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Published on January 12, 2008

Where is Shangri-La? It's a matter of opinion. Qinghai in China's northwest, the Hunza Valley in northern Pakistan and even Bhutan, among other spots, claim to be the actual setting for "Lost Horizon", James Hilton's classic 1933 novel.

But on the vast central Tibetan Plateau, a good argument can be made that the story was born at the Banyan Tree Ringha, a small luxury hotel just outside Zhongdian.

Nursing a cup of yak-butter tea, I brave the morning chill to stand on the balcony of the Banyan Tree's Tibetan villa and try to make sense of the stark, brown landscape.

The valley, pocked with traditional mud-brick houses and harvested barley, sweeps upward into pine forests. In the distance, grey, snow-capped mountains stretch into the sky. The yaks are black dots scattered everywhere, and among them you can make out men wearing bright headscarves on their ponies, plying the dirt paths along the Shudugang River.

Hilton never set foot in this part of China, let alone check into the Banyan Tree Ringha. But the Chinese government decided Zhongdian might as well be the mythical site and renamed the town Shangri-La.

We arrived straight from Lijiang, a Unesco World Heritage site where rustic Naxi houses line the cobbled pathways. We'd sampled the light Tsingtao beer, with its strong flavour of fried cheese, and rode a cable car up the Jade Dragon Snow Mountain.

We'd practised our Mandarin - "Does your toilet have a door?" In the hinterlands this is a fair question. And we discovered that Chinese tourists and vendors outnumber the locals.

But by night the old town is aglow with red lanterns that beckon visitors into the swanky pubs and discos.

From Lijiang it's a six-hour journey to Shangri-La across the tectonic valleys. The steep mountain slopes are barren and eerily desolate. Sometimes we'd catch sight of villages perched high up, or else far below in the deep valley.

Occasionally a chorten - as the Tibetans call pagodas - rose by the roadside, with colourful strings of prayer flags, and if we looked carefully we would see herds of yaks on the rolling plains.

Shangri-La has its fair share of Yi, Bai and Naxi people, but the Tibetans predominate - Tibetans outside of the Tibet Autonomous Region - and it seems they're more fortunate than their relatives further west. Here they can count on the monsoon to nurture their barley and vegetables and keep the pastures green for their yaks.

One morning we head out to the Bitahai Nature Reserve, 40 kilometres from Shangri-La. Covered by century-old pines and cypresses, the reserve is famous for its huge, crystal-clear lake.

"Shangri-La is on a high plateau, thousands of miles from the sea," says Wanchai, our Chinese guide. "The lake is very popular since the highlanders can't afford to visit the sea."

In May, we're told, the kilometres of azalea trees on the lakeshore are in full bloom. And sometimes when their petals fall into the lake, the fish seem to get drunk feeding on them. They float belly-up on the surface.

Unfortunately for us, we've come during winter and we see neither blossoms nor drunken fish. We happily settle for watching the Chinese tourists as they switch back and forth between puffs on their cigarettes and gulps from the oxygen canisters they've been given to ward off altitude sickness.

A trip to Shangri-La isn't complete without a visit to a lamasery. Perched on a knoll to the north is the Songzanlin Monastery, which Wanchai calls "the Potala of Shangri-La".

"They copied every single detail from the original palace in Lhasa," he says.

Tsasi, our Tibetan guide, leads us past throngs of vendors selling beads and up to the towering gate. Remembering Hilton, I can't help but think of the high lama who held the secret of longevity, and the beautiful local girl who played the harpsichord.

We're far from any fictional paradise here, though, and longevity is out of question. The steep climb up more than 100 steps takes your breath away, though there is ample pleasure in seeing the many lovely young Tibetans in their best costumes gathered at the side of the path with their huge dogs. Raise your camera to get a snap and they're likely to whip out a sign saying, "10 yuan for big dog".

Just a photo of them and the dog, that is.

The monastery's facade is covered with brightly painted religious imagery in the classic, fanciful Tibetan style: golden deer, wheels and Technicolor windows.

Inside there is the strong scent of yak butter burning in the lamps. The large meditation hall is mainly red. Embroidered thangka hang from the rafters. Tibetan deities and images of famous lamas line the altar tables. Tsasi calls us aside.

"This lama is my friend," he says, introducing us to a monk sitting by the stove. "He could bless you and bring you good luck."

We take turns carefully placing strings of Tibetan beads and prayer wheels in front of the young lama. Before he begins to chant, he throws pinches of some herb into the stove, raising the aroma of marijuana.

The setting is so peaceful that we take our time making our way out of the lamasery. Never mind longevity. We will live while we're young and, after all, none of us will age in Shangri-La - we'll be leaving soon!

At the airport, Jum, the charming editor of a respected Thai travel magazine, is chuckling.

"I wasn't so much concerned about staying forever young," she says. "But I was a bit worried about suddenly turning into the world's oldest woman - like the harpsichordist who ran away from Shangri-La."

Phoowadon Duangmee

The Nation

Northern Yunnan, China