Shangri La is a mist-shrouded town in China, in a remote part of old Tibet, on the edge of Yunnan Province. Situated in Zhongdian, the approval to rename this place came in recent years, possibly to carry the tale of James Hilton’s 1933 novel ‘Lost Horizon’ to its destination, mindful of siphoning tourist revenue with a magical name.

 The town itself is a combination of drab Tibetan- Han Chinese architecture with trappings of a mock tourist outfit full of curio shops and theme restaurants with exotic names and atmospheric interiors of a Wild East. It’s a sufficient yawn, adequate to push the traveler to take the next flight back home. But stay a while and penetrate deeper along the ancient tea route towards Dequin, on the old road from China to India to enjoy the splendor of Tibet unfolding itself. It is an exquisite journey taking six days along rustic and bucolic roads to get to Lhasa.

  It was to me more pristine and pure than Switzerland, unspoiled and untouched by man, still hidden from the outside world as in the famed novel, catering exclusively to the local tourists coming in numbers, free spending in five star hotels and a handful of westerners seeking trails off the beaten track lodged in tawdry inns. The interest is such that touting abroad for tourist is unnecessary. Hotels display full house boards, as the Chinese consider it a dream destination.

 The five star hotels are populated by busloads of company executives jaunting on expense account; they do not bring wife or child but proudly wave the company flag. The best of the hotel receptionists do not speak English. I had to slink to the pantry to pick up salt and pepper when a request brought butter and sugar. Not understanding a compliment or criticism, the sole response in a hotel to any query is a polite "you’re welcome," a phrase for all purposes. This was what we were told when Shamali informed room service that the toilet flush was not working!

 They dare not smile at a guest for fear of being spoken to in English; try to speak - girls burst into silly giggles, boys accelerate to disappear. Travel in a taxi and mention the name of the hotel you are staying in - bewildered drivers took us elsewhere. Understandably, this is rural China, not Beijing or Shanghai. Keep your guide’s – they are mostly women - telephone numbers handy by your bedside. Otherwise you risk getting a plumber instead of a doctor in an emergency!

The Chinese are addicted to superfluous gadgetry and carried oxygen canisters sold at street stalls in fear of high altitude sickness (at 13,000 feet) and displayed them like status symbols inhaling whiffs of oxygen unnecessarily and excessively - that made them sleepy and miss the best of the panoramic scenes unfolding before the tour bus. Shamali, though traveling without oxygen, slept through most of Tibet and now when she speaks of the journey it sounds more like from a dream world.

 I have seen parts of the now divided Lama Kingdom from the sand dunes in Jomson and dry deserts in Mustang to craggy peaks in Leh and Ladakh, where the country is of a barren desolate nature of an isolated, uninhabited bleak world of the mystical. Here it is a green oasis of a Tibet plateau on a prairie where the horse, yak, pig and bull roam wild. Gushing waters meander along streams besides flowering meadows to the tranquil lakes of Shuodu and Bite; the background is a canvas in shades of green of oak, birch and willow while up above, an unpolluted unstained blue sky flecked by clouds of white foam hang low touching the distant branches. The fictional Shangri la James Hilton conjured is 50 km away from town towards Dequin. It is at its best in autumn with the foliage clothed in color more vibrant than of a rainbow.

 This place is more attractive than most other enchanting places on the planet for its tranquility and silence, untouched except by the undiluted colors of nature. The Chinese permit trekking on designated pathways and the surroundings remain immaculate and unspoilt. Rarely have I seen a world without being accosted by an Indian. Jews and Germans were there, but nobody from India; and Indians are usually everywhere.

 Monasteries sport a fresh coat paint after restoration from the sacking suffered during the giddy days of the Cultural Revolution. The farmers saved many frescoes from the marauding red guards by plastering huge portraits of the Great Helmsman and substituted holy scriptures on the altar with the little Red Book. The lamas in the great monastery in Shangri la dwindled to six from 8,000; but with state support the numbers have increased to over 4,000.

 The monasteries feature Panchen Lama predominantly but a brave few had posted pictures of a westernized Dalai Lama; displaying freedom of conscience is tolerated. When ethnic problems broke out with minority Ughiyars in the adjoining province, the foreign journalists were the permitted early birds; a month before in nearby Dali an earthquake killed thousands. This, deemed a frequent feature, hardly attracted attention.

When I inquired about earthquakes with trepidation before starting off, my travel agent appeared unaware of the disaster in his own backyard although it was a lead story on Al Jazeera. While the first death from the virus HiNi was the main story on the drab CCTV, China’s window to the outside world, which projected repeatedly the single death in comparison to the many fatalities in other parts of the world.

  Beside these monasteries with golden roofs, families build homes to house their offspring gifted as baby lamas to become proper lamas on attaining age. These enclaves give the monasteries the appearance of a sprawling complex. Surprisingly, even with strict family planning of one child per family, parents gift their only heir to the monastery in the expectation of accumulating great merit.

 After years of suppression there is a revival of religion with state patronage. Unlike in Sikkim, Dharmasala or Nepal the lamas in China’s Old Tibet province appear to be well fed and well dressed, observing better hygiene and in better health. It is the older generation that supports Buddhism, turning away from Confucius; the young are looking only for a better life in this lifetime and appears to have abandoned religion and culture in the search for material comforts. It is hard to find a Mao tunic with the tee shirts and jeans generation extending beyond middle age. Sartorial inelegance is as ghastly as in metro Manila.

 Tibetan farmers have built virtual mansions compared to their former mud huts, with agriculture bringing bountiful returns; but the few farmhouses we visited displayed interiors that would make our sanitary inspectors issue red notices. On the ground floor lived caged livestock, which defecate in the front garden - as do the occupants of the house. The odor did not bother the householders as they hardly bathe in the icy cold water flowing from the snow covered Jade Mountain but instead occasionally washed their long hair in bowls of hot water. The government presented each house with a free solar energy unit so that forests were not stripped for firewood.

  The generous inhabitants entertained us with salted yak milk laced tea accompanied by rough cheese taken seated on the floor off low tables. Suspecting frightful conditions in the kitchen in her fanciful mind, Shamali politely refused to partake; the fare has a taste which must be cultivated to enjoy it.

  We reached the second floor housing the living quarters by scaling a wooden ladder. There were two television sets in each household but otherwise it was Spartan living except for the grandeur of the house frontage - like our semi urban homes displaying fancy steel gates fit for an iron workshop. The third floor was for storage.

The hard work in the fields and homes were tasks for the women. Men were entrusted with a more comfortable assignment of driving the livestock to and fro from the open fields, but often women returning early from the field attended to stabling the livestock for the night. Men talk while the women work.

 There appeared to be inbred traditional zoning laws observed as each village sported houses with identical characteristics but not similar to the adjoining village - a virtual tour for local architects, some whose mindset do not extend beyond Bawa.

 Lijiang, a four hour drive from Shangri la is like a trendy tourist resort in Europe wearing an eastern dress. It sports sidewalk cafes with in-house portrait painters and traditional archaic bars snuggling cosily beside a network of canals with running water rushing down from the icy mountains. Fresh fish netted from the flowing waters and cheap in price, flavored with local herbs, are laid on the table. 

Ethnic minority Naxi homes (hygienically clean unlike the Tibetan) reveal cloistered private gardens, cared for with green fingers as in the thatched cottages of rural Britain. The British proudly display their gardens to be admired; the shy locals here cover it with a high wall for privacy.

Most of these dainty homes offer bed and breakfast to cater to the tourist overflow. This makes it possible to step inside on the pretext of inquiring about bed and board to see the landscaping. Each home has a distinct character of its own sufficient to seek a copyright.

 We were taken along with thousands of locals in special mobile carriers and ski lifts and made to walk on paths through a jungle stretch lined with souvenir shops and curio stalls to see a much touted tourist attraction. It cost a packet and we reached the location after a journey of over two hours to behold a mere grass meadow ordinarily visible on every bend between Ambepussa and Kandy – good enough an experience to be called a highway robbery.

Incredibly, thousand of Chinese make this pilgrimage daily to stare at an empty grass patch believed to be a field where tribal people copulated. It has to be a disciplined regimented society to absorb a hoax of this proportion without flinching. Or did it inspire them to new highs! If it happened to our local holidaymakers, they would have set upon the officials concerned with stone and stick.

 Obtaining a Chinese visa is certainly a pleasant experience after encounters with a few nasty local women at the German consular office. Though an entry permit to the Tibet region is a hassle, it is manageable. At Kunming International Airport we were briefly detained since the immigration officers had not heard of Sri Lanka. A quick lesson in reading an atlas was sufficient to give clearance and there after the ladies in the tourist agency shepherded us until we were placed on the return flight. It was a state tourist agency, randomly picked on the internet, which provided skilled guidance and introduced many cost cutting techniques.