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Himalayas in the Western Mind’s Eye

‘Incredibly Spiritual and Marvellous’

Mark Liechty (liechty@uic.edu) teaches anthropology and history at the University of Illinois at Chicago, United States.

Disillusioned with developments in the West, counter-culturists looked to the Himalayas as the (hoped for) last bastion of pre-industrial human wisdom and dignity. From the Tibetan “Great White Brotherhood” of Helena Blavatsky’s Theosophy, to Hilton’s Lost Horizon and “Shangri-La,” to the 1950s yeti-hunting craze, to today’s dharma tourists, Westerners have sought elusive “missing links” between themselves and their (imagined) pasts that might still exist in the world’s most remote terra incognita.

All margins are dangerous.

— Mary Douglas

The 2016 Hollywood fantasy/science fiction film Dr Strange is set largely in London, Hong Kong, and New York, where the forces of good and evil battle for intergalactic supremacy in time/space dimensions beyond the perception of normal mortals. But, important parts of the story are set in the Himalayas, and specifically Kathmandu, where, following a crippling injury, the film’s hero, Stephen Strange (played by British film star Benedict Cumberbatch) travels to be cured and mystically enlightened by a miraculously powerful quasi-Buddhist nun, played by Tilda Swinton. Parts of the movie were actually filmed in Kathmandu, while others were shot on a London sound stage, where a meticulously recreated Kathmandu street set (complete with Nepali extras, mist machines, and dogs) allowed the film-makers to create an even better version of Kathmandu than the real thing. With its occult plot line—that makes Kathmandu something like the mystical navel of the universe—it is not surprising that Dr Strange is chock-full of almost every Oriental stereotype imaginable.

So when a friend sent me a copy of an interview that Cumberbatch had given reflecting on his experiences in Nepal, I expected the actor to have some basic critical consciousness about the crazy myths that his movie was trafficking. However, that was not the case: Cumberbatch found Kathmandu to be “exotic” and “incredibly spiritual and marvellous.” The film’s director also chimed in to say,

I’ve been all over the world, but there’s no place on the planet like Kathmandu. It is a city with almost no Western influence in it. It is a large city that is so deeply mystical and religious in all operations, and in a most peaceful, beautiful, colorful way. (Levy 2016)

How can we account for these, arguably, fantasy perceptions? Surely, few Nepalis or other South Asians who have visited Kathmandu have found it to be “incredibly spiritual and marvellous,” a place with “almost no Western influence,” a “deeply mystical and religious” place, a “most peaceful” city? How anyone could go to Kathmandu and not find a chaotic, noisy, polluted, and crowded city, is an enigma. Of course, Kathmandu has many charms and Nepalis are warm and gracious hosts. But, how is it that presumably reasonable people like Cumberbatch can go to Nepal and find a place that arguably does not exist outside of their own imaginations?

That is the question I explore in this article.1 After a lifetime of hearing comments like these, I wanted to know how and why Westerners have constructed not just an imagined Kathmandu, but an imagined Himalayan region marked by mystical alterity. As I dug deeper into these questions I found that the kinds of things Cumberbatch was saying were anything but new. Rather, for most of the last 200 years Europeans and Americans have been imagining the Himalayas in similar, and sometimes almost identical, terms. Especially for countercultural figures—people unhappy with the secular, rational, capitalist West—the Himalayas stand for mystical Oriental exoticism, for spiritual enlightenment, healing, and for a kind of untouched, non-Westernised purity or pristine-ness. In short, they imagine the Himalayas to be a non-West, a place not yet dirtied by modernity, capitalism, materialism, and all kinds of other Western “isms” that they do not like. For a long time, and seemingly undiminished even today, the West has looked to the Himalayas for what it imagines it has lost. How and why did these fantasies originate, how were they materialised into various forms of tourism in Nepal after 1951, and how have Nepalis learned to then sell the dreams that tourists brought with them to Nepal?

Structure of Ideas

A part of the answer to these questions lies in what anthropologists refer to as the “structure of ideas.”2 Humans divide the infinitely complex world into a manageable set of categories that allow us to make sense of our lived experience, however imperfectly. For example, we use maps to transform the infinite detail of geographic space into a cognitively manageable set of meaningful places. These places—towns, nations, rivers—we then plot onto maps that represent back to us a world that we can comprehend.

Yet, how we imagine space often has unintended, even mystifying, consequences. The ways that we chart meaningful places onto maps sets up a dynamic whereby the areas between the meaningful, known areas on the map begin to exert a magical attraction. For example, any two civilisational centres marked on a map will have, between them, an area of the seemingly unknown and uncivilised. In creating known areas of cultural and historical coherence, our imaginations inevitably linger on the mysterious borderlands between them. It is these in-between spaces, the zones of terra incognita on our maps, that exert a strong pull on the imaginations of explorers, scholars, and tourists, even if these peripheries are at least as much the products of our own cultural and political cartographies as they are, in fact, essentially different or discontiguous places.

Because our mental maps of Asia locate two major civilisational core regions in what we know today as India and China, the area between those core zones—the Himalayas—is enchanted due to the very structure of ideas that made the mountains a liminal in-between zone. One could argue that the Himalayas, because they form a massive physical barrier between India and China, are peripheral by their very nature. We imagine the Himalayas to be like a wall between two rooms. Yet, in the world’s second-largest mountain chain, the Andes of South America, it is the mountain region itself that is the civilisational centre, with the lowland deserts and jungles on either side of the range acting as the peripheries that a different structure of ideas have created as zones of mystical empowerment.3 Mountains are not inherently margins: they are created as such by humans.

While acknowledging the massive materiality of the Himalayas (especially for the people actually living in them), we need to recognise that a large part of the region’s appeal to outsiders is a mystique—anti-structural, even countercultural—generated by their own structure of ideas. If, as Mary Douglas (1966: 121) argues, “all margins are dangerous” and “any structure of ideas is vulnerable at its margins,” and if this danger and vulnerability are products of the very “structure of ideas” that created the margins, then it is not surprising that outsiders have long looked to the Himalayas as a land of not just danger and vulnerability, but, concomitantly, of power, adventure, and anti-structural, countercultural meaning. The same dynamic that makes border zones dangerous and vulnerable also makes those lands inherently unknown and, therefore, open to all kinds of longings and projections.

Therefore, to the extent that it is the outsiders who have structured their ideas so as to imagine the Himalayas as a margin, it is not surprising that what outsiders have found on that dangerous and vulnerable boundary has more to do with where they came from than with where they went to. Time and again outsiders have used the Himalayas as a land in which to find that which they imagine to have been lost in the core zones, but which they hope still lives on in the mysterious margins between known worlds. The Himalayas in particular seem to have a rich history of being the locus of projections of longing for the lost, or what I will call “missing links.”

Missing Links

Although my main focus is on Western imaginings of the Himalayas, it is worth noting that South Asians have also fantasised about the Himalayas as a borderland or margin for thousands of years. From Vedic references to the Himalayas as the “abode of the gods” (deva bhumi), to repeated associations between gods and mountain locations in the Mahabharata and Ramayana, to the common association of Shiva (and all kinds of other celestial beings like apsaras, gandharvas, and vidyadharas) and mountain abodes, the lofty and remote Himalayas have long served subcontinentals as an imagined liminal zone or bridge between heaven and earth. According to Philip Lutgendorf (2005: 30), the Himalayas “constitute an extra-social realm of mystery, danger, and supernatural power, and are the haunt of divine and demi-divine beings who are … potentially both beneficent and dangerous to human beings.” Lutgendorf goes on to explain how the Himalayas—as an Indo–heavenly interface—have come to be a land of anti-structural projection (and erotic fantasy) for many Indians to this day. From Hindu mythology to Hindi films, the Himalayas are imagined as a region of both extreme renunciation (rishis, sadhus, and other ascetics) and extreme indulgence (as in Shiva and Parvati’s erotic play) (Lutgendorf 2005: 31), and, as such, serve as an anti-structural borderland for the South Asian imagination.

Jumping ahead to the colonial era, we encounter similar phenomena. The British always understood the Himalayas (especially after the Anglo–Nepal war of 1814–16) to be a “buffer zone” between themselves and their perceived geopolitical foes, first the Chinese and later the Russians. That Nepal remained a quasi-independent state throughout the Raj is, of course, the result of British geopolitical strategising, not of some quality inherent in the region or its people. The British indulged their Nepali Rana underling’s tendencies towards xenophobic kleptocracy to the extent that Rana policies were also in the British interest. The xenophobia ensured that Nepal was, if not a no-man’s land, then at least a no “white-man’s” land. And, the kleptocracy ensured a steady supply of poor military recruits (the famous Nepali “Gurkhas”) and other labour migrants crossing the borders. That Nepal exists today as a nation state, and not a former princely-state province of India, is itself arguably an artefact of its historical constitution as an imagined colonial geopolitical borderland.

One of the results of this British policy was that, when European Indologists “discovered” Nepal in the 19th century, Nepal was already imagined as a peripheral borderland between two already imagined zones of political coherence: India and Tibet (or China). It was in this “forbidden land,” where “time stood still” (presumably because there were too few resident white men to historically animate it), that European Indologists recreated the Himalayas as a time-warped cultural interface. With Rana isolationism and sumptuary autocracy fuelling the myth of Nepali timelessness, Indologists imagined Nepal to be an enchanted borderland where might be found clues to the ancient Indic past, the glory days before racial decline and Muslim conquests had reduced South Asians to a pitiable state fit only for colonial rule. Similarly, Indologists imagined Nepal to be the last refuge of a primeval Buddhism now completely lost in its homeland to the south, and corrupted in the form of popish Lamaism to the north. In colonial/Indological constructions of South and Central Asian pasts, Nepal as borderland served the useful role of the missing link between a glorious past and a degenerate present, a place where what had been lost in India could still be found.

Of course, 19th-century European and American theosophists took these colonial fantasies of the Himalayas to their (il)logical extremes. While Indologists like Hodgson and Levi looked for dusty ancient manuscripts in Kathmandu, Helena Blavatsky checked her cupboard periodically for mystical rice-paper missives sent from Himalayan “Mahatmas,” “Masters of the Universe,” members of the “Tibetan Brotherhood,” and even the “Great White Brotherhood,” who she claimed live as immortals in the remote Himalayas. With Tibet essentially being the last remaining, most isolated, and most distant terra incognita on the face of the earth by the end of the 19th century, it became the last blank screen on which to freely project Western dreams and fantasies. As Blavatsky’s claims became more and more convoluted, she almost inevitably turned to Tibet as her imagined source of inspiration (and spiritual direction) making her ideas more and more unverifiable, incontestable, and far-fetched in every sense of the term.

By the turn of the 20th century, theosophy had emerged as one of Euro–America’s leading countercultural movements, its hundreds of thousands of followers making Blavatsky “arguably, the most influential woman in Europe and American” at that time (Pedersen 2001: 157). As such, no matter what we might think of it today, theosophy is largely responsible for focusing the West’s popular longing for meaning onto Tibet and the Himalayan region. Blavatsky “played a seminal role in galvanizing a Western fascination with the occult and with Tibet as the epicenter not only of an ancient spiritualism but of a future spirituality that would someday transform the world” (Schell 2000: 227). In theosophical thought Tibet came to occupy the geo-crypto-spiritual place of privilege that it retains today in the Western (and increasingly, East Asian) popular imagination.

Intriguingly, among Blavatsky’s imagined Himalayan “Mahatmas,” only two were even Asian. In line with Victorian race theory, the rest were spirits of “Aryan” mahatmas, thought to preserve in their mountain hideouts the once and future wisdom of the superior Aryan or Western race. In the face of extreme alienation and disenchantment brought about by rapid industrial modernisation in the West, Blavatsky and theosophy imagined the Himalayas to be the last bastion of uncorrupted Aryan wisdom. Once again, the Himalayas serve as the home of a missing link, now between nothing less than the glories of ancient Aryan wisdom lost in the lands of its origins, and the future well-being of humanity waiting to be led back to truth by the “Great White Brotherhood” of the Himalayas.

A Missing Link

Anyone familiar with the storyline of James Hilton’s best-selling novel Lost Horizon (1933) will immediately recognise its resonances with the theosophical construction of the Himalayas as a land containing a precious time capsule that will restore Western civilisation. Written during the post-World War I period of extreme anti-modernist disillusionment and countercultural angst, published during the Great Depression, and influenced by decades of theosophically oriented fantasies of Tibet coming from the likes of Alexandra David-Neel, Walter Y Evans-Wentz, and Carl Jung, Lost Horizon, with its utopic Himalayan Lamasery of Shangri-La, was an instant sensation. Like Blavatsky’s Tibet, Hilton’s Lamasery is “both Buddhist and Christian” (Hilton 1998: 189), its libraries preserving all the great works of (mainly Western) civilisation against an impending global calamity, and its High Lama a Catholic priest from Luxembourg. Snug in his magical Himalayan valley, where time is mysteriously slowed, the High Lama explains,

Here we shall stay with our books and our music and our meditations, conserving the frail elegancies of a dying age, and seeking such wisdom as men will need when their [warring] passions are all spent. We [that is, Westerners] have a heritage to cherish and bequeath. (Hilton 1998: 191)

Once again, Tibet is home to what the West imagines itself to have lost, a missing link to its own past and future frozen in the glacial timelessness of the Himalayas. As Bishop (1989: 204) notes, during the early 20th century, “Tibet symbolized everything the West imagined it had itself lost.” Constructed as a countercultural borderland, time and again the true—always hidden or occult—meaning of the Himalayas turns out to be about the West, not about the mountains or mountain peoples themselves (compare with Hutt 1996: 51).

With so many other “missing links” thought to be hidden in the Himalayas, it was inevitable that Westerners would eventually imagine the ultimate missing link to be lurking in the remote, high-altitude zones of Nepal and Tibet. This is, of course, the yeti, the missing link that would tie mankind to its evolutionary past. In the 1950s—a decade known for its fixation on monsters, unidentified flying objects, and paranormal phenomena of all sorts—one of the most colourful characters is the “abominable snowman.” The Himalayan yeti first entered the West’s popular imagination in the 1920s when British mountaineers reported mysterious tracks in the Everest region. But, it was not until the 1950s when yeti-mania struck hard, sending numerous high-profile expeditions into the Himalayan backcountry. Though yeti hunters turned up empty-handed, yetis soon began showing up in popular films and comic books—as both villains and heroes—often making appearances alongside aliens, spies, communists, and other frightening creatures that populated the West’s imagination in the 1950s (Brauen 2004). Today, it is hard to understand the West’s obsession with the Himalayan yeti during the 1950s when practically every year between 1953 and 1960 numerous large, well-funded expeditions, often associated with reputable scientists and mountaineers (including Edmund Hillary), set out from Kathmandu in search of the “Abominable Snowman” (Liechty 2017).

Working in the yeti’s favour in the 1950s were still persistent notions of “the missing link” between humans and apes that had gripped the Western popular imagination ever since Darwin’s pronouncements. Hominid fossil discoveries (Australopithecus, Gigantopithecus, etc) helped lend credence to the idea that some ape-man species might still roam the earth. Even as late as the 1960s, distinguished anthropologist and Ivy League professor Carleton Coon (1962: 27–28) included a chapter called “Of Giant Apes and Snowmen” in his popular textbook The Story of Man. In the 1950s, yetis were still within the realm of scientific possibility and not nearly as whacky as they appear to be today. Reports of yeti encounters were so numerous that some felt all it would take to prove their existence would be systematic, rational, scientific research.

Nevertheless, the yeti has a strange and revealing pedigree in the Western imagination. When the yeti myth really took off in the 1930s, it represented one of the later instances of a process of Himalayan mythicisation that had been ongoing for centuries. Tibet and the Himalayas were imagined to be the last holdout of things lost in the “civilised” Western world: spirituality, esoteric wisdom, and a style of life not tainted by the greed and corruption of capitalist modernity (Bishop 1989). The yeti is part of this tradition of fantasy projection whereby people wanted to believe that something could exist in a still little-known place. Aside from some Sherpas, Nepalis neither knew nor cared about yetis, but Westerners deeply desired their existence. Once again, the mysterious Himalayan borderlands came to be the repository for a part of the Western self that it had lost.

That Western popular films, novels, and comic books in the 1950s often depicted yetis as cavorting with Chinese communists (sometimes aiding, sometimes thwarting the Red Menace), points to another crucial geopolitical development for Nepal in the 1950s, namely its re-emergence as a “front line” state. As in the previous version of the Great Game (though now with the United States [US] replacing Britain in the role of the global hegemon), in the 1950s Nepal’s fame suddenly rose again as it was reconstituted in the Western imagination as a crucial bulwark against advancing communists. The Soviet Union, China, India, and the US all courted Nepal for its affections, lavishing gifts upon the state to the extent that in 1960 Nepal’s King Mahendra could scuttle his country’s democratic government and set himself up as a panchayat dictator. In an interview published in Time magazine in 1961, Mahendra justified his royal coup d’état by claiming that “The [elected] government was always trying to put me in an awkward position. … It preached that the King was standing in the way of reform.” As for popular plans to impose property taxes on Nepali elites, Time (1961) magazine quotes Mahendra as asking, “Why should we pay taxes when we can always get more money from the Americans?” Of course, Mahendra had a point. By the early 1960s, “Nepal was,” in the words of one foreign expert, “being smothered in foreign aid” (Wood 1987: 189). The US was bankrolling Nepal’s state apparatus. Why should Mahendra risk alienating his main power base (by taxing wealthy Nepali elites) when the US and other countries were willing to pay the bills? On its part, the US supported Mahendra’s coup, reasoning that “any anti-communist government is a good government” (Mihaly 2002: 139).

Convenient Use

The point is that Nepal rose to unprecedented levels of international attention in the context of its (re)birth as a geopolitical buffer state or borderland between great powers. To underline this point, it is noteworthy that there were more headlined articles on Nepal in Time and Newsweek between 1950 and 1960 than in all other decades combined.4

It is also intriguing to note that once the 14th Dalai Lama fled across the Himalayas to India in 1959 (following the Chinese invasion of Tibet), and once Mahendra had made Nepal a (relatively) secure American client state in 1960, several things suddenly ceased. One was the Western press’s coverage of Nepal, as Nepal was quickly recast from the role of relevant political actor to that of exotic curiosity. The other sudden change was the almost overnight abandonment of the big, internationally funded yeti hunts that had culminated in 11 high-profile expeditions in the 1959–60 season alone. One of these was a US expedition sponsored by Chicago’s Field Museum and led by none other than Edmund Hilary. Given that both the Russians and Chinese consistently charged that Himalayan yeti hunting and mountaineering were fronts for anti-communist spy activities (a charge well-documented in the Western press at the time and seemingly supported by a lot of interesting circumstantial evidence [Coleman 2002]), it is fascinating to note exactly when the West suddenly lost interest both in Nepal and in yetis. At the moment when Nepal seemed to stop being a geopolitical “player” and when the Dalai Lama’s escape (long rumoured to have occurred with US Central Intelligence Agency assistance) seemed to defuse some of the West’s anxieties over the fate of Tibet, suddenly yeti expeditions abruptly stopped, and Nepal dropped out of the world news. My point is that the power of the borderland myth rises and falls as powers external to Nepal need such a borderland for their own imaginative and political purposes.

Since the 1960s, Nepal’s emergence as an international tourist destination has had much to do with the region’s ongoing role as imagined mystical borderland. Even as the Himalayas increasingly lost their relevance as a Cold War buffer zone, another wave of countercultural angst swept the West reviving earlier images of Tibet and Nepal as liminal zones imbued with spiritual qualities lost in the West. The 1960s and 1970s saw Nepal (and India) inundated with Western youth intent on a countercultural escape, many of them toting books by Herman Hesse, Carl Jung, Lama Govinda, and others from the previous great wave of Western projection onto the Himalayas. Today many have embraced the Nepali state’s rebranding of its tourist “product” as an “adventure destination,” but even now most tourists view religion as one of Nepal’s cultural attractions (Shrestha 2000), and a sizeable portion are explicitly “dharma tourists” (Moran 2004). Here, the old Indological constructions of Nepal as a zone of Hindu–Buddhist interface are reborn, making Nepal unique, as a one-stop shopping destination for “Eastern Religion,” including the flavour of the day, Tibetan Buddhism. In fact, one can arguably trace Tibetan Buddhism’s desperate exile’s embrace of Westerners to the Kathmandu tourist encounter of the 1960s (Liechty 2017).

Not unlike the theosophists who imagined the Himalayas to be harbouring the hope of the West’s spiritual renewal, today’s dharma tourists are First World-ers drawn to Nepal for its therapeutic promise of self-improvement or even salvation. At least since Carl Jung’s “psychologisation” of Tibetan Buddhism in the 1930s, Western appropriations of Eastern religion have fed into the deeply felt Western countercultural belief that the mystical East holds the promise of a treatment for ills that had befallen Western civilisation. If Eastern religion is really “psychology,” then Eastern religious practices—most notably “meditation”—can be reimagined as “techniques for the attainment of mental health or, in other words, psychotherapy” (Pedersen 2001: 160). Jung was the first and most important in a long line of quasi-scientific figures to turn the East into a therapy, with results ranging from the modern figure of the Guru/Rinpoche-as-psychoanalyst, to meditation and yoga5 as a “self-help,” “self-discovery,” and even “fitness” phenomena. Cut loose from their epistemological moorings, “Eastern” ideas and practices are harnessed to symptoms of an ever-shifting Western spiritual malaise, once again transforming the East into a screen for Western projections. How else is one to account for the strange irony of today’s Western dharma tourists in Nepal, people seeking Western-style “self-improvement” in Buddhist teachings and practices that fundamentally deny the existence of the self (Moran 2004)?

Contemporary Irish poet Cathal O’Searcaigh (2006) begins his poem “Kathmandu” with this line: “Kathmandu is there to change you” (the “you” presumably referring to his Western readers). For O’Searcaigh Kathmandu is not a place for Nepalis to live. Rather, it exists in order to transform tourists. Like O’Searcaigh, countless Westerners have been drawn to the Himalayan periphery not so much to find the people who resided there, as to find the lost selves they wished to be. According to their “structure of ideas,” Kathmandu exists to provide Westerners the missing link between alienation and their own self-discovery. It is this logic that allows Cumberbatch and others to imagine Kathmandu as “incredibly spiritual and marvellous,” “a city with almost no Western influence in it,” a place “so deeply mystical and religious in all operations.” Western countercultural fantasies of the Himalayas seem to be alive and well.

Conclusions

It seems that foreigners have been losing the strangest things in the Himalayas, or at least looking for them, for a long time. In this article, I have not even touched on “the lost years of Jesus” or “the lost years of Sherlock Holmes” (both of which, it now seems almost inevitably, occurred in the Himalayas!), or Shambala, or the Pure Land, or the lost heroes of Everest—the list goes on. But, my point is to suggest that the Himalaya, for whatever it might be geo-physically, is a region heavily loaded with the imaginative projections of external powers that are largely responsible for its production and maintenance as a peripheral border zone. All powers need peripheries, and the borderlands between them are inevitably regions of anxiety and danger on the one hand, and enchantment and longing on the other. If, as Yi-fu Tuan argues, “Peripheral location is a geographical emblem of anti-structure” (in Bishop 1989: 7), then those most heavily invested in anti-structural, countercultural causes will be attracted to the most peripheral geographic locations. Not surprisingly, then, people on the countercultural fringes of power conflate their own experiences of marginality with the geographically and geopolitically marginal Himalayan region. As a result, a region like the Himalayas is transformed into a “vessel for contents defined by alien scopes and concerns” (Dodin and Rather 2001: 406). Or, as Tibetan scholar Jamyang Norbu put it, “the country and people come across merely as the mise-en-scène for the personal drama of white people … The underlying premise is that Tibet is only relevant if it serves the needs of the West” (2001: 374–75).

Notes

1 I explore this question in much more detail in my previous work (Liechty 2017).

2 The structuring of ideas is a foundational insight most famously explored in classic works in symbolic anthropology by seminal figures such as Mary Douglas (1966) and Victor Turner (1967).

3 Michael Taussig’s Shamanism, Colonialism, and the Wild Man (1987) is a fascinating study of how, in the Andes, people from different regions are imagined to be magically potent, and dangerous, due to their geographical location on the periphery of the highland civilisation.

4 This claim is based on entries in published volumes of the Readers Guide to Periodical Literature.

5 Also, Chi-gong, “Ayurvedic massage,” Chinese Medicine, Tai Chi, Feng-Shui, and so on.

References

Bishop, Peter (1989): The Myth of Shangri-La: Tibet, Travel Writing and the Western Creation of Sacred Landscape, Berkeley: University of California Press.

Brauen, Martin (2004): Dreamworld Tibet: Western Illusions, Trumbull, CT: Weatherhill.

Coleman, Loren (2002): Tom Slick: True Life Encounters in Cryptozoology, Fresno, CA: Linden Press.

Coon, Carleton (1962): The Story of Man, New York: Alfred A Knopf.

Dodin, Thierry and Heinz Rather (2001): “Imagining Tibet: Between Shangri-La and Feudal Oppression, Attempting a Synthesis,” Imagining Tibet: Perceptions, Projections, and Fantasies, Thierry Dodin and Heinz Rather (eds), Boston: Wisdom Publications, pp 391–416.

Douglas, Mary (1966): Purity and Danger, London: Ark Paperbacks.

Hilton, James (1998): Lost Horizon, 1933, Delhi: Book Faith India.

Hutt, Michael (1996): “Looking for Shangri-la: From Hilton to Lamichhane,” The Tourist Image: Myths and Myth Making in Tourism, Tom Selwyn (ed), New York: John Wiley and Sons, pp 49–60.

Levy, Emanuel (2016): “Doctor Strange: Making of Marvel Movie,” EmanuelLevy Cinema24/7, 19 October, http://emanuellevy.com/uncategorized/137984/.

Liechty, Mark (2017): Far Out: Countercultural Seekers and the Tourist Encounter in Nepal, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Lutgendorf, Philip (2005): “Sex in the Snows: The Himalayas as Erotic Topos in Popular Hindi Cinema,” Himalaya, Vol 25, Nos 1–2, pp 29–37.

Mihaly, Eugene Bramer (2002): Foreign Aid and Politics in Nepal, 1965, Kathmandu: Himal Books.

Moran, Peter (2004): Buddhism Observed: Travelers, Exiles, and Tibetan Dharma in Kathmandu, London: Routledge Curzon.

Norbu, Jamyang (2001): “Behind the Lost Horizon: Demystifying Tibet,” Imagining Tibet: Perceptions, Projections, and Fantasies, Thierry Dodin and Heinz Rather (eds), Boston: Wisdom Publications, pp 373–78.

O’Searcaigh, Cathal (2006): Kathmandu: Poems Selected and New, Delhi: Nirula.

Pedersen, Poul (2001): “Tibet, Theosophy, and the Psychologization of Buddhism,” Imagining Tibet: Perceptions, Projections, and Fantasies, Thierry Dodin and Heinz Rather (eds), Boston: Wisdom Publications, pp 151–66.

Schell, Orville (2000): Virtual Tibet: Searching for Shangri-La from the Himalayas to Hollywood, New York: Henry Holt and Co.

Shrestha, Hari Prasad (2000): Tourism in Nepal: Marketing Challenges, Delhi: Nirala.

Taussig, Michael (1987) Shamanism, Colonialism, and the Wild Man: A Study of Terror and Healing, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Time (1961): “King and Koirala,” Vol 77, pp 27–28, 3 February.

Turner, Victor (1967): The Forest of Symbols, Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

Wood, Hugh B (1987): Nepal Diary, Tillamook, OR: American Nepal Education Foundation.

Updated On : 14th May, 2018

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