Getting there

After 28 years in exile, my partner, Lobsang returned to Tibet in July, and I, eager to visit a land long dreamed about, came too. Getting there is not easy. Visas to China can only be applied for 3 months in advance, and as we applied for family visas, we needed a sponsor. This is a member of the communist party who would be responsible for our actions while in Tibet and possibly lose their job if we misbehaved. A distant relative stepped in and was awarded with a Swiss watch from Lobsang. We both hold UK passports, but Lobsang was called to the embassy in London for a further interview before being issued with his visa.

All the bureaucracy is a hassle, and possibly racist (I wasn’t subject to the same level of scrutiny as Lobsang), but all the officials (except for the immigration officers who were bewildered by Lobsang not speaking Mandarin) were friendly. I believe in the West we are given negative stereotypes about Chinese people, and I was surprised by their politeness. However, I wondered how the veneration of Mao Zedong — responsible for millions of deaths and whose face graces every bank note — affects a culture.

We booked direct flights from Heathrow to Chengdu, as Lobsang’s friends warned him he would get stopped at immigration for being Tibetan (best to get held just once, rather than multiple times). Some  of his friends had been sent back at the airport for having pictures relating to Tibetan independence on their phones e.g. the Dalai Lama, the Tibetan flag, protests, as well as for carrying an excess of gifts. Tibetans can’t enter if they have an Indian stamp in their passport — some ‘lose’ their passport before applying for a Chinese visa. As we expected at immigration, I and all the other (mainly Han Chinese) passengers were waved through, but Lobsang was held for over four hours while they checked his bags, phone, and liaised with his contact in Tibet. Every day we were in Tibet, we had to message the police our location and couldn’t go to certain places (e.g. Ngawa — a place of unrest).

Grey skies over the temple at Zoige

When we finally made it through customs, we were greeted by 10 of his nephews, draping us with white scarves (khata) and thrusting flowers into our hands. After a night in jungle-hot Chengdu, we drove seven hours up to Lobsang’s village of Thangkor in the high wetlands of Dzoege (Zoige) county in Amdo (Sichuan province). For the first week, the weather was like the UK in November: grey skies and muddy ground requiring an emergency purchase of winter boots and woollen socks. Tibet is not a place for light-coloured clothes. However, despite being covered in clouds, the sun is fierce because of the altitude (3,610m in Thangkor), so sunglasses and hats are needed. Amazingly, despite living all my life at sea level in the South of England, I didn’t suffer from altitude sickness.

Living there

The first night we stayed in a simple Tibetan hotel in Thangkor, as yinchi (Tibetan for English person) me would find it difficult with no shower and toilet. The total lack of a sewage system in Thangkor was shocking. Toilets are holes in the ground, which are never cleaned. When I went asked to go to the toilet in a Tibetan house, I was led outside to the garden — my hosts didn’t want to show me their facilities. One of Lobsang’s brothers dropped his phone in the toilet hole while I was there. Rather than fish it out, he bought another one. I have been to India three times, staying cheaply, and never experienced anything as bad as the toilets in Thangkor. Yet the Chinese government obviously has money: main roads, tunnels, bridges, tube systems, shopping malls, national parks are state-of-the-art — at least as good as in Europe — but they don’t want to spend it on sanitation in the villages.

A (semi) nomadic house

The Thangkor town houses have running water and electricity, though the Tibetan nomads usually don’t, and instead use solar panels. Most of the Tibetan houses are simple, uninsulated constructions from breeze block — probably not very comfortable in the long, snowy winters. In every house is a large stove, powered by yak dung, and used for cooking and heating. We visited Lobsang’s nephew’s tent, a two-hour bumpy journey into the grasslands, and it was cleaner than most of the houses. Traditionally, tents were made from yak hair, but now you see white plastic ones decorated with Tibetan symbols everywhere. The nephew said the plastic ones were better in the winter, as they kept the rain out.

The wealthy monk’s house

We only stayed a day in the hotel, as someone reported it to the police for not having a permit for foreigners. Which was unsurprising as hardly any Westerners come to Thangkor or Dzoege — the only time I saw foreigners was at a national park. So one of Lobsang’s relatives (a rich monk) put us up. His house was lavishly panelled with honey-coloured wood and a flushing toilet, the sewage pumped out into an underground hole at the back.

Working there

Lobsang’s family, like most Tibetans in Dzoege, were (and often still are) nomads (the land isn’t suitable for anything else). Before the Chinese invasion, no one owned the land, and everyone could freely graze their animals (yak, sheep, cows) on it. Now, the land is divided up among families, which means less is available for grazing (few nomads now have sheep, which need more land). The eldest son is the head of the household and responsible for assets, which he shares (or not) among his brothers.

Tourism (from China) is now an important part of the economy. I was told that the population of Dzoege is 10,000, but this doubles with tourists from May to September. Tourists come to Thangkor to see the first bend of the yellow river, taking an escalator up to a wooden platform. The river swings 180 degrees in a grassy landscape framed by smoky hills, in front of a gold-roofed monastery and ramshackle monks’ huts.

The Yellow River from the lookout

Nomads stand on the side of the road into Thangkor, trying to flag down tourists. They wear their traditional dress: long sleeved fake-fur lined robes for men, with one arm hanging loose, and ankle-length straight skirts for women. Everyone has a mala. They want tourists to visit their tent cafes, take photos in traditional dress, ride their horses, and buy trinkets such as prayer-wheel necklaces, acrylic shawls, and cowboy hats. There’s no sense of cultural appropriation: Tibetans are keen to do business, and Lobsang said he was happy to see the Chinese embrace their culture.

Parks there

The waterfall at Ze Tsa De Gu national park

One of the biggest tourist attractions in Amdo is Ze Tsa De Gu (Jiu Zhai valley). I’ve never experienced a national park like this: 40,000 visitors come through its doors each day. That’s so many that stepping on the ground would cause too much erosion. Instead, we filed along wooden walkways as crowded as tube platforms in rush hour. The park is immaculate — it can afford an army of caretakers picking up litter and sluicing the toilets, their faces displayed on LED screens outside the cubicles. It’s the countryside as Instagram background, not really a place to rest in nature. At another national park we went to, Shar Dung Ri (Huanglong), twangy music blared out from speakers. So much for the sounds of nature.

The temple at Dzoege mid-afternoon, the height of the tourist season

I much preferred visiting temples and pilgrimage sites, which were often quiet, like the temple in Dzoege where you could take pictures in the afternoon with no one else around.

China there

China has stamped its identity on Tibet. All signs are in Chinese, with Tibetan sometimes written in small characters below, and even the occasional English translation, though there are few Westerners. Middle-aged and older nomads often didn’t go to school, so they don’t speak Chinese. The younger generation speaks Tibetan but is losing the ability to read and write it, as all their education is in Chinese.

Chinese cuisine is now part of the everyday life in Tibet. When Lobsang was young, the food was very plain. Now the Tibetans dip their momos (traditional dumplings) in chili sauce and are partial to hotpots (too spicy for my yinchi palette). Unfortunately, they have taken to sugary soft drinks, which are on every table, instead of the usual strong tea, brewed from what looked like black twigs, with yak milk.

A hidden photo of the Dalai Lama at a remote shrine

The Chinese government is present all Tibetan houses: by law, Tibetans must display a photo of Xi Jinping. On the other hand, I believe anyone who wants a picture of the Dalai Lama, has one. You won’t find his photo in the monasteries, but it’s there in remote shrines, often hidden behind khatas. Religion is still strong in Tibet, and every house has a shrine room, wood panelled if they can afford it, filled with thangkas and statues. A statue I hadn’t see before was the six Jambhalas, placed in water and said to increase wealth.

Lobsang didn’t speak to his relatives about politics and vice versa. Neither wanted to get the other into trouble. Tibetans employed by Chinese government are particularly careful. The only discontent I heard was from a few wealthy people who wanted to travel abroad. Since 2016, Tibetans have had their passports revoked. This was because they tended to visit India (where the largest Tibetan diaspora is) to see relatives and receive teachings from the Dalai Lama.

Returning there

Lobsang’s extended family

My visit to Tibet was foremost about Lobsang seeing his family, which in Tibet is usually very large. We spent half our time going to various houses, where we would be plied with momo, boiled yak (very tough), and 100 yuan notes. (It’s impolite for guests to be empty handed). So even though we tried to thrust the money back, we didn’t pay for anything during our stay. Tibetan family ties on strong, so we will be returning. On arrival our suitcases will be filled with the Western outdoor brands that Tibetans covet, and on departure, the food that Lobsang craves: tsampa (cooked, ground barley) and dried yak cheese.