The Path to Seda

Text and PHOTOGRAPHS BY Scott Rainen

Discovering the charms and eccentricities of a cityon top of the world

美麗的景色，虔誠的信仰，別樣的生活，共同勾勒出佛光下的色達

Whats interesting about going to a remote Buddhist enclave is dealing with the layers of illusions involved in such a trip. Of course， there is the religion itself， one that views our lives as a mere illusion， but more important are the illusions about Buddhism that we often bring along with us： we expect beautiful scenery or calmly delivered kernels of Yoda-esque wisdom. A friend from Nanjing once caricatured people who go to these places as on some hunt for the “real China”， and as I sat on a 14-hour bus ride to Seda （色達）， violently cruising west in a vain attempt to outpace the rising sun， I thought about why people choose to go to such places， and if they ever really get where they want to go after all.

Home to the Larong Wuming Buddhist Academy （喇榮寺五明佛學院， Larung Ngarig in Tibetan）， Seda is remote. To get there you first have to make it to Chengdu， the capital of Sichuan Province， traveling west among the messy web of interstates and railways that comprise a map of China， then you have to travel further west where the lines become more akin to the atomic structure of hydrogen than mercury—that is， theyre scarce.

Only one bus leaves from Chengdu to Seda （or Sêrtar， as it is pronounced in Tibetan） every day at 6：30 in the morning. The coach is generally comfortable and the scenery excellent： tall mountain peaks， beautiful strips of highway hugging the contours of the valley， a lush river， and brightly adorned girls dancing in unison outside a series of tents—coniferous trees and blue skies， patches of autumnal foliage， and a radiant sun overhead.

The trip was smooth， but for the last leg we hit unpaved roads. Construction was omnipresent and the river became a shade grayer. New roads will come in time， but for the moment the driver seemed content to floor the coach forward upon a bed of gravel and potholes. The passengers of the bus， an odd mixture of Chinese tourists and Buddhist monks， swayed back and forth in their seats wildly like foam fingers at a sporting match， and then， after a few hours， the turbulence subsided and we glided gently to our destination.

A local advised us to get off short of the final stop， so a few of us flagged the driver and tumbled out of the bus in， essentially， the middle of nowhere. He led the way as we marched on toward a small collection of barely visible， decrepit buildings. We were cold and breathing heavily—beginning to feel the effects of the altitude—when somebody decided to look up， and thus began our proverbial stoppage of time. The night sky boasted a dense tapestry of stars， layers and layers of them， so we stopped and stared in awe for a few moments until we remembered the reality of our situation： we were cold and breathing heavily. Thus， we walked on to the promise of a place to stay.

The hotel， too， was cold. Seda is considered the south of China， meaning no central heating. The hotel rooms tall ceiling and poorly insulated window only further encouraged the cold， but the bedding was thick and I fell asleep quickly.

Upon waking， the full effects of the altitude hit. It is something akin to a hangover derived from cheap vodka; a wheel of fortune with such prizes as dizziness， headache， and vomiting. Getting out of bed was difficult， but I was encouraged that the sunlight would help （and it did） so I staggered out into the dusty strip of buildings. Some were incomplete， some half torn down. Scarce groups of people and a few cows loitered in the street. I asked a lady which way to the school and she looked up at me wildly. She did not speak Chinese.

She was more the exception than the rule. Given a range of unusual accents， Mandarin is a viable means of communication in Seda. The hotel where Id stayed was at the mouth of the academys valley， and I was soon able to get a ride up. Two monks drove a small dirty car and I sat in the back. It was a short ride. The monk in the passenger seat looked back with a calm curiosity， gently playing with some beads in one hand. “Your complexion doesnt look so good.”

“Altitude.”

He shot me a warm smile. We passed through the academys standalone front gate， and as we rounded the bend a few small， boxy red houses became visible， then a few more， and then they dominated the entire valley.

The landscape of Larong Wuming Buddhist Academy is difficult to capture with words. It is in many ways like something out of a Studio Ghibli movie： charming， colorful， almost like an illusion. The place is like a jungle of makeshift cubes that fell into their places nearly at random from the sky. They are anchored almost magnetically by the central schools—larger buildings with ornately painted window frames and golden roofs that slope down only to gracefully jolt up at the end like a Chinese calligraphic stroke.

Besides the main road the only way to navigate is via a series of narrow alleyways. Monks sift through paths， sometimes in groups—talking， laughing， occasionally taciturn and solemn—and sometimes alone. Rays of sunlight penetrate parts of the alleys but not all， and then， moving lower into the valley， you emerge in its central area. The buildings are no longer meager and the space no longer cramped. There is more space to breathe， though the air is no less thin.

A few stands situated at the base of a scripture hall sell vegetables and fruit. I stopped there to rest and buy a small snack as I watched throngs of monks approach the halls entrance， where they would then remove their shoes and enter. I asked the vendor how they get food to such a remote place， and she told me a truck comes from Chengdu every day.

As the afternoon wore on I met back up with some friends Id made on the bus ride—a Taiwanese humanities student doing an exchange semester in Chengdu and a waiter from Hangzhou—and we rather aimlessly， dizzily， with frequent stops to catch our breath， walked up a road until we reached a high point and could go no further. The entirety of the school was visible and the sun was beginning to set. Various colors filled the sky. I could wax poetic here， but it would provide little justice. Words only weaken such images. Ask me why you should go to Seda？ Because it is beautiful.

Founded in 1980， the Buddhist Academy today is home to nearly 10，000 monks both male and female. There is no limit to how long they can study there. Their resting quarters are separated by gender， as are their classes， which are for the most part taught in Tibetan. Still， courses in standard Mandarin are offered， and the academy subsequently attracts some monks from non-Tibetan regions of China as well. The distinction is easy to make： the robes of the academys monks are red; those of other affiliations are not.

Come nightfall， the temperature dropped significantly and I found myself with two other Chinese tourists and a monk of the academy—a friend of a friend of a friend—in his leisure quarters. The decoration was of a surprisingly high quality： thickly carpeted floors， light wooden panel walls， a low ceiling， and a wild amount of books. Two thangkas and a portrait of two smiling monks were hung on the wall. The room was cozy， and after running a small heater for perhaps 15 minutes he shut it off and the room kept its temperature throughout the night. The monk said he didnt want the rooms temperature to be too different from the outdoors， as that would be unhealthy.

He cooked three times and attended class twice every day. Over some tea he was eager to talk about a swath of topics， from meditation to yin and yang to the various monotonies of everyday life. He said their classes were free. The academy would occasionally pay them， but usually they were just given food or goods. I asked him when he decided to become a monk. He took a sip of tea and said， “Probably by the time I was seven.”

After a while the monk pulled out an iPad and began to show us some pictures of various monastic enclaves from his travels throughout the world. Some were candids， and in some he posed with a bright umbrella under the Tibetan sun—standing up， lying down， sometimes alone， and sometimes in a group， but invariably smiling. Looking at these photographs， it began to dawn on me why a person should visit the academy at Seda： Because it is a peek into an entirely different take on life. In the academy， life is disciplined， sexless， and aspiring to some higher ideal. Sinologist Livia Kohn characterized the monastic lifestyle as existing in a “l(fā)iminal” space—created in the image of heaven but bound to earth， a rejection of secular life but of the same realm.

Whatever the case， as I looked at the photographs I began to feel it was a lifestyle I could neither say was better nor worse than my own—such comparisons are irrelevant because it is not something I can fully understand. I have not spent long periods in so remote a place. When I was a child I looked up to athletes and astronauts. Perhaps the first fact I can alter， but the second I cannot. My point is that my secular experience with life is different， but looking at the photographs I felt that， while the two are impossible to compare， perhaps both lifestyles have just as equal a chance to be either fulfilling or not. The inputs are different and the scoreboard not the same—perhaps this is why you should go to Seda： to glimpse into a different experience with life; to find a different angle from which to evaluate your own.glimpse into a different experience with life; to find a different angle from which to evaluate your own.

In the mornings you can meet with a “Living Buddha” in his house. After a short period involving chanting and donations， the Living Buddha answered some questions. An glimpse glimpse into a different experience with life; to find a different angle from which to evaluate your own.

In the mornings you can meet with a “Living Buddha” in his house. After a short period involving chanting and donations， the Living Buddha answered some questions. An Englishman lives at the academy in six-month stints， and if foreigners are there he comes down to the residence and provides translation into English. One such question is the translation of “Living Buddha” itself. While Chinese to English renders such a translation optimal， from Tibetan to English produces some different results， Ive been told. Perhaps “Reincarnated Buddha” is a more fitting translation.

At any rate， the Living Buddha， if you will， was friendly and with a mild cough. Some of the questions he answered in great detail. “How can I control my frustration better？” asked a Japanese tourist. “Concentrate on a triangle below your navel， let it emanate out…” He instructed her to consult a specific chapter of a book， which I did not write down. Some questions he answered concisely： “How can we improve the world， have peace， and so？” “First you must perfect yourself， then you can perfect the world.”

After the question session ended， everyone gathered into little groups and discussed the event. A lady went up to the Living Buddha to ask a question in private. The Japanese girl commented to a monk and the translator excitedly on his advice： “So， like， run to the top of the mountain and scream！”

You can also see sky burials at the academy. I was told that while other Tibetan monasteries and academies use different methods， at Larong Wuming Buddhist Academy this is the only form of funeral in use. Essentially， atop a nearby mountain the bodies of the deceased are prepared， and then throngs of vultures consume them. A driver from the academy explained that there is a fixed price of 60 RMB per car to get to the sky burial， but I managed to hail a motorcycle for less. I arrived as the bodies were being prepared and the birds waited patiently. Then their time for waiting came to a conclusion and they feasted， and carried the dead into the sky. I found it a poetic notion in some ways. The smell was terrible.

The last day was aimless. After buying tickets we returned to wander around the academy and bought some fruits for the trip back. I stopped back by the monks place and he showed me some English characters he had written earlier. They were beautiful. The last bus back to Seda left at five， so I spent the evening there.

Few hotels in Seda have the proper permits to house foreigners， and they are not interested in breaking the rules. Fortunately， a new youth hostel opened this October. It is trendy with an assortment of interesting light fixtures and a selection of foreign alcohol.

The morning would come early. I would sit on a bus next to a monk from Liaoning on the start of a 50-hour journey. He was Han Chinese and did not become a monk until he was 29. He said he thought this was a fitting age to leave home as he better understood secular life when he made the decision. He would tell me some interesting things about politics， about war， and about human nature—but for the moment I waited around the youth hostel waiting for sleep and admiring the light fixtures.

I think the establishment of such a youth hostel in Seda is rather telling of the times. More Chinese are travelling to places like Seda. “We dont fully believe in Buddhism. Maybe just a little bit，” one traveler from Kunming told me. “Were really just here to relax， to have some fun.” In some respects it seems they are traveling to these remote places to get away from their own equivalents of Facebook. Some luxuries came along though： The hostel had its own coffee selection. Watching one of the employees operating an espresso machine in essentially the middle of nowhere， I wondered if the newly paved roads will bring the “real China” closer to us， or just push it further away.