Sky Burial in Tibet

After the palace, we drove out to the countryside and saw something I could never, not in my wildest drug-addled dreams, have ever imagined.

A “sky burial.”

Suffice to say, we weren’t scheduled to see it; it wasn’t on our itinerary; we were to visit a temple nearby, but, on the drive over, from the van, we saw a small procession dragging a corpse up a rocky hill, and we asked the guide about it. Once he responded that it was a sky burial, we hounded him to pull over, to let us see, and he begrudgingly obliged, parked on the side of the road and we rushed out to view the unfolding spectacle.

The corpse was a plump, brown-skinned old man. His naked, lifeless body was being dragged by three men, two of them youngish, one of them middle-aged. At the top of the earthy hill, the men, accompanied by 5 chanting monks, lay the corpse down. From off their shoulders, the men threw down and opened backpacks, then fished out what looked like small axes, chopping tools.

Flanked by the chanting, bald-headed monks, the men, in floppy orange clothing, were smiling and nonchalantly chatting, and then the men suddenly raised their axes high in the air and began hacking apart the corpse, chopping the body into pieces.

My stomach shifted, watching it. The others retched. The Welshman didn’t, though. He’d served in the army so he’d seen way more gruesome scenes. Still, he was speechless, awed by it, watching the men laugh, not callously, but so normally, so casually, as they broke the body apart.

Our tour guide was unmoved. But when he noticed how affected we were, he explained to us that in Tibetan Buddhism, it’s believed the soul passes out of the body, after death, so that body is not a person anymore, it’s just an empty vessel, a shell. The remains of the shell, he said, would be fed back to the Earth, be food for vultures.

Hearing him discuss the sky burial was the first time I’d heard any emotion, passion in his voice. Not a lot of emotion, mind you, but certainly a trace...

He said the monks’ chanting was part of a ritual to summon vultures to eat the corpse, that the monks would sprinkle sugar over the corpse to sweeten it for the birds.

The men chopping up, separating the body were a “Todken” a sky burial master, and his assistants, who specialized in these burials. Most Tibetans, the tour guide told us, believe that if they didn’t have a sky burial, they’d become a ghost, wandering the Earth, unable to pass on to the next life.

I asked the tour guide if he’d have a sky burial, and he nodded, reluctantly, not making eye contact. His head cocked back, his eyes were solemnly locked on the scene at the top of the hill, where the men were pulling the corpse’s limp limbs off as if picking apart a crab.

Then I asked the guide if he believed that he’d be a ghost if he didn’t receive a sky burial, and he didn’t reply to my question. An awkward silence hung heavy in the frigid mountain air.

He went on to say that the ground in Tibet is too hard, cold, and rocky to bury bodies, so sky burials were of a practical nature, but also it fit Buddhist beliefs that humans are a part of something greater, a part of the universe, and the body, being empty of a soul, could be made beneficial, could be made a form of merit, being fed to the wild like this.

“Excarnation,” exclaimed the Welshman, smoothing back his scraggly blond hair that’d been flapping in the increasingly bitter, cold and dry wind.

The icy Himalayan air kicking up, to a man, we were a shivering mass, our jaws twitching, teeth chattering.

“It’s not always a ceremony like this one. Often the family will bring the body out, leave it by the temple, leave it for the vultures...” mentioned the tour guide, shifting his gaze and walking with heavy feet towards the van, and we followed him, like a V of swan, back over to the vehicle.