The Secret of Shambhala: In Search of the Eleventh Insight

by James Redfield

  Still no response.

  I felt a rush of anger. “Yin! Tell me what you know.”

  He stood up quickly and glared at me. “Some things we are forbidden to speak of. Don’t you understand? Just mentioning the names of these beings frivolously can leave a man mute for years, or blind. They are the guardians of Shambhala.”

  He stormed over to a flat rock, spread his jacket, and lay down.

  I felt exhausted too, unable to think.

  “We must sleep,” Yin said. “Please, you will know more tomorrow.”

  I looked at him for a moment longer, then lay down on the rock where I was sitting and fell into a deep sleep.

  * * *

  I was awakened by a shaft of light rising between two snowy peaks in the distance. Looking around, I realized that Yin was gone. I jumped up and searched the immediate area, my body aching all over. Yin was nowhere I could see.

  Damn, I thought. I had no way of knowing where I was. A deep wave of anxiety rushed through me. I waited for thirty minutes, looking out at the brown, rocky hills with little valleys of green grass, and still he had not returned. Then I stood up again and noticed for the first time that down the slope about four hundred feet was a gravel road. I grabbed my satchel and walked down through the rocks until I reached the road and then headed north. As best I could remember, that was the direction back toward Lhasa.

  I hadn’t gone a half mile before I noticed that there were four or five people less than a hundred paces behind me heading in the same direction. I immediately left the road and moved well up into the rocks so that I would be hidden but could still watch them pass. When they reached me, I realized that it was a family, made up of an old man, a man and a woman of about thirty, and two teenage boys. They were carrying large sacks, and the younger man was pulling a cart filled with possessions. They looked like refugees.

  I thought about approaching them and at least finding out which way to go, but I decided against it. I was afraid they might report me later, and so I let them go by. I waited another twenty minutes, then carefully walked in the same direction. For about two miles the road weaved its way through the small rocky hills and plateaus, until in the distance, at the top of one of the hills, I could see a monastery. I moved off the road and climbed through the rocks until I was about two hundred yards below it. It was made of sandy-colored brick, with the flat roof painted brown, and had two wings, one on each side of a main building.

  I could see no movement, and at first I thought the place was empty. But then the door at the front opened, and I saw a monk, adorned in a bright red robe, come out and begin to work in a garden near a lone tree to the right of the building.

  He looked harmless enough, but I decided to take no chances. I walked back to the gravel road, crossed it, and made a wide berth around the left side of the monastery until I was well past. Then I carefully proceeded up the road again, stopping only to take off my parka. The sun was beating down now and it was surprisingly warm.

  After about a mile, as I was about to crest a small rise in the road, I heard something. I ran into the rocks and listened. At first I thought it was a bird, but slowly I realized it was someone talking, far in the distance. Who?

  Taking great care, I moved up through the rocks until I had a higher position, then peeked over at the small valley below. My heart froze. Below me was a gravel crossroads at which were parked three military jeeps. Perhaps a dozen soldiers stood around smoking cigarettes and talking. I backed away, keeping low, and walked the way I had come until I found a place to hide between two rocky mounds.

  From there I heard something else in the distance out beyond the roadblock. It was a low drone at first and then a whirling, clapping sound I recognized. It was a helicopter.

  Panicked, I ran through the rocks as fast as I could, away from the road. I crossed a small stream and slipped, drenching my pants up to the knees. I jumped up and started to run again when my foot slipped on one of the rocks and I careened down a hill, ripping my pants and gouging my leg. Struggling to my feet, I kept running, looking for a better place to hide.

  As the helicopter closed, I bounded over another small rise and was looking back when someone grabbed me and pulled me down into a small gorge. It was Yin. We lay perfectly still as the large helicopter flew directly over us.

  “It’s a Z-9,” Yin said. His face looked panicked, but I could tell he was also furious.

  “Why did you leave where we were camped?” he half shouted.

  “You left me!” I responded.

  “I was gone less than an hour. You should have waited.”

  The fear and anger exploded in me. “Waited? Why didn’t you tell me you were going?”

  I wasn’t through, but I could hear the helicopter turning in the distance.

  “What are we going to do?” I asked Yin. “We can’t stay here.”

  “Back to the monastery,” he said. “That’s where I was before.”

  I nodded, then raised up and looked for the helicopter. Luckily it was veering off to the north. At the same time, something else caught my eye. It was the monk I had seen earlier, moving down the ditch toward us.

  He walked up to us and said something to Yin in Tibetan, then looked at me.

  “Come, please,” he said in English, grabbing me, pulling me toward the monastery.

  When we arrived, we first walked through a side courtyard gate and past many Tibetans standing with bags and various belongings. Some of them looked very poor. Then we reached the main building of the monastery, and the monk opened the large wooden doors and led us through an entry room, where more Tibetans were gathered. As we walked by, I recognized one group; it was the family I had let pass me on the road earlier. They looked at me with warm eyes.

  Yin saw me looking at them and questioned me about it, and I explained that I had seen them back on the road.

  “They were there to lead you here,” Yin said. “But you were too afraid to follow the synchronicity.”

  He glanced at me sternly and then continued to follow the monk into a small study with bookcases and desks and several prayer wheels. We were then seated around an ornately carved wooden table, where the monk and Yin carried on an extensive conversation in Tibetan.

  “Let me see your leg,” another monk asked in English from behind us. He carried a small basket filled with white bandages and several dropper bottles. Yin’s face lit up.

  “You two know each other?” I asked.

  “Please,” the monk said, offering his hand while bowing slightly. “I am Jampa.”

  Yin leaned toward me. “Jampa has been with Lama Rigden for over ten years.”

  “Who is Lama Rigden?”

  Both Jampa and Yin looked at each other as though not sure how much to tell me. Finally Yin said, “I mentioned the legends to you earlier. Lama Rigden understands the legends more than any other person. He is one of the foremost experts on Shambhala.”

  “Tell me exactly what has happened,” Jampa said to me as he dabbed some kind of salve on my scraped leg.

  I looked at Yin, who nodded for me to comply.

  “I must present what has happened to you to the Lama,” Jampa clarified.

  I proceeded to tell him everything that had occurred since arriving at Lhasa. When I finished, Jampa looked at me.

  “What about before you came to Tibet? What had happened?”

  I told him about my neighbor’s daughter and about Wil.

  He and Yin looked at each other.

  “And what have you been thinking?” Jampa asked.

  “I’ve been thinking that I’m in over my head here,” I said. “I’m planning to head to the airport.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean,” Jampa said quickly. “This morning, when you discovered that Yin had left, what was your attitude, your state of mind?”

  “I was scared. I just knew the Chinese would be on me in minutes. I tried to figure out how to get back to Lhasa.”

  Jampa turned and looked at Yin, fro
wning. “He doesn’t know about the prayer-fields.”

  Yin shook his head and looked away.

  “We’ve discussed it,” I said. “But I’m not sure how it matters. What do you know about these helicopters? Are they after us?”

  Jampa only smiled and told me not to worry, that I would be safe here. We were interrupted by several other monks delivering soup, bread, and tea. As we ate, my mind seemed to clear and I began to assess the situation. I wanted to know everything about what was going on. Right now.

  I looked at Jampa with determination, and he returned my gaze with a profound warmth.

  “I know you have many questions,” he said. “Let me tell you as much as I can. We are a special sect here in Tibet. Not typical. For many centuries we have held the belief that Shambhala is a real place. We also hold the knowledge of the legends, verbal wisdom as old as the Kalachakra, which is devoted to the integration of all religious truth.

  “Many of our lamas are in touch with Shambhala through their dreams. A few months ago, your friend Wil began to show up in Lama Rigden’s dreams of Shambhala. A short time after that, Wil was led to this very monastery. Lama Rigden agreed to see him and found out Wil was also having dreams of Shambhala.”

  “What did Wil tell him?” I asked. “Where did he go?”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid you must wait and see if Lama Rigden will give you that information himself.”

  I looked at Yin, and he attempted to smile.

  “What about the Chinese?” I asked Jampa. “How are they involved?”

  Jampa shrugged. “We don’t know. Perhaps they know something about what is happening.”

  I nodded.

  “There’s one more thing,” Jampa said. “Apparently in all the dreams there appears another person. An American.”

  Jampa paused and bowed slightly. “Your friend Wil wasn’t sure but he thought it was you.”

  After bathing and changing clothes in the room Jampa had provided, I walked out into the back courtyard. Several monks were working in a vegetable garden, as though the Chinese were of no concern. I looked out at the mountains and surveyed the sky. No helicopters anywhere.

  “Would you like to sit on the bench up there?” a voice spoke from behind me. I turned and saw Yin walking out the door.

  I nodded and we walked up several terraces filled with ornamental plants and vegetables until we reached a sitting area facing an elaborate Buddhist shrine. A large mountain range framed the horizon behind us, but toward the south we had a panoramic view of the countryside for miles. Many people were walking on the roads or pulling carts.

  “Where is the Lama?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Yin replied. “He has not yet agreed to see you.”

  “Why not?”

  Yin shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think he knows where Wil is?”

  Again Yin shook his head.

  “Do you think the Chinese are still looking for us?” I asked.

  Yin only shrugged, looking out into the distance.

  “I’m sorry my energy is so bad,” he said. “Please don’t let it influence you. It’s just that my anger overwhelms me. Since 1954, the Chinese have systematically set out to destroy the Tibetan culture. Look at those people walking out there. Many of them are farmers who are displaced because of economic initiatives the Chinese have mandated. Others are nomads who are starving because these policies have interrupted their way of life.” He clenched both fists.

  “The Chinese are doing the same thing Stalin did in Manchuria, importing thousands of outsiders, in this case ethnic Chinese, into Tibet to change the cultural balance and institute Chinese ways. They demand that our schools teach only the Chinese language.”

  “The people outside the gates of the monastery,” I asked, “why do they come here?”

  “Lama Rigden and the monks are working to help the poor, who are having the worst time with the transition of their culture. That is why the Chinese have left him alone. He helps solve the problems without agitating the populace against them.”

  Yin said this in a way that reflected a mild resentment against the Lama, and immediately he apologized.

  “No,” he said. “I didn’t mean to imply that the Lama is cooperating too much. It’s just that what the Chinese are doing is despicable.” He clenched his fists again and hit his knees. “Many thought at first that the Chinese government would be respectful of Tibetan ways, that we could exist within the Chinese nation without losing everything. But the government is bent on destroying us. This is clear now and we must begin to make it more difficult for them.”

  “You mean try to fight them?” I asked. “Yin, you know you can’t win that.”

  “I know, I know,” he said. “I just get so angry when I think of what they are doing. Someday the warriors of Shambhala will ride out and defeat these monsters of evil.”

  “What?”

  “It is a prophecy among my people.” He looked at me and shook his head. “I know I must work on my anger. It collapses my prayer-field.”

  Abruptly he stood up and added, “I’ll go ask Jampa if he has talked with the Lama. Please excuse me.” He bowed slightly and left.

  For a while I looked out at the Tibetan landscape, trying to comprehend fully the damage the Chinese occupation had done. At one point I even thought I heard another helicopter, but it was too far away to be sure. I knew Yin’s anger was justified, and I thought for several more minutes about the realities of the political situation in Tibet. The thought of asking for a phone came back to mind, and I wondered how hard it would be to place an international call.

  I was about to get up and head inside when I realized I felt tired, so I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to focus on the beauty around me. The snowcapped mountains and the green and brown colors of the landscape were stark and beautiful, and the sky was a rich blue with only a few clouds along the western horizon.

  As I gazed out, I noticed that the two monks who were several tiers down below me were staring intently up in my direction. I glanced behind me to see if there was something up there, but I could see nothing unusual. I smiled back in their direction.

  After a few minutes one of them walked up the stone steps toward me, carrying a basket full of hand tools. When he reached me, he nodded politely and began to weed a bed of flowers twenty feet to my right. Several minutes later he was joined by another monk, who began digging as well. Occasionally they would look over at me with inquiring eyes and deferential nods.

  I took more deep breaths and focused on the far distance again, thinking about what Yin had said concerning his prayer-field. He was worried that his anger against the Chinese collapsed his energy. What did he mean by that?

  Suddenly I began to feel the warmth of the sun and to sense its radiance more consciously, feeling a certain peacefulness I hadn’t felt since coming here. I took another breath with my eyes closed and perceived something else, an unusually sweet fragrance like a bouquet of flowers. My first thought was that the monks had clipped some of the blooms off the plants they were working on and had placed them near me.

  I opened my eyes and looked, but there were no flowers close by. I felt for a breeze that might have blown the fragrance over toward me, but there was none stirring. I noticed the monks had dropped their tools and were staring intensely at me with wide eyes and their mouths half-open, as though they had seen something strange. Again I looked behind me, trying to figure out what was going on. Upon noticing that they had disturbed me, they quickly gathered up their tools and baskets and almost ran down the path toward the monastery. I followed them with my eyes for a moment, watching their red robes flip and sway as they glanced back at me to see if I was watching.

  * * *

  As soon as I walked down and entered the monastery, I knew something was abuzz. The monks were all scurrying about and whispering to one another.

  I walked down a hallway and into my own room, planning on asking Jampa
for the use of a phone. My mood was better, but I was again questioning my own sense of self-preservation. I was being drawn further into what was happening here, instead of trying to get out of this country. Who knew what the Chinese might do if I was caught? Did they know my name? It might even be too late to leave by air.

  I was about to get up and look for Jampa when he burst into the room.

  “The Lama has agreed to see you,” he said. “This is a great honor. Don’t worry, he speaks perfect English.”

  I nodded, feeling a little nervous.

  Jampa was standing at the door looking expectant.

  “I am to escort you—now,” he said.

  I got up and followed as Jampa led me through a very large room with high ceilings and into a smaller room on the other side. Five or six monks, holding prayer wheels and white scarves, watched with anticipation as we walked up toward the front and sat down. Yin waved from the far corner.

  “This is the greeting room,” Jampa said.

  The interior of the room was wooden and painted a light blue. Handcrafted murals and mandalas adorned the walls. We waited for a few minutes and then the Lama entered. He was taller than most of the other monks, but was dressed in a red robe, exactly like the ones they wore. After looking at everyone in the room very deliberately, he summoned Jampa forward. They touched foreheads, and he whispered something in Jampa’s ear.

  Jampa immediately turned and gestured to all the other monks to follow him out of the room. Yin, too, began to leave, but as he did, he glanced at me and nodded slightly, a gesture I took as support for my impending conversation. Many of the monks handed me their scarves and nodded excitedly.

  When the room was empty, the Lama motioned for me to come forward and sit in a tiny straight-back chair to his right. I bowed slightly as I came up and sat down.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” I said.

  He nodded and smiled, looking me over for a long time.

  “Could I ask you about my friend Wilson James?” I finally inquired. “Do you know where he is?”

  “What is your understanding of Shambhala?” the Lama asked in return.