friendly “hello” to each other. There was no time to exchange a few words as I was already on the phone with my mom’s relatives in Lhasa. They said things were especially dampo as a consequence of the Kalachakra in India last winter and that they believe I’d better not “insist” (udzugs ma brgyab) if they wouldn’t give me the permit. – What a funny thought! As if there was a way to insist!

Leaving a bad impression could backfire on your relatives and result in rejection of future visa requests so it would never occur to me to insist :--) The internal area-specific procedure may vary from place to place, but it's important to be aware that it's likely your relatives are made to stand bail for you. They have to fill in forms and get up to five stamps from different administrative levels before they can receive you. Some are also required to give a hand-written guarantee that their visitors aren’t up to creating political trouble.

Once you have your tourist visa for Lhasa in your pocket though, the visual difference to a regular Chinese visa is minimal. There is a line “special remarks” at the bottom left of your China visa. In the normal case, that line is empty. The line is also empty if you go to Tibetan areas outside the TAR. But if you want go to Lhasa or the TAR the visa must contain a specific remark as marked red:

"The holder of this visa is entitled to enter/exit via the ports of Lhasa and Zhangmu".

If you made it to a Tibetan place outside the TAR on a regular Chinese visa - which can also be a challenge to obtain for expat Tibetans - and now want to go to Lhasa, as guowai zangpao or Tibetan from abroad, you still must obtain a “special permit” to enter the TAR which is issued by the United Front office of the Tibet Autonomous Region. It could look as follows:

Issued by the TAR Commission of the United Front, the title of the form is "Oversea's Tibetans Permit to Enter Tibetan Areas". It lists the number of entries, your passport number, your name, and the duration of your stay. The seal is from the same Commission and carries the date. 

Every now and again you can read in the news that the Tibet permit is going to be abolished. But there are people in offices in Chengdu and other entry points acting important and making money on these anachronistic scraps of paper, so that even when they make big announcements up in Beijing, down on the local level they can act as if that doesn’t apply to them. Sometimes you can’t tell whether it’s vested interest or big politics that gives you trouble and, ironically, once you're through with all the hassle and made it to Lhasa, nobody asks to see the piece of bumph.

In my experience, it’s not a good idea to try and “sneak” into the TAR overland in case some are contemplating this alternative. Once I made a trip to Lhasa with Tibetan pilgrims on the back of a truck. It was “don’t ask, don’t tell”: There was no need to identify myself since the driver and the other passengers seemed to assume I was a local. I must say I made every effort. I even wore an ugly Chinese army dayi green coat which could be bought in every market plus a Mao cap to bring my local look to perfection. It was also my luck that the pilgrims camped outdoors for the night in order to save money during the journey so I never had to book into a hotel where I would have had to show my papers.

Everything went well until we drove through the forests of Kongpo. I knew very well this was a restricted area for foreigners. All of a sudden two armed men in uniforms appeared in the middle of the narrow, bumpy road and made us stop. They began to search the truck, which made me extremely nervous. What would I do if I were discovered?

The next moment our blue Dongfeng was beginning to move again. They were not looking for illegal foreigners as I feared; they were hunting down fugitive prisoners who sometimes hid in those trucks. I had heard of Chinese prisons in Kongpo. Now I knew.

I don’t recommend travelling to Lhasa this way. The risk of getting caught is real and the consequences could be serious and furthermore, the driver could also be punished for taking you along.

Actually there never really is a good time to visit Tibet: From January to March they routinely restrict travel due to the Tibetan New Year and the 10^th March people’s uprising of 1959. During the second quarter, travel is restricted again due to Saka Dawa and the Dalai Lama’s birthday. And whenever there is political unrest in an area, it’s soon off limit too. The whole country is closed on and off throughout the year which makes it really cumbersome for a visitor, especially if you are from the West.

But if you are determined to go, you can't take "bad timing" into account nor will any "visa attrition policy" deter you because you wear the invisible armour. 

Give it a shot: News reports about travel restrictions can sometimes be misleading. Travel restrictions for foreigners are usually delivered orally to tourism industry leaders, so local tour companies and hotel operators may tell you the authorities imposed a ban on travel permits for foreign tourists in groups or individually. But it’s also possible that while one area has such a travel ban, another Tibetan area may not. And to confuse prospective visitors further, state media and the Tibet Tourism Bureau may at the same time say foreign tourists are welcome even though there are de facto travel restrictions in some areas.

It’s also possible that the travel ban does not fully apply to people of Tibetan descent even when they are foreign passport holders because their applications may not go through the usual consular channel under foreign relations as with regular Western tourists but via the internal United Front office, which is the decision-maker in this case.

In my latest visa quest, the United Front man said my mom could only hope to receive the permit for Lhasa if she had relatives there. - Did he cook this up? Did he receive orders from wherever? I have no clue. It's outrageous. Lhasa is the capital city of all Tibetans, not just the ones who have relatives there. But in addition to all the written and unwritten visa rules, in my mom’s case there now was rule which said “travel restriction for people of Tibetan descent with no relatives in Lhasa”.

What these uncoordinated and sometimes arbitrary regulations, interpretations, announcements and implementations show is that visa handling is in a state of flux, and so the only way to find out for sure is by applying. That's the bottom line.

Outside the embassy gate I ran into yet another Tibetan who gave me a friendly smile. Whether I had seen a group of Tibetans going into the embassy?

I said: “Yes, where are they from?”

“Nangchen“, the man replied, whether I got my permit? 

“Nomads,” I thought and hoped the Drogpas would do okay in there. Imagine the clerk’s face if they came with rancid butter and moldy cheese as gifts - and Khatas to really overdo the ridiculous situation, ha, ha! Humor does help.

What a drag, this permit.

“What is it with these Chinese?” I complained to my partner over Skype in the evening. “So far every person they’ve sent to handle visa requests was a strange guy. Doesn’t famous China bring forth any better officials than that? What inefficiency and what a public relations disaster!”

“It’s like that wherever you go over here as well,” my partner replied. He was in Tibet as usual during this time of the year. "I have to go to the police tomorrow to extend my work permit. It’s people like that wherever you go, what to do?” - He basically said what I already knew: That it was the reality and that we had to deal with it if we wanted to be in Tibet and do work there or visit relatives as in my mom’s case.

He was right. I always felt better after talking to him. He was to me what the Scarecrow, the Tin Man and the Lion were to Dorothy: A reliable companion when times got rough, someone who helped me get a perspective when things started to become blurred.

We Tibetans are hopeless romantics. “Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high” as Dorothy sings in the musical, there really is such a special land. They can pile up hurdles as high as the sky. People will still try to overcome them if that’s what’s required.

Good luck to everyone who has to make the trip to the Chinese embassy. Make sure your application is airtight. If you feel revulsion, remind yourself that your urge to be in Tibet is stronger than your antipathy towards China, put on the invisible armour and then go and do what needs to be done.

Mountain Phoenix

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The "Holy Mountain Of The Outlaws" Revisited: A Journey Through Modern-Day Konkaling

In my head, Konkaling was “remote” even for Tibetan standards. If somebody had told me we would be going there this summer - yes, that very place Joseph Rock went to survey for the National Geographic ages ago and at the peril of his life – I would have replied: “No way, not with kids, and not on this trip, maybe some other time.”

But there we were, the whole family driving along to Konkaling described in old travelogues as “holy mountain of the outlaws”, a dangerous, lawless place infested with bandits; a godless area where even the Buddhist monks pillaged, plundered and - hold your breath – murdered!

When I was a little girl, my grandpa would sometimes tell stories about how the infamous Konkalingpas would raid towns and caravans along the old trade routes and how as a child he would hide for days in a monastery or in the mountains fearing for his life. 

Konkaling, July 2011

When I grew older I discovered books written by early travellers about the area. It became an interesting past-time to sit with my Pola in his room and cross-check what some of them had written in their accounts. He had a hell of a time whenever we talked about it. Often he could confirm points such as the name of a bandit chief or the raid of a specific town. His memory was amazing. He would recall things with such clarity as if they had happened just yesterday. He would even know what this person wore and that the pants were patched or something, down to such detail. Perhaps his memory was so sharp because he couldn’t rely on taking notes: He could neither read nor write as so many in his generation.

Konkaling, July 2011

Later I came across more recent publications such as “Khams pa Histories – Visions of People, Place and Authority”, which proved useful in explaining the origins of the communal banditry and lawlessness so prevalent in this corner of Tibet too far for from Lhasa's reach and too wild for the Chinese empire to control. The book outlined “the bigger picture” that helped put my Pola’s stories into a historical context.

He was always surprised at the accuracy in these accounts: What those chigyal (“foreigners”) were doing, what they knew and where they all went. Sometimes, when I summarised a story, he would interject: “Woyah, see? It always comes out! All the sordid details and the negative deeds they committed have now come out for the whole world to see!”

I didn't get it back then. Now as I’m older, I think these “Woyah” reactions were a confirmation of his belief in Ley Gyudrey or the Buddhist law of cause and effect: Even if you got away with your evil deeds in this life, there was no escaping Leydrey, it would take care of everything after all.

Daocheng County (Dabpa), Ganzi Prefecture, July 2011

If my grandpa were still around I bet it would blow his mind that I’ve been to Konkaling with his great-grandchildren. I miss the old man for not being around anymore.

Konkaling today is located in the south of the Kardze/Ganzi Prefecture in Dabpa/Daocheng County. Our first stop on the journey was the main monastery of the region, Konka Gompa. Back in the old days, Rock warned against visiting it because its monks were “notorious criminals” who went on looting expeditions between prayer sessions: Dollars to doughnuts that if you were insane enough to come here, they would rob and may even kill you.

But when we showed up almost almost a hundred years later, everything was peaceful. The monastery lay before us in tranquility and solitude. Nobody would ever have guessed its calamitous past from what they saw before them.

Gangkar Namgyel Ling or "Konka Gompa"

The formal name of the monastery, Gangkar Namgyel Ling had an innocent, quietly soothing, almost angelic ring to my Tibetan ears. The place was idyllic surrounded by lush green forests, and comfortably accessible via a decent road. Two elderly monks were sitting on a bench at the entrance gate with their Trengwa (“rosary”) reciting Mantras and observing the sleepy square.

In the old days, Konka Gompa was reportedly a “co-ed” monastery housing 400 members of the Sangha. But the two elders looking after the site were the only ones we saw. The head Lama or Gondag was Konka Lama, a 12-year old boy residing at his home nearby. Konka monastery also had quite a few monks studying in India, one of the elders said, but he kept his voice low.

To my surprise, a Chinese tour bus showed up out of the blue. 

Between Daocheng and Sumdo

The next moment a bunch of tourists armed with parasols and fans swarmed into the monastery’s courtyard starting to take pictures everywhere. We hurriedly did our rounds inside the prayer hall. Chances were that once that noisy group was inside, it would get difficult to do Chonjay with them walking all over the place and the local Tibetan tour guide in a funny Chupa hurling the names of the various deities into a loudspeaker. You could see this display of irreverence and ignorance in places of worship all the time.

When we were about to leave, several fancy off-roader jeeps drove into monastery complex: More Chinese tourists, this time decked up with high-tech trekking gear. Strange that these people come here, I thought. Were they maybe on some kind of “Lhasa-To-Shanghai” car rally?

Although we weren’t delighted to spot Chinese tourists so deep in Tibetan country, the monasteries reportedly do not dislike them completely. Chinese often “donate” well. They would generously cram notes into the donation boxes you’d find in front of all the statues. Once in a while you could spot some genuinely pious looking people among them as well. Western visitors were perhaps more welcome, but they did not leave a financial impact worth mentioning, and monasteries too had their expenses. 

Most of the time roads were in good condition, this section was
under construction when we passed

We hit the road before Konka Gompa would become a Chinese circus, driving ever higher into the mountains hoping to catch a glimpse of the three holy peaks that symbolized the Buddhist trinity of Avalokitsvara, Manjushri and Vajrapani. The peaks were considered the guardians of this region. Locals called them Konka Phun Sum (“Three brothers of the White Snow) or Ri Sum Gonpo (“Three Mountains Protectors”). 

I still couldn’t believe where I was. It felt like Alice walking through wonderland. I had literally arrived in the place of my childhood stories.

The peaks finally came into sight when we reached the top of the pass where an observation deck had been built that was covered with prayer flags and where we did a Sangsol smoke offering as Mount Avalokitesvara – Chenrezig emerged out of the clouds on the other side of the valley. Below, a small village appeared with a narrow trail leading up the valley to Tsonggo Gompa, a small monastery nestled on the lap of the holy mountain. According to Rock, after each of their raiding trips, the bandits would withdraw to Tsonggo Gompa. Neither the Tibetans nor the Chinese would dare to persecute them.

Nyithen with trail leading to Tsonggo Gompa

The village in the valley below was Yading, known in connection with “Yading Nature Reserve”, which is listed as a site of UNESCO world network of biosphere reserves  Actually Yading itself or Nyithen as was its Tibetan name, turned out to be nothing more than a hamlet with a good road through it. We guessed that they must have taken the name of the hamlet and applied it to the whole region known to old Tibetans as Konkaling and now marketed under “Yading Nature Reserve”.

Historically Nyithen or Yading couldn’t have played a big role. It had to be a recent creation with the nature park. I couldn’t remember having seen the name in old books nor could I remember my grandfather mention the name, nor have I heard of any famous or infamous Tibetans who hailed from “Yading” - Konkaling yes, but not Yading.

Now it was no longer surprising to have encountered a Chinese tour bus at Konka Monastery: Yading was famous in China! Along with Jiuzhaigou/Dzitsa Degu in Sichuan (troubled Ngaba County) and Shangrila in Yunnan (“Gyalthang” in good old Tibetan), it was one of the few Tibetan places apart from Lhasa that received plenty of “domestic” tourists. This is from a Chinese tourist guidebook about Yading we found in a shop in Daocheng:

Every place is a "Shangrila" or a "Shambala" - we may think
it's naive, but it works to target the Chinese tourist market

Surprise, surprise: Just like us, the Chinese tourists also wanted to go up to Tsonggu Gompa. In the old days, no Chinaman, it is said, dared to set a foot onto these lands, and no Tibetan from outside the area either for that matter. But there we were both walking around freely going wherever we wanted - as tourists. And while their ancestors robbed caravans and plundered villages to make a living, the descendants of the historical Konkalingpas now sold overpriced entry-tickets to Chinese tourists and took them on horseback to Tsonggu Gonpa charging them an exorbitant 200 RMB for a 20-minute ride up and down - robbing people the modern way!

I was pretty sure that without the facilitation of Dorje, a friend who hailed from Nyithen and volunteered as our local guide, his fellow Kongkalingpas would have extorted our little group without the slightest Bodrig Punda sentimentalities. We would have had to pay the same exorbitant prices as the Chinese tourists for accessing the Nature Reserve, parking fees, accommodation, food and horse rental. It was every man for himself.

End of the pony trail, from here to Tsonggu Gompa
 it's on foot even for Chinese tourists

People seemed somewhat reserved: Not too friendly, not too hospitable which is surprising for a place that lives off tourism. But maybe that’s the general mentality of folks who live rather cloistered lives in the mountains? When we were about to enter Lithang Dzong earlier on the journey, our guide urged us: “When you’re asked where you’re from, just say your grandfather was from Lithang.” - Why? Lithangpas could sometimes be a bit “suspicious”of outsiders, the guide said, and establishing some kind of connection would only help. Well, in Konkaling it was similar. Some kind of connection was indeed helpful.

When walking through the woods up to Tsonggu Gompa, Konkaling reminded me of a Tibetan type “Sherwood Forest” where whoever passes through, has to pay a tribute. Maybe this was an inherited trait from their bandit forefathers and maybe also contemporary, mainstream Chinese culture of everyone-cheating-everyone was rubbing off.

Hiking up to Tsonggo Gompa through "Sherwood Forest"

The kids had their fun on horseback while we adults, as proper pilgrims, hiked up. I was the slowest in the group taking almost an hour for the short distance: Plenty of time for reflection. If my Pola could see me! He would shake his head in disbelief how times have changed: His granddaughter with her children on an easy-peasy Sunday stroll through a place whose name alone put the fear of god into the people of his generation!

Locals make a living by renting out horses to tourists

Although it was a foggy and drizzly day in Konkaling when we reached the Tsonggu Gonpa, the surroundings were magnificent. We could have been somewhere in the Rockies. Tibet had so much to offer in terms of experiencing nature. With all the densely forested hills around us, the place would be a symphony of colours in autumn, and in springtime, the meadows would be dotted with flowers and children wearing self-made coronals would run around barefoot.  

Tsonggo Gompa, Joseph Rock's "bandit monastery"

The caretaker monk said the monastery houses around 40 monks with only one or two to be seen. Maybe they were all indoors studying? It was pouring with rain. The caretaker said Tsongo Gompa traditionally had no Gondag or Head Lama. I never knew there was such a thing. I thought every monastery had to be “owned” by some Lama.

The place was clean and tidy. Apart from the absence of a Sangha, which was more the rule than the exception in the monasteries we had seen so far, everything looked in order. The main images in the prayer hall were the Gelugpa trio Je Yabsè Sum. One side-chapel contained images of Dharmapalas, the other contained a large statue of Padmasambhava and Tara.

In the past, I’d never pay attention whether a monastery was this or that. Now in the age of Rimé political correct Buddhism almost the first thing that came to mind, whenever I met someone in robes or visited a new monastery was what Buddhist order they could be connected to.

Konkaling, July 2011

So this was the monastery where the lawless bandits used to hide after their raids? If the surrounding rocks could speak! There was no visible trace of the turbulent history of this place. There only was a plate at the entrance of the monastery saying Joseph Rock was here. It was so peaceful and serene up here, for a moment one could forget the political problems Tibet had.

I wondered whether the monks of Tsonggu Gompa knew that a fellow monk up in Tawo in the north of the Prefecture had set himself on fire only a few days earlier. We heard the sad news the day we left our hometown for Konkaling. A monk had told us secretly. We checked the BBC and found the headline but the article itself was blocked.

"Risum Gonpo" on a drizzly, foogy day in July 2011

The holy peaks kept hiding behind the clouds. In spite of the rainy weather, the surroundings were exquisitely beautiful. Konkaling was the perfect place for trekking and camping or go on “Kora”. The children would have loved the idea: Hiking around the peaks with pack animals, camp out overnight, eat meals cooked over an open fire and brush teeth on the banks of a clear mountain creek. We knew it was not possible this time, but we had received a foretaste.

Dorje said people were either herding cattle in the higher lying summer pastures, working in the woods or working in a government office in town at this time of the year. But during Saka Dawa everybody would be up here for circumambulation.

I could vividly imagine them racing happily and light-footedly around the peaks in record time.

Once I was on a Kora around Mt. Kailash: Equipped with the best of mountain gear, physically fit and mentally motivated. Still I was regularly overtaken on my walk by old, wrinkle-faced Molas and Polas in cheap Chinese rubber sneakers and thin nylon socks. Not only did they overtake me, their breath was so long they kept reciting Mantras while walking past me. Plus they had enough energy left to give me smile, do the rosary with one hand and turn the prayer wheel with the other. By the time I reached the summit of Dolma-La, the highest elevation of the Kora at 5,500 metres, the Molas and Polas had long been up there drinking tea and chatting. It took me two days to complete the Kora. The old folks finished in one.

Given my Kora history, it would take me weeks to complete the circumambulation around Risum Gonpo. But I knew I would come back here one day on a Saka Dawa and go on Kora around the holy peaks together with the other pilgrims. My Pola would have liked the idea too.

Lhagyelo! – Victory to the Gods!

Mountain Phoenix

Wild Iris, Konkaling

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Sleepless In Lithang

I’ve always been dreaming to go to all those “legendary” places that I´ve marked in my Tibetan world. Over time, it was indeed possible to visit many of them such as the remnants of the palace in Guge or the fabled Mili kingdom of old. But this summer, Tibet was beyond my wildest dreams.

Everything started out normally with us planning to visit our relatives and friends. We weren’t sure until the last minute whether we would get to spend our summer family vacation in Tibet at all. Entering the country was the usual gamble with flight tickets all purchased but no visa in sight until the final hour. In the end, the god of good fortune was in charity with us: We were free to go.

With Lhasa closed until the end of July due to the “60 years autonomy” anniversary and security forces watching over parts of Eastern Tibet due to renewed protests, there wasn’t much choice with regard to where to go. Panda-watching in Ngapa County would have been lovely for the kids - especially with “Kungfu Panda - Part ll” being out this summer – but Ngapa, too, was in the heat with dissent and simply risky with children.

So this time our little family travelled overland across the southeastern section of the Tibetan plateau with Bathang and Lithang, two historical trading towns,  among the highlights.

Immortalised by Dalai Lama number six in the folk song “White Crane”, Lithang was a place I really longed to see. It also looked very doable with children since the roads were in excellent condition. And although Lithang is another Tibetan area with “secessionist tendencies”, we were assured it was open. 

Motor road across the stone desert of Haizishan

Lithang produced outstanding religious and secular leaders such as the 7^th Dalai Lama, Gyalwa Kelsang Gyatso, and the founder of the Tibetan resistance, Andrug Gonpo Tashi. It had special meaning in Tibetan national memory.

I was so excited about the prospect, I kept singing the line from “White Crane”  in the car, all the way to Lithang Dzong with a faux, exaggerated eastern accent: Tharong jong-la mendro, Lethong kooné lewong yeah! – “I’m not going far, only up to Lithang, from there I shall return”.

After we finally made it to Lithang, I couldn’t fall asleep at night.

Maybe it was altitude insomnia, I had that once before.  Or maybe it was simply my hyper-excitement about finally being in Lithang: Too drunk from the grandiose visual feast of driving across the alpine grasslands. I never saw a more majestic plain than the one about an hour’s drive to the west from the County seat or Dzong, which the locals call Bonyokthong.

"Bonyokthong", Lithang

Or maybe plain and profane, I simply couldn’t sleep because of the noisy room at this awful hotel, Shen Di (“Sacred Earth”)? With 260 RMB per night, it was by far also the most expensive hotel we stayed at. It was located in the middle of an intersection and almost falling apart. When I closed my eyes, I had the impression my bed was right in the street below on a pedestrian crossing with the traffic lights switching from red to green throughout the entire night although no pedestrians or cars were in sight.

Lithang was breathtakingly beautiful and often seemed untouched by modern civilization. A historic place for the Tibetans, and there we were standing in the middle of it all, breathing the pristine mountain air and gazing upon endless wide pastures.

Lithang

The Dzong, on the other hand, was depressing. It looked scruffy. There were a lot of metal workshops and a few Chupa shops along the streets as well as the usual Sichuanese restaurants. The whole town was explored in about an hour on foot. Often you would find a Xinhua bookshop with maps and some books about the local history in a County seat, but Lithang didn’t have one or it was closed down. There was nothing much going on in the Dzong it seemed.

View from Hotel Shen Di, Lithang

Yet all these young men standing around on the sidewalks in the middle of the day with broad rimmed glasses, some hooting around on colourful motor cycles with speakers - didn’t they have jobs? Or was there something going on, we didn’t know? On the main street it all seemed like something imminent was going to happen. We didn’t dare take photos. People somehow looked wary.

Police monitored the little town from small booths erected every twenty meters or so along the street. Police cars patrolled up and down. From my hotel room with huge windows and a lot of draft, I saw a small group of Western backpackers being quickly dispersed as they started a conversation with locals. It all looked surreal. Was this daily life or was this exceptional?

We hesitated to visit Lithang Gonchen close by. The atmosphere in town just seemed too tense. It was a shame. How can one come all the way here without paying respect to this famous monastery? We already missed the annual horse race which everyone said would begin as usual on 1 August. It should have been the first official festival held since 2008. But instead of the normal multiple-day festivities with the real party only getting started on the second day, it was a crippled version cut down to a single day – with us unfortunately arriving too late.

But things looked better the next day and we could visit the grand Lithang monastery after all. I was very happy.

Lithang Monastery

There was a lot of construction work going on at the monastery and many of chapels were not open. The international Buddhist flag was fluttering from the roof tops. An official announcement at the gate said there was an interregional religious gathering taking place. Was this the reason for the conspicuous police presence in town?

We also saw another, not so official-looking announcement posted at the entrance gate about the importance of the Tibetan language. It hung right next to that official announcement, which was kind of contradictory. But then as so often, things are difficult to interpret and understand since Tibet is not an open society:

Announcement on a "clean father tongue"; seal unclear

We managed to go for Chonje in the assembly hall. Although the dominant image was a gigantic statue of Je Tsongkhapa, we almost overshot it due to the many photos of the current Dalai Lama. You wouldn’t believe! And not just tiny photos hidden away, but large, poster-size portraits in full display, many of them taken around the time when he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Every other meter there was a shrine with His Holiness’ picture. Was his picture not illegal here? Or did the monastery simply defy official orders? And why so many pictures? It sure looked a bit obsessive to me.

Afterwards, the monk-on-duty gave us holy water and Jendu. Then he asked about our Phayul or where we were from.

Among Tibetans living abroad, asking this question is considered politically incorrect by some. You are not supposed to think of your Phayul, you are supposed to think big. Every Tibetan kindly had to have only one Phayul and its name was “Tibet”. Digging deeper was unsolicited. 

On the ground in Tibet however, it’s perfectly natural to ask people where they’re from since it is self-understood that every Tibetan in Tibet is also automatically from Tibet. And since speaking Lhasan or high Tibetan, as it is a practice among the Tibetans abroad, is not the norm here, where one is usually betrayed by one’s native accent anyway, holding back information about one’s Phayul could come across as weird.

We would have liked to interact more with people, especially the nomadic Lithangpas whom we met along our driving journey. We could often see their camps from the road. To help start a conversation, we would offer biscuits and noodles as a friendly gesture. Sometimes they would invite us into their Banak or black tent made of yak hair and serve fresh milk.

Nomad camp at Haizishan, Lithang

An unexpected problem was language. Heaven knows how Tibetan nomadic speech or Drogkay works. It sounds like Mongolian or something. They spoke differently from the Lithangpas in the Dzong whose Tibetan we could slowly follow. A friend said even he as a semi-nomadic Samadrog Lithangpa doesn’t understand them. Isn’t that strange? He said the Lithang nomads spoke the same language as the nomads in Amdo.

As picturesque life in the grasslands appeared to me, to tell you the truth, it would be very hard if I had to live here. I wasn’t keen at all on going into those tents. I’m probably getting old and fuzzy, but I can’t stand the smell of the smoke – whether from a wooden fire or a dried yak dung fire – all your clothes smell sour from it and perspire for the longest time. Their children often don’t go to school. The wind blows incessantly and it is cold even in the summer - virtually no child without a runny nose. Everyone sleeps, eats and prays in the same tent.

Inside a Banak in Lithang

Honestly, having to live like a Lithang Drogmo would be like being condemned to hard labour in Siberia. If the Chinese offered me one of those new row houses along the roads built to resettle nomads into communal life, Buddha forbid, I would probably go for it.

Lithang was breathtakingly beautiful. But it also came across as raw and archaic. The nomadic way of life is authentically Tibetan, no doubt. It’s the archetypical Tibetan way of life. If there is one thing we long for it’s the freedom and the simplicity of nomadic life. But does it hold a future for the people? Their whole world revolved around their animals.The people we saw in the streets of the Dzong looked out of place. 


In Lithang you could see how the Chinese and the Tibetan worlds clash. The Chinese have no idea how to bring these people into the mainstream other than by using repression and violence. The Tibetans don't know how to make themselves heard other than by taking to the streets. They looked like extreme opposites with no common ground.

Nomad kids, Lithang

I had to think of what a man from neighbouring low-altitude Bathang had said about the Lithangpas. He said Lithang folks valued things such as big jewellery and impressive saddles. Comparing the two areas, he said: 

“A Lithanpa would say: Look at this family’s son, what a magnificent horse he has! A Bapa would say: Look at this family’s son, what a good education he has!”

He also said people in Lithang felt insecure when having to deal with Chinese people. Bathang people, in contrast, knew no inhibition.

Were these the general differences between nomadic, high-altitude Lithang and agricultural, low-altitude Bathang? Did the Bapas really have an advantage because they had been brought into contact with the Chinese earlier than most other Tibetans in this area? Were the nomads of Lithang really too limited in their worldview, not flexible enough? Or was this the statement of a prejudiced, self-enamoured person from Bathang?

I wasn’t at all interested in going to Ba or Bathang. If the other counties further north of the Kardze Prefecture had been open, we wouldn't have gone to Bathang, that's for sure. A place like Dege was worth visiting. It had culture, handicraft, local architecture, and the famous printing press. But backcountry like Bathang? Please!

From Bapa Phuntsog Wangyal’s autobiography written by Melvin Goldstein and books like “Khams pa Histories - Visions of People, Place and Authority”, I imagined it to be a very Chinese town with lots of sinicised Tibetans and nothing interesting to see. Well below 3000 meters altitude, it was also lower than most other places: I bet elsewhere in Tibet, you won't see many men and women walking down the street in sandals with nylon ankle socks on. Just how hip is that?

But I must say Bathang was a positive surprise in other aspects.

In terms of architecture, the rural area outside the Dzong was as Tibetan as in any other place we had visited before. It was interesting to observe that every region had its own particular building-style. The farm houses near the Dzong were brown rammed-earth buildings with flat-roofs and colourful window frames.  Further south along the Drichu, houses were painted white.

Traditional Tibetan houses along the Drichu, Bathang County

Traditional Tibetan houses at Bathang Dzong

The first thing we noticed when we entered the Dzong was how relaxed people were, and how friendly the police could be. We stopped by the road to look for a hotel. When I saw the police approaching, I immediately felt uneasy.

When we were only one day’s journey away from Lithang, a police car with four police officers inside blocked our passage at the intersection in Sumdo Township. They refused to let us continue claiming Lithang was closed although everyone else including the United Front people had said southern Kham was open. It smelled like corruption and police arbitrariness all over the place, but what to do?

My partner kept assuring me they would let us through. It would just take some negotiation. I should keep cool. It was one of those unpleasant situations you encounter in Tibet.

After a while, half a dozen curious Sumdowas had gathered at the intersection. In the course of the afternoon, we became friendly and one of them was really sweet. He said: “If these Gong An don’t let you through, come to my house, I’ll prepare tea for you.”

But luckily someone in our group knew somebody higher up in the local government whom he called up on his cell phone, who then rang up that nasty police officer in charge. After three nerve-wrecking hours in the middle of the intersection we could finally continue.

So when those Bapa police officers came over to our car, I expected the worst – like being made to leave the city at once. But then they only said we were not allowed to park there. When we told them we only needed five minutes to check out rooms at a nearby hotel, they said we could get the best rooms in Bathang at the Garden Hotel for 180 RMB per night. Wow, what great service and tourist information from the Gong An! And reliable at that because we did get great rooms with functioning toilet and a bathroom with plenty of running hot water!

The town was in a valley about the same size as the Dzong in Lithang, but it had more inhabitants. We hardly saw any tourists, Chinese or Western. Bathang looked like a sleepy, provincial town.

We were told all local cab drivers were Tibetan – in other Tibetan towns they were often mostly Chinese. Apparently, the local traffic bureau gives away cab driver licenses only to Tibetans telling Chinese candidates that their application is incomplete. The vendors in the local vegetable market looked Tibetan too. Usually, the local market is Chinese turf. Where were all the Chinese you’d always find in a Tibetan County seat? Where were all the descendants of those Chinese who were settled in Bathang by Zhao Erfeng, the butcher? People didn’t wear Chupa like in Lithang, yet the cityscape somehow still appeared Tibetan.

In Lithang and other places the government building is usually cordoned off by a wall and a gate. In Bathang, however, it was completely exposed with the stairs to the building being used as part of a public square where people would gather in the warm evening sun after a day’s work.

Bathang County Government, traditional Buddhist symbols
decorating the entrance

For Tibetan standards, the place looked prosperous. Agriculture was the main sector as in most Tibetan areas but with the lower elevation, harvest was better. I also realised Bapas are better educated than your average Khampa. Not only are they on par with the Chinese regarding education and training, but they also managed to preserve their Tibetan identity in the pursuit.

Many are proficient in Tibetan. They may not be up to the Amdowas, who seem unrivalled in this field, but among the people of Kham, Bapas are probably among the top, working in fields such as journalism and academia. Not surprisingly we learned that the head of Kham TV, a new television channel broadcasting to the Tibetans in Sichuan and Yunnan, hailed from Bathang.

We also learned that there haven’t been any protests in Bathang. Could it be that there was a correlation between open political protest and poverty? Could it be that Tibetan areas that did economically better such as Bathang were likelier not to have protests? Another place in eastern Tibet that hasn’t seen open protest is the Dechen Prefecture in Yunnan, which also does comparatively well mainly thanks to tourism. And does refraining from open protest mean people are happy under the Chinese?

A Bapa friend said Bathang folks are too smart to openly protest against the Chinese. Open protest meant risking to lose all the smaller and bigger freedoms they have acquired over the years. They may not be fond of Chinese overlordship but pragmatic enough to realise that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

When you think about it: What could the Tibetan leadership in India do for them? Would you risk your job and lifestyle over a beautiful dream, Tibetan self-rule? Maybe Dharamsala has to work harder to convince Tibetans like the Bapas that it would really be able to provide a political alternative?

Then there was the monastery.

Many monasteries in this part of Tibet have impressive-sounding names just like Bathang Chode Gon Ganden Phendeling. But they didn’t impress me: Many simply looked splendid on the outside but were void of content; monks were part-time monks, part -time nomads and family people, chopping wood, trading, picking mushrooms and so on and so forth. With many of the senior teachers and great masters either deceased or expatriated, it was also difficult to ensure the quality of the Buddhist teaching. And the closer a monastery was to a town the likelier the monks would be distracted - Bathang monastery was right in the middle of town.

Bathang Monastery

Boy was I wrong about Bathang monastery!

It is a jewel with no equal in that area. When we entered the courtyard, we heard loud voices of young novices chanting and studying Buddhist texts. There must have been over several dozen if not one hundred. I felt transported to a Tibetan monastery in India. Finally a monastery that was not only a splendid building but that was alive!

Lots of little monks studying, reciting and learning at Bathang Monastery

Then we went to pay our respects. Accompanied by a monk we were allowed to enter a few smaller chapels on the second floor which they opened specifically for us. Even here they had pictures of His Holiness. Not nearly as extravagant as in Lithang, but they did have them and they did display them openly. When it was time to leave, the monks invited us for tea into the monastery kitchen.

Bathang had a vibrant monastic community. We heard it was due to the influence of some monks who returned from India. That explained the similarity: Bathang monastery looked like a “monastic college” in Southern India with dormitory-style housing where four monk-students shared one room. The international Buddhist flag was also fluttering from the roofs.

"Monastic College", Bathang Monastery

After we left the monastery to go for circumambulation, we saw that the place also had a practicing lay community going for Kora and doing Mani. There were old folks in Tibetan clothes, youngsters in Western attire, and people that looked like they worked in some government office. Everyone seemed to be there in the evenings. It felt almost like Boudhnath, Nepal.

The Lingkor at Bathang Monastery

I was surprised Bathang didn’t have a square for public dancing. Most Dzongs had such a square which was lively used. After all, this was Bathang, the place that gave the popular folk music genre Bashè its very name. But my partner jokingly replied, people here don’t need to go for dances in the evenings because they have better things to do: They practice Dharma!

Public square with Tibetan dancing in Dobba Dzong (Daocheng);
Replica of the three holy peaks "Risum Gonpo" in the background

Yes, Bathang was a pleasant surprise and I was glad after all we didn’t skip it on our journey.

A friend told us, the future would not be so good for Bathang since there were plans to build several hydropower stations, as well as a cement factory. 15,000 Chinese would be moved to Bathang, she said. Terrible prospect! But if anyone can somehow handle this renewed assault on Tibetan identity, it should be the Bapas. To an accidental external observer, they have done a pretty good job to maintain their Tibetan identity all the while integrating into the Chinese mainstream, obtaining a modern education and running their County well. I can only hope they will be able to cope with the new challenges ahead.

It was nearly five o’clock in the morning by now. Still no trace of sleep.

I decided to get up and prepare myself a cup of instant Nestlé “Red Cup” coffee. Before long, the kids would be awake. It was always better to be one step ahead of them.

As I was getting up, I heard a motorbike with speakers rush by. Phurbu T. Namgyal's Jelyong was echoeing through the empty streets of Lithang Dzong: "We shall meet again, my brothers and sister, we shall meet again; the time will come when all Tibetans will be united again…” 

  

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