This Wednesday, Phillips de Pury & Company will host a silent photography auction in New York City to benefit UNICEF, one of the leading international organizations working for children’s rights, their survival, development and protection. Most of the selected images were taken in regions of the world where UNICEF is active, and I personally donated a few from Tibet and Uzbekistan for the auction block. The top image of the abandoned Guge Kingdom was taken in 2007 during a traverse of Tibet. One of the most renowned kingdoms existing within Tibet, Guge was a major hub for Buddhist interchange between India and Tibet and boasts some of the most important Buddhist frescoes in the region. All of this came to a dramatic end, though, after a conquering Ladakhi army slaughtered most of the inhabitants in 1630, leaving the great fortresses city to crumble into the mountainside. The bottom two images were taken a few months later in Bukhara, one of the great ancient Silk Road cities strung across Uzbekistan. Once home to Emir Said Mir Mohammed Alim Khan, the last emir of the Manghit dynasty and the last direct descendant of Genghis Khan to serve as a national ruler, Bukhara straddles both the past and present with its UNESCO World Heritage city center and the surrounding ramshackle adobe housing peppered with satellite dishes. Truly an amazing place. Tickets should still be available so check out the website for more information.

My recent foray into Mustang represented the culmination of many desires, interests, and frustrations I bear concerning the fate of contemporary Tibetan culture and Buddhism. This preoccupation first took hold while visiting Lhasa in 2001 after living in Beijing for a year. At the time I considered the long overland journey a pilgrimage to a center of faith that held the solution to many of the afflictions plaguing consumer culture and the developing world. Although my convictions certainly evolved over the years, that first encounter still left an indelible mark on my notions of cultural transformation in communities pried open and incorporated into the strata of modern nations.

Like many travelers before me, I first sought in Tibet the fleeting aura of a Shangri-La constructed under the influence of western media, and, like many travelers after me, I became deeply disappointed with the developmental scheme imposed on Lhasa by the Chinese state. Lifeless Tiananmen-esque squares and mindless concrete buildings dominated the Potala Palace and temples scattered about the city – religious institutions functioned in a nominal fashion and only insofar as they catered to the burgeoning tourist industry and ideological whims of local Communist Party representatives. Although some certainly welcomed much change, it could not be denied that this metamorphosis was imposed on Tibetans in a brutish manner.

My hope now is not that Tibetan culture be permanently shielded so that it may return to some traditional past but that they are finally given sovereignty over major socioeconomic decisions that impact their communities and family life. Fanciful notions championing the protection and containment of an idyllic Tibet of yore have long been lost to me. More pressing needs must be addressed as younger generations of Tibetans are forced into an often-alienating process of sinocization. Tibetans are consistently denied their supposed autonomous status more so than other officially designated ethnic minorities in China.

Mustang thus represented an anomaly of great curiosity to me. Situated along the Tibetan border in Nepal, communities within this ancient kingdom shared a longstanding linguistic and religious heritage with Lhasa. Although culturally bounded to Tibet, Mustang also maintained close political ties with Katmandu and aligned itself to Nepal when the People’s Liberation Army invaded Tibet in 1951. This propitious decision saved them from the vagaries of a Chinese state that systematically destroyed religious centers and social bonds throughout greater Tibet in the ensuing years. Mustang instead became a holdout for Tibetan insurgents and fiercely guarded the sanctity of its land and ancient way of life.

It was only in 1991 when the King of Mustang permitted tourists into the region that these communities slowly opened to the outside world. Even then, visitors allowed entrance each year were capped at a thousand and forced to purchase expensive permits (regulations that persist to this day). Mustang consequently earned the moniker the “Last Forbidden Kingdom” and prided itself on nurturing a distinct and unbroken heritage. I could not help but let such preconceptions tantalize sentiments I once held about Lhasa while walking up the Kali Gandaki Valley and first spotting the deep reddish hues of Mustang’s corrugated hillsides.

In a word, the hike was spectacular. For two weeks we crossed high passes providing sweeping vistas of bucolic villages penned in by irrigated fields of pink buckwheat and golden grains. These settlements split the arid valleys in a riot of color that was only intensified by the piercingly blue skies of the Himalayas. Every bend in the trail offered new marvels and the possibility of glimpsing the massive peaks of the Annapurna region hovering amongst the dissipating monsoon clouds in the south. Then, at the end of each day, we would settle into a local lodge that usually amounted to an extra room with a few wooden beds in a family home.

Aesthetically, Mustang did not differ greatly from rural towns in Tibet that managed to avoid the dull infrastructure development implemented by the Chinese state. Except for a number of restoration projects not much had changed over the centuries. Clustered villages consisted of whitewashed adobe houses crowned with fluttering prayer flags and interlaced with gurgling channels of water diverted from the surrounding hills. Only the impressive monasteries with their ruddy walls and ornamentation broke the ubiquitous flow of architecture.

Although I was probably not the most disinterested observer, the one major difference I detected was a certain tranquility that pervaded the dimly lit rooms and cobbled courtyards of the houses in Mustang. These communities did not perpetuate the air of anxiety I constantly encountered in Tibet where an underlying current of fear still runs rampant. Mustang had largely escaped the violence and persecution suffered in Tibet over the past fifty years and did not show the lingering effects of a people uncertain of their present freedoms and future livelihood. In an incongruously dispirited manner, it came as a relief to me that even a small slice of Tibetan culture had escaped such a fate.

Communities are still bound to change in Mustang. The serenity that blanketed most of the region ruptured in many places as people expressed their impatience for roads, consistent electricity, and other important social services such as better schools and clinics. Residents do not wish to suspend themselves in a fixed bubble catering to the sentimental whims of tourists. Fortunately such decisions and the manner in which they are enacted are still in local hands. They are opening up in their own time and on their own terms – an opportunity usually not afforded to rusticated communities suddenly faced with the impositions of an outside world.

While stopping for lunch in a small village, we met a woman who had just returned from living in Queens for two years. She was cooking in the kitchen and totally indistinguishable from other residents in the valley with her native dress and manners. It therefore came as a shock when she started speaking to us in English and bantered with us about life in New York City. When asked as to why she returned to Mustang she merely gave us a small grin and simply stated, “I like living here better.” No further explanation was needed.

After the resplendent Tashilhunpo and Sakya monasteries, the road west from Lhasa soon enters one of the most remote regions in the world. Outside the infrequent villages only herders seeking high summer pastures inhabit the wide valleys spotted with electric-blue lakes. These desolate stretches of earth girdled by impenetrable snowcapped mountains engender a sublime trepidation, as if one has trespassed upon an inhuman landscape fit only for the gods and demons that adorn the walls of local temples. Here heaven touches the earth and yields Tibet its undisputed title as the roof of the world.

Western Tibet, known as Ngari, also remains a land of pilgrimages, chief among them Mount Kailash. For Hindus Mount Kailash is the domain of Shiva, Lord of the Cosmic Dance – both destroyer and creator. For Tibetan Buddhists Mount Kailash is the domain of Demchok, a wrathful manifestation of Sakyamuni – the historical Buddha who set the Dharma Wheel in motion some 2,500 years ago. For all faiths that venerate Mount Kailash the pilgrimage culminates in a ritual circumambulation of the mountain. Hardy locals complete the 32-mile circuit in a single day. Such a physical feat was not on my agenda however, especially with an extra thirty pounds of camera equipment strapped to my back.

I opted for a three-day trekking plan in order to stay at the monasteries en route and enjoy the views of Mount Kailash’s magnificent faces. Even with the extra time the trek was no small feat – the trail’s altitude averaged at about 15,000 feet and crossed a pass over 18,000 feet on the second day. These heights compounded by the occasional hailstorm added to the surreal surroundings. Luckily the rarefied atmosphere only amplified my lightheaded musings. Sore thighs and shortness of breath were quickly forgotten as I snacked at the summit of the pass with a group of other pilgrims looking to wipe away a lifetime of sins through their pilgrimage to the sacred mountain.

The descent proved more formidable. My legs turned into jelly near the bottom of the pass, making a long break at one of the many dark nomadic tents doling out tea and noodles necessary. Here I relaxed with a group of young Tibetan men dressed to the nines for the important pilgrimage – heavy woolen coats were complemented by polished leather cowboy hats and colored sunglasses that even Bono would be embarrassed to wear in public. Their modish attire clashed amidst the older pilgrims who unwaveringly twirled prayer wheels while whispering mantras to the deities dwelling atop the surrounding peaks.

The dark corrugated faces of elderly Tibetans exhibited decades of weathering at the hands of bitter winters and a piercing sun. Despite the Chinese state’s attempts to raise the quality of life for scattered provincial populations, a large majority of Ngari still relied on herding and sustenance farming for survival. The Tibetan plateau’s harsh environment forgave little in their lifetimes and the long pilgrimage to Mount Kailash represented for some the ultimate appeal for release. The past decade has been an especially incongruous time for them though. The specter of imposed socioeconomic reforms and their entailing skewed notions of progress loomed ever large on the horizon.

Ngari encompasses a major swath of bleak tundra that persists relatively untouched by the commercial markets spreading from Lhasa. Still, like Kham in the east, newly built roads are slowly opening insular communities. Increasing numbers of trucks and tourists ply these once isolated routes and bring with them an all too familiar stream of consumer goods and ploys. I can only hope that the decisions as to what manner and extent these areas open up to the outside world remain in indigenous hands – a liberty not often granted to these supposedly autonomous regions.

As the cultural center and capital of Tibet, Lhasa constantly remains poised to set the socioeconomic tone for the rest of the region. However, after a third visit over six years, characterizing that tone continues to evade me. Lhasa’s elusive nature never seems to resolve itself as the colorful Tibetan quarter continues to hold out against the encroaching conurbations inhabited by immigrating Han Chinese. Two years ago such architecturally uninspiring edifices seemed poised to swallow old Lhasa whole, but now I feel quite the opposite.

The Barkhor pilgrim circuit encompassing the Jokhang temple at the heart of the Tibetan quarter emitted a vivacity I had never felt before. On a daily basis thousands of pilgrims, monks, nuns, and awkward tourists rambled around the residence of the most revered Buddha image in Tibet. An odd cacophony emerged from the crowd as the murmur of prayers mixed with shuffling feet, congenial conversations, and the occasional resounding smack of pilgrims clapping their hands above their heads before prostrating on the ground. More importantly, the alleys surrounding the Barkhor teemed with Tibetans perusing small local markets and bustling about their daily business. I felt I had slipped into a vibrant Tibetan city instead of a fading relic of the past.

Since Tibet’s “peaceful liberation,” the Chinese state has largely committed itself to implementing “progressive” socioeconomic policies in Lhasa in hopes of bringing the rest of the region under more centralized control. Many indigenous customs were condemned while major religious institutions endured heavy censure and sometimes destruction in an attempt to redefine their identities and role in communities. For example, since the fourteenth Dali Lama’s 1959 exile into India, the Potala Palace was transformed into a state museum used to portray his presence as a figment of the past overcome by the ineluctable advent of modernity. Monks that attended the shrines were not even allowed to wear traditional monastic robes – the Chinese state did not want any indication that it still remained a functioning religious institution. Within the scope of socioeconomic progress, the Chinese state attempted to consign the Potala Palace to a bygone epoch just like the Forbidden City in Beijing. Still, its potency and ability to inspire awe remained, just as an undeniable resilience still prevailed within the Tibetan quarter.

Lhasa embodies an odd paradox posed by free market reforms and the rise of consumer culture introduced by the Chinese state. Newly built strip malls now crowd important temples and monasteries – centers of a faith devoted to self-abnegation and rarified spiritual pursuits. Nonetheless, a monk pulling a slick cell phone from beneath his robe no longer seems so strange a sight. Many religious institutions subsist on a very ambiguous line as mere tourist attractions and functioning monastic and spiritual centers. In all, generalizations continue to fail to capture this marvelous city as it persistently twists into a stranger synthesis of global influences and longstanding traditions.

The first major leg of my Kunming to Tashkent journey came to a close yesterday after safely arriving in Lhasa. For eight days I rode along the haphazard roads of eastern Tibet, crossing passes reaching over 17,000 feet and dropping into subtropical gorges with glaciated massifs rising over verdant slopes. The area, traditionally known as Kham, spouts some of the most pivotal rivers in Asia – the Mekong, Yangzi, and Salween all find their headwaters amidst this geologically variegated landscape. Stunning vistas aside, Kham also represents one of the last frontiers in Tibet that the Chinese state has keenly targeted for development as described in its Tibet’s March Toward Modernization report commemorating the “50th anniversary of the peaceful liberation of Tibet” in 2001.

The preamble from Tibet’s March Toward Modernization:

Modernization has been an important issue confronting countries and regions worldwide in modern times. Since the invasion of the Western powers in the mid-19th century, it has been the most important task of the people of all ethnic groups in China, the Tibetan people included, to get rid of poverty and backwardness, shake off the lot of being trampled upon, and build up an independent, united, strong, democratic and civilized modern country. Since the founding of the People’s Republic of China in 1949, and especially since the introduction of reform and opening to the outside world, the modernization drive in China has been burgeoning with each passing day, and achieved successes attracting worldwide attention. China is taking vigorous steps to open even wider and become more prosperous. China’s Tibet, with its peaceful liberation in 1951 as the starting point, has carried out regional ethnic autonomy and made a historical leap in its social system following the Democratic Reform in 1959 and the elimination of the feudal serf system. Through carrying out socialist construction and the reform and opening-up, Tibet has made rapid progress in its modernization drive and got onto the track of development in step with the other parts of the country, revealing a bright future for its development.

This year is the 50th anniversary of the peaceful liberation of Tibet. Looking back on the course of modernization since its peaceful liberation, publicizing the achievements in modernization made by the people of all ethnic groups in Tibet through their hard work and with the support of the Central Government and the whole nation, and revealing the law of development of Tibet’s modernization – these will contribute not only to accelerating the healthy development of Tibet’s modernization but also to clearing up various misunderstandings on the “Tibet issue” in the international community and promoting overall understanding of the past and present situations in Tibet.

While the Chinese state’s continual insistence on referring to their militant subjugation of Tibet as a “peaceful liberation” remains dubious at best, their reference to a “law of development” guiding Tibet’s modernization now appears just as disconcerting. Imposing a socioeconomic developmental aim and spinning it as theoretically indubitable is overbearing in the extreme, especially as it begins to lock Kham into a consumer cycle of wage earning and spending. Activists might continue to push the Chinese state for a truly autonomous Tibet, but the real transformation is well underway as commercial goods slip in with the paved roads slowly branching between Lhasa, Kunming, and Chengdu.

These stable trucking routes established commodity markets replete with utilitarian products such as plastic washbasins, kitchen utensils, tools, and the now requisite electric blender used for churning various yak products. Thoroughfares in major Kham towns were lined with shops purveying such goods – provincial youths would walk amongst them in awe while local residents blithely smoked cigarettes and busied themselves with cell phones. Even though many of these implements represented a substantial benefit for many rural families, they also cloaked the arrival of less vital commodities slowly working their way onto store shelves. Traditional wool-lined overcoats now gathered dust behind overpriced t-shirts showcasing Western name brands.

As the trip continued toward Lhasa it became clear that this “law of development” aimed to prop up commercial markets reliant on more centralized economic systems that, in turn, were dependent on subsidies provided by the Chinese state. The towns I passed in the most advanced stages of development, such as Pomi and Bayi, were flooded with supermarkets, designer clothing stores, beauty parlors, and upscale restaurants. These products and services engender a consumer-oriented dependency that the Chinese state finds easy to manipulate or threaten to withdraw. In the end, I cannot help but see the Chinese state’s “law of development” as an important tool for incorporating Kham into its own particular standard and vision of socioeconomic development that essentially undermines any semblance of ethnic autonomy within the region.

While this growth certainly benefits impoverished areas at first, its adverse effects become even more drastic as the commercial boom continues to attract and largely benefit immigrating Han Chinese who have the requisite business skills to take advantage of free market reforms. Their presence is growing by the year and already dominates major urban centers such as Lhasa and Shigatse. Many Tibetans already feel left behind despite promises of a “bright future” by the Chinese state. Continued grumbling about the lack of autonomy and political reform in Lhasa now seems irrelevant as the Chinese state’s “law of development” draws rural Tibet into homogenizing consumer trends already sweeping across mainland China.