The Secret of Shambhala: In Search of the Eleventh Insight (15 page)

The door opened, and in walked an erect Chinese military officer in full uniform. A chill went through me. It was the same
official I had now seen several times. My heart pounded. I tried to extend my energy, but the sight of the officer completely
deflated me.

“Good morning,” the man said. “How do you feel?”

“Considering I was gassed,” I replied, “pretty good.”

He smiled. “It has no lasting effect, I assure you.”

“Where am I?”

“You are in Ali. The doctors have seen you and you are fine. But I must ask you some questions. Why were you traveling with
Yin Doloe and where were you going?”

“We wanted to visit some of the old monasteries.”

“Why?”

I decided not to tell him any more. “Because I’m a tourist. I have a visa. Why was I attacked? Does the American Embassy know
I’m being held?”

He smiled, and looked ominously into my eyes. “I am Colonel Chang. No one knows you are here, and if you have broken our laws,
no one can help you. Mr. Doloe is a criminal, a member of an illegal religious organization which is perpetrating a fraud
in Tibet.”

My worst fears seemed to be happening.

“I don’t know anything about that,” I said. “I would like to call someone.”

“Why are Yin Doloe and the others looking for this Shambhala?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He took a step closer to me. “Who is Wilson James?”

“He’s a friend of mine,” I said.

“Is he in Tibet?”

“I think so, but I haven’t seen him.”

Chang looked at me with a hint of disgust and, without saying anything else, turned and walked out.

This is bad, I thought, very bad. I was about to get out of bed when the nurse returned with half a dozen soldiers, one of
them pushing what looked like a huge iron lung, only it was bigger and standing on tall, wide legs, apparently so that it
could be rolled up over someone who was lying in a bed.

Before I could say anything, the soldiers were holding me and rolling the machine over my body. The nurse turned it on, producing
a mild humming noise and a bright light directly over my face. Even with my eyes closed I could see the light move from right
to left across my head, like the scanner of a copy machine.

As soon as the machine stopped, the soldiers rolled the device away and left the room. The nurse lingered a moment looking
me over.

“What was that?” I stammered.

“Just an encephalograph,” she said in careful English as she reached into a cabinet and pulled out my clothes. They had been
cleaned and folded neatly.

“What was it for?” I pressed.

“To check everything, to make sure you are all right.”

At that moment the door opened again, and Colonel Chang returned. He picked up a chair by the wall and set it near my bed.

“Perhaps I should tell you what we are faced with here,” he said as he sat down in the chair. He looked tired. “There are
many religious sects in Tibet, and many of their adherents seek to give the impression around the world that they are a religious
people being oppressed by the Chinese. And I admit that our early policies in the 1950s, and during the Cultural Revolution,
were harsh. But these policies have been changed in recent years. We are trying to be as tolerant as we can, given that the
official policy of the Chinese government is atheism.

“These sects must remember that Tibet has changed as well. Many Chinese live here now and have always lived here, and many
of them are not Buddhists. We must all live together. There is no way that Tibet can ever return to Lamaist rule.

“Do you understand what I am saying? The world has changed. Even if we wanted to give Tibet its freedom, it would not be fair
to the Chinese.”

He waited for me to say something, and I thought about confronting him with the government policy of importing Chinese nationals
into Tibet in order to dilute the Tibetan culture. Instead I said, “I think they just want to be free to pursue their religion
without interference.”

“We have allowed some of that, but they are always changing what they are doing. Once we think we know who is in charge, the
situation changes. I think we are arriving at a good relationship with parts of the official Buddhist hierarchy, but then
there are the Tibetan expatriates in India, and this other group that Mr. Doloe is a part of, the one that follows some cryptic
verbal knowledge and is stirring up all this talk about Shambhala. It is distracting to the people. There is much important
work to be done in Tibet. The people are very poor. The quality of life must be raised.”

He looked at me and grinned. “Why is this legend of Shambhala being taken so seriously? It seems almost juvenile, the idea
of children.”

“The Tibetans believe that there is another, more spiritual reality beyond the physical worlds we can see, and that Shambhala,
while here on this Earth, lies in this spiritual realm.” I couldn’t believe I was risking a debate with him.

“But how could they think this place exists?” he continued. “We have surveyed every inch of Tibet from the air and from satellites,
and we have seen nothing.”

I was silent.

“Do you know where this place is supposed to be?” he pressed. “Is that why you are here?”

“I would love to know where it is,” I said, “or even what it is, but I’m afraid I don’t. I also don’t want to be in trouble
with the Chinese authorities.”

He was listening intently, so I continued. “In fact, all this scares the hell out of me and I would really rather leave.”

“Oh no, all we want is for you to share what you know,” he said. “If such a place exists, if it is a hidden culture, we want
to know this information. Share your knowledge with us and let us help you. Perhaps there is a compromise that could be made.”

I looked at him for a moment and said, “I would like to contact the American Embassy, if that’s okay.”

He tried to hide his impatience, but I could see it clearly in his eyes. He stared at me for a moment longer, then walked
to the door and turned around.

“That’s not necessary,” he said. “You are free to go.”

M
inutes later I was walking down the streets of Ali, zipping up my parka tightly. It was not snowing now but it was very cold.
Earlier I had been forced to dress in front of the nurse and then escorted from the house. As I continued to walk, I went
through the contents of my pockets. Surprisingly everything was there: a knife, my wallet, a small bag of almonds.

I felt light-headed and fatigued. Was this from the anxiety? I wondered. The effects of the gas? The altitude? I tried to
shake it off.

Ali was a modern town, with numerous Chinese and Tibetans walking the streets, and vehicles everywhere. Its well-kept buildings
and stores were slightly disconcerting, given the terrible roads and conditions we had just traveled through to get here.
Looking around, I could see no one who I thought might be able to speak English, and after several blocks I began to feel
even more light-headed. I had to sit down beside the road on an old cement block. The growing fear almost became a panic.
What was I to do now? What had happened to Yin? Why had the Chinese colonel let me go like that? It made no sense.

With that thought, a full image of Yin appeared in my mind, and I felt a reminder. I was letting my energy collapse. The fear
was overwhelming me and I had forgotten to do anything about it. I took a deep breath and attempted to raise my energy.

A few minutes later I began to feel better, and my eyes fell on a large building several blocks away. It had a sign on the
side in Chinese that I couldn’t read, but as I focused on the shape of the building, I got the distinct impression that it
was a guesthouse or small hotel. I felt elated. There would be a phone there perhaps, maybe even other tourists I could hook
up with.

I stood up and walked in that direction, careful to keep an eye on the streets around me. In a few minutes I was several doors
away from the Shing Shui guesthouse, but I felt hesitant and looked around carefully. No one seemed to be following me. When
I was almost to the door, I heard a noise. Something had landed in the snow. I looked around. I was standing on the street
directly across from a narrow alleyway, alone except for several old men walking in the other direction twenty feet away.
I heard the noise again. It was close. As I was looking down at my feet, I saw a small stone fly out of the alley and plop
into the snow.

Taking one step forward, I tried to look down the shadowed opening. I took several more steps, trying to adjust my eyes.

“It’s me,” a voice said.

I knew immediately it was Yin.

I rushed into the alley, finding him leaning against a brick wall.

“How did you know where I was?” I asked.

“I didn’t know,” came his reply. “I was just guessing.” He slid down the wall and sat down, and I noticed his parka was burned
on the back. When he moved his arm, I saw a patch of blood on his shoulder.

“You’re hurt!” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s not that bad. They dropped a concussion bomb and I hit rocks when I was thrown from the Jeep. I managed to crawl away
before they landed. I saw them take you and load you onto a truck headed back here. I figured if you got away, you would head
toward the largest guesthouse. What happened to you?”

I told Yin about waking up in the Chinese house and being interrogated by Colonel Chang, then released.

“Why did you push me out of the Jeep?” I asked.

“I told you before,” Yin replied. “I can’t control my fearful expectations. My hatred for the Chinese is too great. They are
able to follow me.” He paused. “Why did they release you?”

“I don’t know,” I replied.

Yin moved slightly and grimaced in pain. “Probably because Chang senses that he can follow you too.”

I was shaking my head. Could this be real?

“He wouldn’t know how it works, of course,” Yin continued, “but when you expect the soldiers to come, your expectation actually
gives his ego the thought to approach where you are. He probably thinks it is some power in him.”

He looked at me hard. “You must learn from my problem. You must master your thoughts.”

Yin looked at me a moment longer, then, holding his arm, led me down the alley, through a narrow gap between two buildings,
and into what looked to be an abandoned building.

“We need to get you to a doctor,” I said.

“No!” Yin said forcefully. “Listen to me. I will be fine. There are people here who can help me. But I can’t go with you to
the ruins of the old monastery; you will have to go there by yourself.”

I turned away, fear swelling inside me. “I don’t think I can do that.”

Yin looked alarmed. “You must control your fear, return to detachment. You are needed to help find Shambhala. You must go
on.”

He struggled to sit up, grimacing as he moved closer to me. “Don’t you understand that the Tibetan people have suffered much?
Yet they have waited for the day that Shambhala would be known to all the world.” He squinted as his look found my eyes. “Think
of how many people have helped us get this far. Many of them have risked everything. Some may be imprisoned, even shot.”

I lifted up my hand and showed it to him; it was shaking. “Look at me. I can barely move.”

Yin’s eyes were piercing. “Don’t you think your father was terrified when he struggled out of that landing craft and ran onto
the beaches of France in World War II? Just like all the others? But he did that! What if he hadn’t? What if all the rest
of them hadn’t? That war could have been lost. Freedom for everyone could have been lost.

“We in Tibet have lost our freedom, but what is happening now is about more than just Tibet. It is about more than you or
me. It is about what must happen for all the sacrifices of many generations to be honored. Understanding Shambhala, learning
to use the prayer-fields at this moment in history, is next in the evolution of humankind. It is the great chore of our whole
generation. If we fail, then we let down everyone who came before us.”

Yin grimaced in pain, then looked away. Tears were forming in his eyes.

“I would go if I could,” he added. “But now I think you are our only chance.”

We heard the sound of big trucks and saw two large troop carriers drive by.

“I don’t know where to go,” I said.

“The old monastery is not that far,” Yin replied. “They can be reached in a long day’s travel. I can get someone to take you.”

“What am I supposed to do there? You said earlier that I would be tested. What did you mean by that?”

“In order to get through the gateway, you will have to fully allow divine energy to flow through you and set your field in
the way you have learned. Know this field goes out from you and has an effect on what happens. Most importantly, control your
fear images, and stay detached. You still fear certain outcomes. You don’t want to lose your life.”

“Of course I don’t want to lose my life,” I said, almost yelling. “I have a lot to live for.”

“Yes, I know,” he replied gently. “But those are very dangerous thoughts. You have to abandon all thoughts of failing. I can’t
do that, but I think you can. You have to be sure with all your faith that you’re going to be saved, that you are going to
succeed.”

He paused to see if I understood.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “If all else fails, continue to affirm that Shambhala is helping you. Look for the…”

He stopped, but I knew what he meant.

T
he next morning I was in the cab of an old, four-wheel-drive truck, squeezed in between a herdsman and his four-year-old son.
Yin had known exactly what to do. In spite of his pain, we had sneaked across several blocks to an old adobe brick house,
where we were given a hot meal and a place to spend the night. He stayed up late talking to several men. I could only suppose
that the men were members of Yin’s secret group, but I asked no questions. We had risen early, and minutes later the farm
truck had driven up and I had climbed aboard.