The Kingdom of Mustang, Nepal

The once forbidden kingdom of Mustang in Nepal, with some of the last vestiges of traditional Tibetan Buddhist culture on Earth, is slowly revealing its dramatic beauty to intrepid explorers, writes Saransh Sehgal.

Location

So secluded is the ancient Himalayan kingdom of Mustang (or the Kingdom of Lo as it is also known) that those taking it on will need to calculate the journey in days rather than distance, and commit to a medieval-style caravan in order to get there.

Lying beyond the 8000-metre peaks of the Annapurna and Dhaulagiri in the Himalayas, just inside Nepal’s border with Tibet, the region stretches far into the vast Tibetan plateau and its mystical wilderness, presenting an untrammelled paradise for travellers looking for that elusive ‘last great frontier’.

Although the landlocked sovereign state of Nepal has long offered a treasure-trove of epic trekking expeditions, the vastness of the Himalayan range has also aided in preserving hidden societies that maintain a level of ethnic diversity, adding more layers to the journey.

The region and culture

In Upper Mustang the Tibetan culture, religion and traditions are believed to be at their purest, harking back to a Tibet before the Chinese occupation in 1951.

Nepal mustang history — At Tangbe, A Nepali teacher from Lower Mustang teaches kids basic education in one of the only school in the village. A picture from their classroom

The Mustang region is made up of Upper Mustang and Lower Mustang, which occupies the far southern fringes of the Tibetan plateau and is more attached to Nepali tribes.

Upper Mustang is populated by the Loba tribe, the ethnic Tibetans who still believe that the world is flat.

The Loba are considered highly religious and prayers and festivals are an integral part of their daily lives.

History

By the time the first Western explorers became interested in Upper Mustang, they could only gain a peek into the kingdom due to restrictions in the region (imposed by both the Chinese and the Mustang people themselves, the latter in an effort to protect their ancient way of life).

The first official tourist groups didn’t gain access to Upper Mustang until 1992, and there are continued restrictions today: the Nepalese government in Kathmandu offers a special 10-day permit and it is mandatory for explorers to travel in groups (two people or more) with a guide.

This allows for a tantalising glimpse of Upper Mustang’s barren moonscape of eroded sandstone pillars and discontinuous moraine terraces, which together present a vibrant mosaic of earthen reds, yellows and brown, as well as its fascinating people.

Getting there

The journey into the lost kingdom begins with a 20-minute flight from Nepal’s second largest city Pokhara to Jomsom, where the restricted area of Upper Mustang starts.

The flight is an adventure in itself, flying through what’s considered to be the deepest gorge in the world between the Annapurna and Dhaulagiri mountain ranges.

Getting started

Once on the ground, my German friend and I are joined by our local guide and a porter, who navigate us straight from the airport past the dramatic cliffs of the high mountains.

We follow the famous Kali Gandaki River upstream, sometimes walking in the riverbed itself, to Kagbeni and the entrance to Upper Mustang.

The terrain is striking, a semi-arid desert with deep ravines and rock shelves, flanked by snowy peaks.

We hike along the mountains, through valleys and riverbed paths, passing villages of few inhabitants that offer a unique blend of culture, history and nature.

Each day we venture deeper into this mysterious land, marching across the high-altitude desert with its idyllic setting, ancient dwellings and rare wildlife.

I find tangled webs of Buddhist prayer flags, bleached by the sun and worn by the mountain winds, and stone-carved sacred text at every mountain pass, and encounter the smiling Loba people as they chant their prayers.

The richness of the kingdom dates back to the 15th century when the region was an important transit point on the salt trade route, between the dry saline lakes of Tibet and the large markets in the Indian subcontinent.

Mustang was once an independent kingdom in its own right, under the rule of Ame Pal, who founded the Kingdom of Lo in 1380.

Its kingdom status ended, however, in 2008 following the end of its suzerain with the Kingdom of Nepal.

(The Kingdom of Lo became a dependency of Nepal in the 18th century but was allowed to keep its hereditary rulers as long as Nepal also remained a kingdom; Nepal transitioned from a kingdom to a republic in 2008.)

It was from the walled city of Lo Manthang that the royal family, which could trace its history back 25 generations directly to Ame Pal, sat surveying a world that – even to this day – has much more ethnic proximity to Tibet’s capital Lhasa than to the bazaars and shrines of Nepal’s Kathmandu.

In fact, Mustang makes few concessions to modern civilisation, with life proceeding at the same unhurried pace that it has for centuries.

The day-to-day here revolves around local trade, controlled tourism and animal husbandry. A partial road connecting Lo Manthang with Tibet has been constructed, but yaks or ponies are still the only way to transport goods between villages.

The ancient traditions and practices of Tibetan Buddhism also play an essential part in the daily existence of Upper Mustang’s people.

Findings and learnings along the way

Every village I encounter has its own monasteries cloaked in the smoke and aroma of butter lamps.

Some of the most mesmerising sights in the region are the hundreds of isolated cliff dwellings that are believed to date back to between 8 and 10,000 BC.

Recently, a team of mountaineers and archaeologists discovered more of these cliff-side caves, many of which were used by Buddhists as meditation chambers (others seem to have been used as storage units).

Some of them remain in use to this day; there are even a few families living in them permanently.

Crossing Lo-La, the final pass into Lo Manthang, I catch a glimpse of the remarkable 14th-century citadel, with its seven-metre-high boundary walls and square towers (dzongs).

The whitewashed palace at the heart of the walled city remained the hereditary royal residence of the last Mustang king, Jigme Dorje Palbar Bista, until he passed away on 16 December, 2016, at the age of 86.

Lo Manthang

Inside the citadel a settlement of no more than 200 households makes up the population of Lo Manthang.

The compact city offers up a unique walking experience, during which we explore mani walls, chortens, and monasteries that have housed veiled Buddhist texts and artwork for centuries.

Down narrow lanes I see local women sitting outside their houses spinning yak wool in preparation for the next winter.

The compelling mix of nature and culture that makes Lo Manthang such a wholly unique experience for outsiders is what has kept modern transformation from touching the lives of its people: there is no mains power or use of any technology, and the only traffic jams occur when local shepherds herd sheep through the streets.

What I know now

A highlight of a visit to Lo Manthang is the Tiji Festival, a three-day ritual known as the ‘chasing of the demons’, held here during the summer.

Centred on the Tiji myth, which tells the story of a deity named Dorje Jono who battles against his demon father to save the Kingdom of Mustang from destruction, Loba villagers converge on the capital to participate in masked dances, offering prayers and celebrating a new season.

It is also possible to request a brief audience with the titular royal family, with guests welcomed with the Khata, the traditional Tibetan ceremonial scarves, and wishes and prayers for a safe return.

For an outsider, this unforgiving land is a sea of myths and mountains that shed light on a once great civilisation.

While the hidden Himalayan outpost is slowly feeling the influence of the outside world, from China to the north and Nepal in the south, the Loba people remain wary of any change that may cause its centuries-old culture to vanish.

“We are trying to preserve our ethnicity and ancient culture," a member of the royal family told me during my audience. “Even though we are slowly opening to the world." IT

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The Details:

Getting There

Most trekkers fly from Pokhara to Jomsom, and enter Upper Mustang at the village of Kagbeni, a three-hour walk from the airport. The view from the plane, which passes between some of the world’s highest mountains, is mind-blowing.

Walking There

The trekking season takes place from April to July. The maximum altitude reached while trekking in Upper Mustang is 4230 metres, while the level of difficulty is moderate.
Foreigners will need to arrange a special permit through trekking agencies; most Kathmandu- and Pokhara-based trekking agencies offer English- and Tibetan-speaking guides and local Sherpas.

Staying There

Every major village on the trekking trails in Upper Mustang offers homestays; experienced guides know the best ones.

Can’t get enough of Nepal? Check out 20 things you didn’t know about Nepal

After youth-led protests in 2025, this year Nepal elected a 35-year-old former rapper as Prime Minister. In a country where tourism is its biggest industry, what’s next for travellers?

In 1986, Nepal changed its clock. It had used India Standard Time since 1920 so, to differentiate, it wound its clock 15 minutes ahead of, not behind, its big-brother neighbour. Boss move. “Nepal is strongly opposed to the idea that our identity is connected to India,” says Community Homestay Network (CHN) guide Bikal Khanal.

Tharu dance is traditionally set to hand drums. (Credit: Kate Lewis)

Today, Nepal is the only independent country with a 45-minute deviation to universal time; an oddity that’s become a symbol of national pride. The quirk is nearly as endearing as Kathmandu’s Tribhuvan airport where carved varnished wood and shiny red bricks rule. One sign points to a ‘Travelator’ and another to a ‘Grievance Handling Desk’ while visas are noisily stamped at customs for US dollars, cash only. When am I?

Spot the endemic Nepal gray langur. (Credit: Simon Urwin)

The 15 or 45 minute anomaly sees me tap out completely on timezone calculations. Why bend my brain calculating if it’s quarter to or quarter past elsewhere when I’m in the honking here and now of Kathmandu where the air is high-altitude crisp, the prayer flags flutter and the street dogs howl?

How tourism is changing in Nepal

Bardiya National Park is rich with wildlife. (Credit: Simon Urwin)

India is not the only association many Nepalis would like to shake. With eight of the world’s 10 tallest mountains, including Mount Everest and Annapurna, Nepal has long attracted mountaineers and trekkers, and expedition numbers are continuing to rise.

Tourism is one of the country’s biggest sources of foreign currency, so this growth is not negative, per se. But according to Ang Tshering Lama, who co-founded Phaplu Mountain Bike Club, being reduced to a mere trekking destination is limiting.

“Trekking is just one layer of our identity,” says Ang. “When it becomes the dominant narrative, it limits how we’re seen and how we see ourselves.” Nepal’s recent success, however, in diverting trekkers to less-trafficked areas such as Manaslu mofuntain, where visitor numbers rose by 117 per cent last year, offers hope that tourism can diversify even more radically.

Local men in Bhada village. (Credit: Simon Urwin)

The founder of CHN, Shiva Dhakal, wants that change. “The whole idea of the Community Homestay Network is to promote experiences outside of trekking,” he says. “Community tourism changes lives and helps kids stay home instead of coming to the city or migrating to the Middle East.”

Ang grew up seeing people leave, “not because they wanted to but because there weren’t enough opportunities to stay”, he states. Yet from remote villages to living traditions; food, art, music and emerging subcultures, “there’s so much that’s not being seen.”

CHN is opening some of those doors. It doesn’t own, or fund, any homes. Rather, it promotes homestays to travellers on a single, slick platform, while fostering entrepreneurship in places where women, marginalised castes, Indigenous people and the youth stand to benefit the most.

A new generation demanding more

Dalla Town Hall, where volunteers discuss anti-poaching tactics. (Credit: Bheem Thapa)

The future prospects of next-gen Nepalis can no longer be ignored. On a Kathmandu tour with 33-year-old guide Monica K.C, we pass buildings torched in the September 2025 ‘Gen Z protests’, including the Supreme Court and Parliament House. Seventy-two people died. “They were anti-corruption protests,” says Monica. “Politicians’ children are living a lavish life but the airports are crowded with youngsters leaving to find work.”

We stop in ‘little Tibet’ at the wondrous sixth-century Boudha Stupa. “The wheel of life is Buddhism in a nutshell,” says Monica. “Things such as hate, ignorance and anger keep you rotating around the wheel, so you must follow the principles of Buddhism to detach. If you can’t, there’s no nirvana for you.”

Boudha Stupa's prayer wheels — Boudha Stupa’s prayer wheels are used to recite Buddhist prayers. (Credit: Kate Lewis)

In a sun-drenched twist to the usual temple visit, we ascend the stupa’s sloping plinth and roam its whitewashed dome. Tendrils of diaphanous prayer flags stream from a steeple-like structure where the Buddha’s unblinking eyes stare out. No nirvana for you…

bouda stupa prayer flags — Tibetan-style prayer flags embellish the whitewashed dome of Bouda Stupa, a Buddhist temple. (Credit: Kate Hennessy)

The dome is delightfully free of guard rails or chiding from security. There is, however, a stern ‘No TikTok’ sign, perhaps in response to the youth’s newly flexed power. The booted-out Prime Minister, K.P. Sharma Oli, was replaced in a resounding election victory in March by 35-year-old Balendra Shah of the Rastriya Swatantra Party (RSP) – a former rapper and mayor of Kathmandu. The RSP’s manifesto indicates tourism is a priority, and that Nepal’s cultural identity in areas such as gastronomy will be strengthened.

Boudha Stupa vendors — Vibrant souvenir shops and cafes around Boudha Stupa. (Credit: Kate Hennessy)

A more confronting stop awaits at Pashupatinath Temple. Today is Bala Chaturdashi, a Hindu festival where thousands of devotees gather to honour their dead ancestors. Vendors hauling foam mattresses do a lucrative trade as people set up for a night of vigil. This includes burning the bodies of recently deceased relatives on bamboo pyres in the Bagmati River, which flows into the sacred Ganges.

A woman at annual Hindu festival Bala Chaturdashi, in Kathmandu. (Credit: Kate Hennessy)

Wrapped in a shroud, the bodies are positioned with their heads facing north to the Himalayas where Lord Shiva resides. They’re covered with flowers and straw and set alight by male family members.

Hours later, the ashes are swept into the river where devotees will take a holy dip the next day. As much as Monica assures us it’s not voyeuristic to watch, I struggle to do so. “Here you see the reality of life because everyone ends up there,” she says, gesturing to the river.

Life unfiltered in the Terai region

tharu woman — Tharu woman and master weaver Parbati Chaudhary in Bhada Village. (Credit: Bheem Thapa)

The reality of life needs processing time, which the western Terai region delivers in spades. The Terai is largely separated from India by the Karnali River and Bardiya National Park, where elephants, rhinos and the elusive Bengal tiger roam.

Once a nomadic tribe, the Indigenous Tharu people are now the largest ethnic group here. “They didn’t know their daily life was interesting for international travellers but they’re starting to understand now,” says CHN founder Shiva.

Take a Jeep safari through Bardiya National Park. (Credit: Bheem Thapa)

We fly Buddha Air to Dhangadhi airport and drive five hours to stay in Tharu homes. The journey to Bhada village is a blur of roadside fruit stalls, traffic-stopping sacred cows and fields sown with wheat, rice, mustard, spinach, cauliflower and potatoes. Nepal’s agriculture feeds only Nepal.

Marigolds are an important part of Hindu rituals. (Credit: Simon Urwin)

“The only thing we export is young people,” says our guide Bikal. As the light dims and we plunge evermore rural, mysterious mounds of compacted hay – some house-sized – loom like the creatures from Where The Wild Things Are. Even our trusty driver gets flummoxed by a dirt road that abruptly ends and we find ourselves hurtling across a paddock.

On arrival, some are ferried to mud-walled cottages greened by gourd creepers, with thatched roofs and rustic-chic mosquito nets. Myself and two others are ushered to the home of corner store owner, mechanic and mushroom farmer Man Kumar Chilaruwa and his wife Rajkumari.

community homestay entrance — A warm welcome at a community homestay. (Credit: Simon Urwin)

They escort us to a bunker-esque back building with steel doors and a folding security gate, behind which is gleaming linoleum, dolphin-printed tiles and a shower cavity that must be gingerly stepped through to reach the toilet.

The ceiling lights emit a rainbow of colours (the bathroom light gets stuck in, frankly, a quite frightening red). We’re nevertheless touched that our hosts invested in all this bling when the average salary is around $275 a month.

In the coming days, we participate in Tharu traditions such as making moonshine, dancing, weaving straw handicrafts and gold-panning. We’re fed well with staples of rice, mustard greens, lentil pancakes, daal, curried chicken and tomato chutney served on antibacterial saal leaves.

food at community homestay — Dig in. (Credit: Kate Hennessy)

Sonara community homestay president Indradevi Tharu tells us river snails are often served, and the boiled and pickled flesh of rats hunted in the rice fields. “Perhaps next time?” we say and all have a laugh.

The power of community homestays

community homestay owners in Nepal — Barda community homestay owners Parbati Chaudhary and Ram Krishni Devi Chaudhary. (Credit: Simon Urwin)

Immersing Western visitors in foreign cultural practices is not new. But with the Tharu, I never get that uneasy sensation that I’m being performed for. Despite being the only tourists, there’s no ‘othering’; just warm, composed and ultra-dignified welcomes. Like we’ve always been here.

“I love to have travellers in my village so I can see the world,” says local woman Parbati Chaudhary. “Why would I travel the world when the world comes to me?”

The graceful acceptance the Tharu offer, as well as the slow pace, works miracles on my frazzled nervous system. One day I even take a nap on a vacant homestay bed.

Sonara community room — An authentic stay in the Sonara community. (Credit: Kate Hennessy)

Roosters strut and goats bray as we sit on the ground in al fresco kitchens, rolling rice flour into cylinders steamed to make dhikri (dumplings). When water is needed, we fetch it using a hand-operated pump as a family of ducks strolls by, side-eying us like curious neighbours.

Animal lovers will delight in Tharu villages. Kind and resourceful inventions are everywhere, such as snacking stations where two posts lean together, with leafy boughs dangling on rope for baby goats to forage from.

CHN’s CEO, Aayusha Prasain, nods knowingly when one in our group says she cried when she left her host, Shayam Chaudhary, in Bhada. Shayam’s 17-year-old son, Prashant, had translated, which deepened the connection.

“Community tourism turns travel into a relationship, not a transaction,” says Aayusha. “It places decision-making power in the hands of local communities, especially women and youth.” Since 2018, CHN has hosted more than 4000 travellers from 52 countries in 408 households, and estimates women’s participation has increased by 381 per cent.

In the Bardiya community, where vexing human-animal conflict has been a balancing act for decades due to elephants raiding crops, long-time homestay operator Salik Ram Chaudhary says young people keep the older ones on their toes.

“We can’t keep homestays stagnant,” he says. “We have to upgrade our service and redefine our product or young people won’t see it as an attractive business. If we can keep evolving with this travelling trend we’re confident the youths will stay and continue it.”

Back in Kathmandu, Monica explains that after the deaths of young protestors in September, a determination had spread to not let their sacrifice be in vain. “We want to keep holding the government accountable,” she says. “We don’t know what situation we’re facing, but we’re ready to face it.”

Interested in Nepal but prefer to experience it in total comfort? Read our guide to luxury travel in Nepal.

The Kingdom of Mustang, Nepal: The Last Lost Kingdom