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Title: Tibet & Nepal
Painted and Described
Author: Arnold Henry Savage Landor
Release date: January 29, 2024 [eBook #72818]
Language: English
Original publication: London: A. & C. Black, 1905
Credits: Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net/ for Project Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIBET & NEPAL ***
TIBET & NEPAL
PAINTED & DESCRIBED
BY
A. HENRY SAVAGE LANDOR
PUBLISHED BY A. & C. BLACK
SOHO SQUARE·LONDON·W
Published January 1905
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. Yellow Lamas with Prayer-Wheels Frontispiece
FACING PAGE
2. The Sacred Swings of Debi Dhura 16
3. An Awkward Moment 22
4. A Daramsalla 30
5. A Moment of Suspense 34
6. Red Lamas 44
7. Tibetan Man spinning Wool 46
8. A Nepalese Shoka 48
9. A Nepalese Lady 52
10. A Nepalese Woman 58
11. A Typical Native of N.W. Nepal 60
12. The Elfrida Landor Glacier, Nepal 64
13. Funnels in the Moraine Ice 68
14. The Armida Landor Glacier, Nepal 70
15. Author’s Camp, Nepal 74
16. One of the Lumpa Peaks and part of the Charles Landor
Glacier 78
17. Deep Crevasses in the Glacier Ice 80
18. Rocks of all Sizes rolled with great Force down the
Mountain Side 82
19. The Birth of an Avalanche 84
20. A Perilous Crossing 86
21. A. Henry Savage Landor and the Four Men who accompanied
him on his Ascent to 23,490 feet above Sea-Level 90
22. The Highest Mountain Altitude ever reached by a Human
Being 92
23. Within an Ace of being precipitated some 6500 feet on
to the Glacier below 96
24. The Lumpa Basin and Charles Landor Glacier 98
25. A Balancing Feat 100
26. Moraine of Glacier and Mountains, showing how Clouds
form on the Snow-Line 102
27. Erecting Chokdens (Cairns) on the Savage Pass 106
28. Night-marching in a Storm 108
29. A Sea of Mist 110
30. Elongated Shadows on a Sea of Mist 112
31. Concentric Circles of Radiant Beauty formed by the
Sun shining through Mist 114
32. Clouds forming on the Snow-Line 116
33. Author’s Tents. A Camp in Nepal 118
34. The Tinker Pass, Nepal-Tibet 122
35. Flying Prayers and a Mani Wall 124
36. A Tibetan Baby Girl 126
37. A Tibetan Girl 128
38. Tibetan Woman of the Commoner Class 130
39. Tibetan Lady 132
40. An Old Lady and her Prayer-Wheel 134
41. Tibetan Dogs 136
42. A Tibetan Camp of Black Tents 138
43. Interior of a Tibetan Tent, showing Churn for mixing
Tea with Butter 140
44. A Little Boy learning to Pray 142
45. Interior of Tibetan Temple 144
46. Tibetan Women weaving 146
47. Tibetan Women cleaning Wool 148
48. A Lama Standard-Bearer 150
49. A Race for the Kata 154
50. Tibetan Soldier at Target Practice 156
51. Tibetan Woman using a Sling for throwing Stones 158
52. Tibetan Games. Stone-Throwing 160
53. Tobogganing made easy 162
54. Tibetan Dance with Sword and Kata (Veil of Friendship) 164
55. A Typical Tibetan 166
56. Woman and Child praying before a Shrine inside a Tent 170
57. Tibetan Boy in his Gold-embroidered Hat 172
58. A Brigand 174
59. A Tibetan Spy in the Disguise of a Beggar approaching
the Author’s Camp 176
60. “Chakzal, Chakzal.” The Tibetan Salutation 178
61. A Picturesque Old Fellow 180
62. An Ambidexter Lama Sculptor carving an Inscription
on the Face of a Rock 182
63. A Weird Old Man of N.W. Nepal 186
64. Over a Pass in a Coming Storm 188
65. Calling Two Followers lost in the Storm 190
66. Tibetan Goat 192
67. A Troublesome Descent on Vertical Rocks 194
68. A Phantom Lion of Gigantic Proportions 198
69. The Nui Glacier 202
70. Ascent to the Nui Pass 204
71. Observations for Altitude taken under Difficulties
on the Nui Pass, Darma 208
72. A Shrine of Curious Buddha Images 212
73. The Sacrifice of a Yak 222
74. Goats carrying Loads of Borax 224
75. Yaks and Ponies conveying Wool across the Frontier 226
CHAPTER I
“Once you have visited the snows of the Himahlyas,” said a venerable
old man of Kumaon to me, “you will have to return to them time after
time until you die. When away from them, all through your life you will
ever see them before you in your dreams.”
Well, that was quite so; and that is what everybody feels who has spent
some time on the higher elevations of that majestic range of mountains.
To any one who appreciates Nature in all its grandeur, the fascination
is so great that everything else in the way of scenery sinks into
perfect insignificance by their side.
It is, to my mind, rather a pity that in England people have not yet
learnt to call that range by its proper and poetic name “Himahlyas,” by
which the range is known all over Asia, instead of the distorted
“Himalayas,” which has no meaning whatever except to natives of these
foggy little islands. The Americans, I am glad to say, when the
corrected pronunciation was pointed out, at once accepted it, and it is
now taught in all the schools.
Two years had elapsed since my first journey across Tibet, and I was
still suffering greatly from the effects of the tortures and wounds
which had been inflicted upon me during my captivity in the Forbidden
Land. Nor did banquets and receptions and interviewers,
autograph-collectors, etc., much help to rebuild my constitution. In
fact, while in London, instead of improving I was getting weaker and
more of an invalid every day.
In doctors I have no superabundant faith, but somehow or other felt
that a little change from the monotony of a civilised existence, in the
shape of chasing about their country some of my Tibetan friends who had
tortured me, might possibly be of some benefit to my health. And if you
take it into your head that something will do you good, it is not
unusual that some sort of a cure results from it.
So, again I bundled my blankets, my surveying instruments, several
cameras, and hundreds of plates, provisions, and painting materials,
and by the first P. and O. steamer sailed for Bombay. From that place I
went by rail to Kathgodam, thence by trail to the hill-station Almora
in the North-West Provinces, which I again made my starting-point, as
in the first journey.
Perhaps it may interest the reader to know that the entire
preparations, the selection of all my followers, the purchase of an
excellent Tibetan pony, and of all the outfit and provisions to last my
men several months, were accomplished in the short space of twelve
hours.
The selection of men for the type of expeditions I undertake, in which
abnormal endurance is required, is not an easy matter, but I was
particularly fortunate on that occasion. Big athletic fellows I
generally avoid as absolutely useless for work requiring steady
endurance and quick perception. I gave preference to small, determined,
wiry men, light in weight, supple and quick in their movements.
Having satisfied myself that they were perfectly sound in lungs, heart,
and digestive organs—they were, indeed, too sound in the latter
respect—we were ready to start the following day. Each man carried a
weight of 20 seers (or 40 lbs.), a light load, as I intended doing
double and treble marches daily.
It was my intention to do a considerable amount of mountaineering en
route, and I did it; but, contrary to the usual custom of British
mountaineering expeditions (which set out with much flourish of
trumpets) I did not burden myself with the company of Swiss Alpine
guides. Here is the reason. I am well aware that it impresses a good
many brainless folks to hear that an expedition to the Andes or the
Himahlyas is accompanied, even led, by Swiss guides; but to any real
mountaineer (I do not mean members of Alpine Clubs) the very fact that
the members of such an expedition require guides at all is but a plain
avowal that they have no faith in themselves, besides displaying a most
infantile ignorance of how to find their way about. No mountaineer, who
is a real mountaineer, ever needs to be told which is the best way to
go up a mountain which is before him. His very instinct and observation
tell him.
Let me remind you that the characteristics of mountains in different
parts of the world vary to a considerable extent. It therefore seems to
me that to employ a man (however fine a fellow he may be) who has spent
his life hauling hysterical Alpinists by a much-beaten trail up Mont
Blanc or the Matterhorn, to show the way up a virgin Himahlyan peak, is
as delightfully absurd as it would be to charter an untravelled London
cabman to show you with intelligence the sights of Moscow, or Bagdad,
or Jerusalem! Do not forget, too, that Mont Blanc or the Matterhorn are
perfectly insignificant hills when compared to peaks in the Himahlyas.
As you know, the chief hobby and boast of certain Alpinists is to climb
mountains by impracticable ways. This practice is to be condemned. In
plain words, any man who tries to go up a mountain by any but the
easiest way is an idiot, and should be confined to a lunatic asylum.
When difficulties arise, and many do, naturally they have to be
overcome as best one can. Then again, there are many feats in
mountaineering and rock-climbing which appear very dangerous and are
not dangerous at all to any one with steady head, heart, and legs; but
the absurd mania of obtaining notoriety by going up a peak by a
dangerous route when an easier way exists has no more sense in it than
were a horseman to try and ride his horse under its tail instead of
upon its back! It is not real sport, and sport, above all things,
should never be purposeless nor foolish.
Mountaineering, by any one in full possession of all his senses, is a
delightful amusement, and possibly the pleasantest, healthiest, and
most instructive exercise in existence. It develops every muscle in
one’s body, makes one quick of sight and hearing, expands, cleans, and
purifies one’s lungs, and it makes one—when dependent on oneself—a
quick observer and a subtle student of Nature, its forces, and the ways
of elements and how to counterbalance them. It should, therefore, be
encouraged in any one born for the work; but, on the other hand, should
be left severely alone by any one not specially constructed for the
work by Mother Nature. It can but mean disaster in the end, and it
generally does.
Unfortunate, too, is the man who in “exploring mountaineering” follows
the rules and regulations laid down by theoretical but inexperienced
amateurs of certain Alpine institutions. A practical mountaineer has
nothing to learn from such misleading publications, whether brought out
under the patronage of Clubs or by some enterprising charlatan or
other. The constant suggestions to provide oneself with all sorts of
expensive and cumbersome tools, axes, alpenstocks, and other
impedimenta are merely to swell the pockets of advertisers who support
those publications, rather than to safeguard the life of intending
mountaineers.
Personally, and I am speaking from a somewhat extensive experience, I
owe my success and the lack of serious accidents in any of my
mountaineering expeditions absolutely to the using none of the
appliances recommended by Alpine clubs. I mention this at the outset to
prevent the usual criticisms accusing me of having neglected
precautions. It was done wilfully on my part, because, as far as
mountaineering is concerned, I prefer to use what little common-sense I
possess in preference to accepting the large amount of nonsense offered
by other people.
I had spared no expense and trouble to obtain the best scientific
instruments possible for taking observations, and they were specially
manufactured for me, light in weight and extra strong, and with special
cases to protect them from injury in the roughest of travelling. My
instruments were tested at the Kew Observatory—both before going out of
and after my return to England—and found in perfect condition.
All altitudes of importance were invariably measured with the
hypsometrical apparatus, several boiling-point thermometers being
successively used in the observation. For differential heights of no
great significance aneroids were used. All bearings were taken with a
prismatic compass, and for latitude and longitude a 6-inch sextant was
used, a chronometer watch, mercury and plate-glass artificial horizons.
Necessarily, I carried maximum and minimum thermometers and all
necessary instruments and appliances for surveying work, photography,
painting, etc. Several rifles and double-barrelled guns, a revolver,
eight thousand rounds of ammunition, and ten pounds of gunpowder were
carried, in case we had to do some shooting; while each man was given a
large Gurkha kukri for his own protection.
For our needs I carried money in solid silver and gold. My tinned
provisions were prepared for me in London, and were very good. All my
most valuable possessions were packed in air-tight cases of my own
design, which, as on previous journeys, I found answered very well.
A Tibetan tent, 7 feet high, 10 feet long, and 8 feet wide, twelve
pounds only in weight; a small tente d’abri, and some shelters formed
my camp.
Last, but not least, let me give some advice regarding your clothing
when you go mountaineering. Do not masquerade for the occasion in fancy
tweeds of startling cut, clumsy mufflers and gloves, and patent
hobnailed boots. Wear the sort of clothes and footgear you are
accustomed to put on every day. You will feel a great deal more
comfortable, less ridiculous, and certainly a great deal safer.
Personally, I wear the same sort of clothing—serge suits of the
thinnest tropical material—in any country and in any climate, with no
underwear; thin socks, shoes of medium weight with no nails under the
soles. I am very fortunate in one way, never feeling the slightest
inconvenience through intense heat or cold. It is partly due, I think,
to one’s constitution and circulation of one’s blood, partly to habit,
and a good deal to being hardened through constant roughing.
Perhaps others, with not so rough a training, may not go quite so far;
but never forget that the more you feel at your ease in your attire,
the less you are hampered with articles of any kind which you are not
accustomed to use every day, the more successful you will be in your
mountaineering expeditions—especially on unknown mountains.
CHAPTER II
From Almora to the Tibetan frontier I followed, to a great extent, a
different route from the one I had taken on my first journey, as I
wanted to visit en route the interesting shrine of Debi Dhura. The
character of the country traversed varied little from that already
described in a previous work. I will only in this book describe things
and places and incidents of the journey that are quite new, leaving out
a detailed account of my itinerary.
Passing through forests of walnut trees, fine oak and deodars, kaiphal,
rhododendrons, utis, and yew, and travelling at elevations varying from
5510 feet at Almora to 6630 feet at Debi Dhura, I reached in two days’
journey the sacred temple situated on a great granitic plateau, the
ridge of which extends for several miles.
It was in the afternoon. During the entire journey rain had come down
in torrents; but as I arrived at Debi Dhura, the storm, which had been
particularly fierce that day, cleared as by magic; the heavy,
leaden-black clouds rolled away on every side, leaving behind most
exquisite tints, of gold and red and green, of a superb sunset. With
the wind rising, the white mist which covered the valleys below us rose
slowly like a curtain, and a magnificent panorama shone in radiant
beauty in the now crystalline atmosphere. Beyond the lower and nearer
ranges of pure cobalt blue and dark warm greens, towered to the north
snow-clad mountains of absolutely sublime beauty.
Shortly after my arrival an old priest came to greet me. He had in his
hands a brass vessel filled with red flowers which he offered me,
begging me to follow him to the shrine across the road.
“This is the world-famous shrine of Debi Dhura, the shrine to Mahadeva
Varahi Debi and Bhimden,” said he, with a series of grand salaams. “Ah,
sahib, your health and soul will greatly benefit by your visit here,”
muttered the cunning old rascal, who by now had been joined by other
priests.
We walked up past the sacred swings to the temple standing on the crown
of a hill among really beautiful deodar, walnut, oak, and Olea fragrans
trees. The temple itself was of no interest or beauty, but curious
indeed were the gigantic boulders leaning against each other, allowing
a narrow entrance into a cave containing a well and a shrine.
No foreigner is allowed inside the cave, for it is—they say—the home of
Debi, and must not be desecrated by humans of other faiths. My men
seemed greatly excited over their visit to the cave, and they were
profound in their salaams. They were muttering fervent prayers when
they came out. On being asked what they had seen inside, they would not
or could not say. As a matter of fact, I believe they had seen nothing,
for the cave was very dark.
On we went, down some slippery steps, until we came—some hundred yards
below—to a curious rock rising to a great height above the ground.
“Ransila, the giant,” called out the priest, pointing at the rock and
calling it by its name.
We climbed upon it to examine the extraordinary crack which split the
rock in two. The fissure was so clean and sharp that it seemed produced
by a violent blow rather than by the action of water. A similar crack
was noticeable in a lower rock, and neither of these fissures seemed
very ancient. Lightning may have caused them, or more possibly an
earthquake.
The explanation given by the priests was quaint, and it was interesting
to watch the expressions on my men’s faces, who received with great
suspicion my matter-of-fact explanation of how those cracks came to be;
whereas they gazed open-mouthed and took in unreservedly the fairy
legend recited to us by the priest. Here is the legend.
Bhim Sen or Bem Sing and Debi were one day playing pachisi, a game
resembling chess, and very common in India. They were seated on the
above-described granitic boulder, “the Ransila,” and to give colour to
this narrative a square engraved in the rock marks the spot where they
sat. Other mystic signs, marks, and figures are also pointed out to
credulous pilgrims. It appears that while so engaged, Bem Sing heard
the voice of a shert, a rich man, drowning in the distant ocean,
hundreds and hundreds of miles away. He listened. The shert prayed God
to live.
Regardless of the fact that the distance from Debi Dhura to the ocean
is, as the crow flies, at least 700 miles, Debi remained quite
unconcerned, and continued to play the game with his right hand, while
he stretched—the legend does not say whether to its full extent—the
left arm and lifted from the foaming water not only the drowning man
but the sinking ship as well.
On withdrawing his arm and resting it upon his lap the attention of his
partner as well as of the onlookers was attracted by the wet on Debi’s
hand and forearm. They inquired the cause, but Debi curtly requested
them to mind their own business and go on with the game. Puzzled and
angry, the others demanded an explanation. Insulting remarks were made
and, finding no other explanation, a suggestion was made that he was
perspiring something else instead of perspiration from his arm. At this
point Debi deemed it prudent to vanish.
Bem Sing’s wrath was at its zenith. Amazed, even upset, he searched for
Debi all around, and, unable to find him, he seized a large boulder and
with it struck the big rock Ransila with such violence that he split it
in two, in order to discover whether Debi was hiding inside it.
The onlookers in the meantime, terrified by the doings of these
abnormal beings, had fled in all directions, while Debi had quietly
retired to the cave which I have already described, and where—they
say—he dwells still. The boulder used by Bem Sing in his feat of
strength is shown to this day to the open-mouthed pilgrims at Debi
Dhura. So firmly had he grasped it in his hands that the marks of his
fingers and thumbs are still deeply impressed upon the granite.
The end of the legend brought forth the usual request for a generous
backshish, while more flowers were produced and handed to my followers,
who adorned their ears and caps with them.
We returned to the sacred swings, of great height, with iron chains
instead of ropes, upon which pilgrims, old and young, swing themselves,
either singly or in couples. During the months of June, July, and
August, when a pilgrimage and fair are held at the shrine, these swings
are kept going all day and the greater part of the night. Thousands
upon thousands of devotees visit the weird rocks and leave handsome
oblations. A special festival is held in August, when throngs of
natives assemble and sacrifice goats, sheep, and occasionally
buffaloes. As many as one hundred sheep are killed during one of these
festivals, and the sacrifice takes place either on the Ransila rock or
at the entrance of the cave.
Everything at Debi Dhura is connected with stones and rocks. Between
the two swings and near a quadrangular stone wall some four or five
feet high, lay a big natural ball of granite, called “Chela,” or “the
test of strength.” They say that only one man in a hundred can raise it
above the ground, one in a thousand is able to lift it up to his waist,
and not a human being alive can lift it up and deposit it on the wall.
Whoever performed the latter deed would have every happiness for ever.
Although according to the priests the stone weighed 4000 lbs., its
actual weight was not more than 350 lbs.; only it was difficult to get
hold of it, and it was well-nigh impossible to do so by sheer strength.
But when brute strength fails, ruse is often easily successful, and so,
being somewhat versed in the laws of leverage, balance, and impetus, I
succeeded, much to the amazement of everybody, in placing that stone
upon the wall. It was an effort though, I can tell you.
A peculiar feature of the annual fair is the procession from the shrine
in the cave to the summit of the hill, a few hundred yards off, upon
which is a stone shed and a cairn. The men who carry the stone idol in
this procession are all stark-naked,—a very unusual case with
Hindoos,—and so also are many who follow in the procession.
Another feature of the festival is that strange custom which one finds
in most countries of Asia—the annual stone-fights. About a thousand men
collect in an open space, and are divided into legions of five hundred
each, a short distance from each other. When both parties have amassed
in their respective camps a suitable amount of ammunition in the way of
stones, collected in mounds, and also a good supply carried on the
person, the combatants draw nearer and nearer in a line. At a signal
the fight begins, and they fling stones at one another by means of
slings and forked sticks, whirling the missiles through the air with
terrific force. The more people get injured the fiercer becomes the
fight, till the ammunition fails,—and it lasts a long time, because the
combat is, as it were, a mere exchange of ammunition.
The wives and daughters and sweethearts of the combatants view the
melée with trembling hearts from a raised point of vantage well out of
range of the missiles. The fighters get to such close quarters that
pounding one another on the head with stones is not uncommon, and it is
only when all are worn, wounded, aching, and blinded by the dust and
blood that an armistice is called. Hardly any one escapes unhurt, but
no one ever complains, no matter how serious their wounds may be, as
they believe that no one can actually be killed in these sacred fights.
As each man falls senseless to the ground, he is conveyed to the temple
where the following treatment awaits him. The Brahmin priests beat and
rub him well with a bunch of nettles. It is said to be an infallible
remedy.
No ill-feeling is said to remain between the legions after the fight is
over, and with bandaged heads and limbs they all join in a common bura
kana—a big meal.
The fights generally begin by the children being made to fight first,
the elders joining in when well excited over their sons’ doings.
CHAPTER III
The trail, which had made a somewhat circuitous deviation southward of
Debi Dhura, began to turn to the east, and soon after towards the
north-east. After leaving Debi Dhura it brought the traveller to the
summit of the granitic range which the trail followed all along, amidst
country thickly wooded with oaks, rhododendrons, pines, and deodars.
The whole journey was made at high elevations, through dense forests,
with a feeling of damp about everything; the trees, soaked and
dripping, standing like black giants in the penetrating white mist that
enveloped us. One could not see more than twenty or thirty yards off.
In many places the trail was narrow, and it had been built by blasting
the steep rocky mountainside and filling whatever gaps there were with
a wall supported on outstanding boulders below. The trail was in such
places hardly more than three or four feet wide, and no parapet of any
kind existed to prevent unlucky travellers from falling over into the
precipice several hundred feet in depth at the side.
In fair weather, when the trail was dry, and when a trustworthy animal
was being ridden, there would, of course, be no danger of any kind; but
when I went through, the path was slimy and slippery, and my
pony—although excellent and sure-footed, quite like a goat on a
mountain trail—possessed the bad habit of shying at anything moving
upon the ground, and particularly at the whitewashed milestones, when
he would invariably make a few contortions, and end up by standing on
his hind legs with a final leap forward when the whip was duly applied
upon his back.
I had just passed one of these mile-posts, and expecting a peaceful
ride until we came to the next, I pulled out my notebook and was
jotting down some observations. We were then at a considerable height,
the trail, cut into the rock, winding its way along the summit of the
mountainside. It was about sunset, and everything around me was silent
but for the clatter of my pony’s hoofs upon the wet trail, or every now
and then the noise of a stone rolling down into the precipice some 800
feet deep.
In going round a corner a man appeared enveloped in a red blanket, the
end of which was fluttering in the breeze. Unexpectedly my pony neighed
frantically, gave a powerful jerk, backed, and slipped with his hind
legs off the trail.
“Jupiter!” I exclaimed as I tried to jump off the saddle. My blood
turned cold; but before I had time to dismount, the pony which was
resting with his body on the trail, scrambled up again on it in the
most miraculous manner. In a perfect frenzy he now bolted full gallop
along the tortuous and narrow way. In my attempt to get off, the reins
had got loose and entangled, and I had taken my left foot off the
stirrup.
A glance at the illustration depicting this incident will show the kind
of place where it occurred; and it can easily be imagined that a pony,
dashing along round corners involved some minor dangers to the rider,
such as smashing one’s knee or head against projecting boulders. Worse
luck, in this unpleasant contingency, the bit broke, which placed me
absolutely at the mercy of the pony, who viciously rubbed against the
rocks to my right, so that the right stirrup and part of the saddle
were torn off. My right leg might have shared the same fate had nature
not endowed me with sufficient agility to move it out of the way when
necessary. Dismounting would have meant certain death, because, at the
speed I was going, no matter on which side I got off, either directly
or by recoil, I should have been shot off into the abyss.
Eventually—and when it pleased him—the pony resumed the journey in a
less reckless fashion. If not the best-tempered, he was certainly the
most sure-footed animal I had ever ridden, and eventually he and I
became good friends; he lost his shyness and never again played tricks.
He was really as good as a goat at hill-climbing, and he could go where
a human would experience difficulty in getting along.
Two of my men, who, with trembling hearts, had witnessed the accident,
ultimately caught me up and explained to me the real cause of it.
Simultaneously with the appearance of the man in the flapping blanket,
the pony had placed his foot on a small snake lying coiled and numbed
with cold upon the road.
We had double and treble marches daily, drenching rain, and heavy
trails, but pony and men went well. The pony, I must say, lost a good
deal of his friskiness, for, in order to remove his exuberance of
vigour as quickly as possible, I permitted some of my men to indulge in
their national habit of holding to the pony’s tail while ascending
steep hills.
We seemed to have a good many varied experiences on that trip; the next
sight being the corpse of a woman tied in a sheet to a pole, and
sprinkled all over with red paint. A group of men sat by her, and
seemed concerned at the unwelcome appearance of a sahib.
The woman had been lynched. She was said to have been beautiful, but
unfaithful to her husband, for which latter fault she had been dragged
into the forest, ill-treated, and eventually hanged, her body being
left for several days until the murder was discovered. On the present
occasion the body was being conveyed to Almora—some fifty miles off—for
the official examination and inquiry. I had dismounted in order to hear
the details of the tragedy, but as the corpse was in a state of
decomposition I jumped on the saddle again and fled, my handkerchief
held fast to my nose.
I was told that Kumaonis, especially in the particular part of the
province I was then travelling in, were very revengeful and much
addicted to murder. I, too, found them morose and sulky, ever
discontented, somewhat quick-tempered and unreasonable. They
undoubtedly possess the vindictive and warlike characteristics of their
former masters and present neighbours, the Nepalese, but have lost—or
possibly never possessed—any of their finer qualities.
Since the British took possession of this part of Kumaon, crime has
been put down to a certain extent, but much difficulty, I understand,
is experienced in ever discovering offenders, who are cleverly screened
from the authorities by everybody. They certainly have no love, nor
even respect, for sahibs, and they display a supercilious look upon
their countenances which makes them heartily detestable.
I was able to obtain additional ponies and men at Lohagart, formerly a
military cantonment, and to continue my journey towards the Nepalese
frontier.
We crossed the Serju River forming the southern and northern
boundaries, respectively, between the Sor and Kali Kumaon Parganahs, by
a forced march of twenty-one miles—quite good going with baggage and on
such roads in such weather. We had some difficulty in keeping to the
trail in the dark forest at night, and we had a curious instance of how
superstition will work on some people’s minds with quite disastrous
effects. All over the Himahlyas one finds, in some form or other, a
rooted belief in the spirits of the mountains and of the forest, some
of the spirits being benign enough, others of a wicked temperament.
My sayce, who was an excellent fellow, but timid to a degree, had
become separated from the rest of my party and had remained far behind
in charge of a recalcitrant pony and load. In the middle of the night I
heard distant cries of distress, and, suspecting the cause, I sent some
men with improvised torches to his assistance. They carried in the
sayce, and on depositing him on the ground, pronounced him dying. In
fact, the poor fellow was doubled up, delirious with fever, and in a
state of absolute nervous collapse. When I brought a light to his face
he became terrified, wept, and, trembling all over, begged for mercy.
He seemed to be labouring under some hallucination—some ghastly vision
at all events, for when I placed my hand upon his forehead he screamed
and struggled in horror. He entreated to be freed from the horrible
figures which danced around him; he shuddered, and eventually his
convulsions took the form of an epileptic fit.
This was all the result of a prolonged fright. When he recovered
sufficiently he told me how at night in the forest, when he was left
alone, evil spirits surrounded him and pulled him by the hair, the
ears, the nose, and pinched him all over.
“Show me the marks.”
“Sahib,” he said, looking at himself all over, “I can see no marks, but
I still feel the pain where they touched me.”
“But how could you see the spirits if it was quite dark?”
“Yes, but it seemed to grow quite light when they suddenly appeared. I
think they were the souls of dead people. They were very ugly, sahib!”
“Were they as ugly as we are?”
“Yes, sahib, about the same! I think I recognised some of my relations
among them.”
The poor fellow’s nerves were so shattered by the fright he had
experienced that he never completely recovered from the shock.
In other works I have described how the natives on the borders of Tibet
fear these spirits of the mountains, and place obstacles, such as
thorns, etc., along the paths in order to prevent them entering
villages, while threads are placed along dangerous passages upon trails
to facilitate the “good spirits of the mountains” of departed friends
finding their way in the dark of the night without misadventure.
Going now in a northerly direction we came to Pithoragarh, a place of
former importance, possessing the remains of a Nepalese fort, an
elaborate structure of solid earth-works with platform for guns, a
water-tank, and a much-loopholed quadrangular castle. These structures
stand on prominent points in the centre of the green and
well-cultivated valley,—some fourteen square miles in extent,—dotted
here and there with little villages and houses and tufts of trees, and
irrigated by several streams. A low hill-range in the centre separates
the valley in two.
While taking a photograph of the forts I nearly and most unexpectedly
trod on a big snake, some 8 feet in length, which lay spread in the
sun. He raised his prettily arched neck at my approach and hissed with
some vehemence, which I took for a request to stand back. Motionless,
he gazed at me with his vitrine eyes, and he was so beautiful, with
iridescent scales shining like precious stones in the sun, that for one
moment I could not help gazing at him. But as I had no stick nor any
weapon upon me I cut short my part of this mutual admiration. When the
snake described a graceful curve and departed, I, too, with somewhat
less grace, made a speedy retreat in the opposite direction.
From Pithoragarh by quick marches I made rapid progress towards the
frontier, visiting en route my old friend the Rajiwar of Askote, who
had shown me much kindness when conveyed over the frontier after my
captivity and tortures in Tibet two years previously. The entire town
turned out to receive me, and I was again entertained by the Rajah in
his palace.
It seemed rather a pity that this magnificent old fellow, whose
faithfulness to the British had ever been exemplary, did not receive
more courtesy from snobbish officials who occasionally visited his
country, because, after all, courtesy costs nothing and goes a very
long way with natives of all classes. The important services which he
and his family have rendered in frontier matters with both Tibet and
Nepal seemed to have been forgotten, and with the heavy taxation that
had been imposed upon him he found it difficult—at the time of my
visit—to support himself and his numerous relations.
From a strategic point of view the Askote valley is the principal and
practically the only highway, the key, as it were, to all the Himahlyan
passes leading into Tibet from Bhot (both in Darma and in Bias), as
well as those of Western Nepal. Perhaps the fact of having in such a
spot a loyal subject, able to keep a sharp watch upon dangers that may
impend in the future, would be more valued if it were more understood.
After a day of festivities and excessive eating, enlivened by most
harmonious native music, and a visit from my friends the Raots, the
proud wild men of the forest who had on a former occasion predicted my
death when I visited their haunt, we travelled through the low and hot
Kali valley. Here malarial fever was rampant, vermin and mosquitoes in
swarms, and rinderpest raging. I was now going along the Nepalese
frontier, the Kali River defining the boundary-line between the
North-West Provinces of India and Nepal.
On entering Bhot, or Little Tibet, we again rose to greater altitudes,
and were soon able to shake off the touch of fever which nearly all my
men and myself had contracted in going through the steamy, damp valley.
At Sirka, since my former visit, a Christian church of stone had
risen—the first one in British Tibet—the work of the untiring and
self-sacrificing Miss Sheldon, an American lady doctor, who has for
years done noble work among the Shokas,—Shoka, as you know, is the
local name of the inhabitants of that particular section of Bhot. When
I passed through, Miss Sheldon was busy putting on the roof of the
church—an operation which I watched with admiration, mingled somewhat
with concern, although I must confess a skilled mason could not have
done it better.
CHAPTER IV
Some miles farther on another surprise awaited me. A new trail was
being cut along the rock to shorten the ups and downs of the old
“Nerpani”—the “waterless trail”—or, rather, some of the worst parts of
the old trail were being modified and straightened. The new trail was
just as narrow and dangerous as the old one, in some places only a
couple of feet or so wide, or even less, with a deep precipice beneath,
and many parts, as with the older trail, were supported on crowbars
thrust into the rock, some slabs of stone placed upon them making the
path.
But one thing the new trail certainly did. It did away with some of the
interminable flights of steps which were one of the most trying
features of the old Nerpani. So that both the Government and the Shokas
who subscribed most of the money for the work, may be congratulated on
the decided improvement of that highway into Tibet.
In former days it was almost impossible to take pack-animals across,
except sheep,—and many of these always perished on each journey,—but by
the new trail, when finished, this is feasible, although not easy.
For certain reasons of my own, and knowing the difficulty of obtaining
ponies in Tibet itself, I decided to bring my pony across at all costs.
It was certainly a job which gave me a great many hours of hard work
and anxiety. The trail, blasted into the rock or in narrow flights of
steps along the high cliffs, was wet and slippery, and in many places
hardly broad enough for the animal’s body to pass without losing its
balance. Still, with a sling or two, and one man holding the beast by
the head and another by the tail, we managed, with occasional
precipitous slides, to get along pretty well. In one place the pony
slipped and fell sideways on the wet slabs, and kicked fragments of the
unsteady road (in that portion laid on crowbars) flying into the river,
down, down below, some 600 or 700 feet sheer drop. In other places,
where rough scaffolding, supported on ropes, had been erected along the
vertical rock in order to cut holes for the crowbars, the work of
conveying the pony across was by no means easy. The scaffolding was
generally made of a couple of trees tied together horizontally and an
occasional plank.
Perhaps the illustration representing one of these passages may give a
better idea of the situation than a long description. It was impossible
for the pony to walk on the scaffolding, so that we had to push him
over and convey him across, suspended, as far as where the trail began
again. This we did by means of several rope slings round his body. Then
one man held the pony’s head, while I held him by the tail—being the
easiest to let go in case of misadventure.
As the weight of a pony is considerable, the men wound the ropes
several times round their wrists; and at one moment, when we were all
in the centre of the scaffolding, it creaked so, and a plank on which a
man stood showed such elasticity when a good deal of the weight was
centered on it, that I really thought we should all be precipitated
down into the stream. As luck would have it—and we did sweat over the
undertaking, although the day was intensely cold—we got safely on the
other side.
Perhaps I may mention that never in my experience have I seen an animal
more terrified than that pony was on that occasion. When we stood him
again upon terra firma his legs quivered so that it was quite painful
to witness, and he neighed and neighed convulsively, and made the sound
echo all down the valley. I may also add that from that same
scaffolding, that same morning, one of the workmen had fallen over, and
his body was dashed into an unrecognisable mass on some rocks in the
foaming stream below.
I had heard most peculiar rumours from the natives that the Tibetans
had come in great force on to British territory at Garbyang, and with
great pomp and much beating of drums were proclaiming that the British
Government were afraid of coming to Tibet, and that the entire Bias and
Chaudas had now been ceded to Tibet.
It may be remembered that as early as 1898, after the return from my
first journey to Tibet, I pointed out to the Government the abuses of
Tibetan officials who came over to our side of the frontier, claimed
Sah-tal or Land Revenue from British subjects, and even tortured
unprotected natives on our side of the frontier if they refused to pay.
Some prominence was given in the House of Commons to questions on this
subject, and the Governor of the North-West Provinces had to
acknowledge that such was the case, but declared that steps would be
taken to stop the abuses. That the Sah-tal was paid was admitted, but
it was stated to be a trade tax, which was untrue, and possibly uttered
in ignorance of facts. It was agreed that the payment of the Sah-tal by
British subjects should, nevertheless, be stopped, and it was actually
suspended.
Apart from the fact that the words Sah-tal in themselves mean “land
revenue,” and that it is paid on the amount of land possessed by Shokas
on British soil, a further proof that it is a land tax is provided by
the case of Darma Shokas, who pay the Sah-tal on their land to the Jong
Pen of Taklakot, and who do no trading with that particular part of
Tibet.
Furthermore, the Jong Pen of Taklakot receives the amount with the
distinct understanding that it is a land tax, and not a trade tax, and
as such it appears in Government reports by the few British officials
who had been to the frontier, such as Mr. Sturt, Mr. Larkin, and other
deputy commissioners and collectors, and the Political Agent on the
spot. In Darma the Sah-tal was collected direct by Jong Pen’s
emissaries, but in Bias and Chaudas the Political Agent was made to act
as a servant to the Tibetans, and after collecting the revenue handed
it over to the Jong Pen’s officials at Gungi and at Garbyang, two
villages conveniently situated for the purpose.
Chaudas, being the most distant from the Tibet border, only paid a
nominal sum of 11 rupees in cash, and some 14 rolls of rough cloth; but
Garbyang, for instance (besides a real trade tax jointly with Chaudas
of 370 boxes of grain, each containing some 24 lbs., and 14 boxes of
coarse cloth), paid for Sah-tal the following items:—
86 (three anna bits).
Oats 1230 lbs.
Saluk (right of pasture) 2 Tibetan rupees.
Ghur (sweet paste) 4 balls.
Coarse cloth 3 entire rolls.
Shoka liquor 55 jars.
Timber 30 huge logs.
Iron 4 lbs.
Cakes, sattoo, charcoal, and liquor for collecting party.
The village of Kuti also paid a heavy Sah-tal.
Rupees 17
Oats 1210 lbs.
Saluk 2 rupees.
Garah cloth 40 yards.
Haunches of mutton 12
Jars of chökti (wine) 50
Ghur 28 balls.
Iron 2 lbs.
and charcoal, cakes, meat, liquor, etc.
Darma paid some 150 balls of ghur, which had a local value of about 75
rupees.
Notwithstanding that the Government of the North-West Provinces could
not or would not see matters in the right light, it was a great
gratification to me to think that, on my giving publicity to such an
injustice, the Government had at last deemed it right to discontinue
the payment of the land revenue to Tibetans by our frontier subjects.
It came, therefore, as a very great surprise to me, on approaching
Garbyang, to hear that the Tibetans had come over to that place in
great force,—with the sanction of the British Government,—and that
several officials, including a Nerba, some Dhats in red and black
tunics and long swords, four jimidars, two drummers, and a number of
soldiers were parading the streets, proclaiming the annexation of the
district to Tibet, and ill-using the natives who differed. They were
gorging themselves at the expense of the natives, and having a fine
time all round.
At the request of a deputation of Shokas, I hastened on to Garbyang;
but the Tibetans, believing that I was coming up with a large and
well-armed expedition to take a revenge upon them for former misdeeds,
deemed it advisable to pack up their chattels, pocket their pride, and
decamp over the frontier.
I met with a most enthusiastic reception from the Garbyalis, who wished
me to remain in their village until the passes were closed up by snow
so as to keep their compulsory guests away. The Shokas seemed depressed
and disgusted at what they rightly believed unwarrantable treachery on
the part of the Government of India. They had always been faithful—even
under trying circumstances—to the British, and such undeserved
treatment led them to the one conclusion, preached by full-powered
Tibetan lungs, that England must indeed be weak, or at least afraid of
Tibet.
Undoubtedly these sad and unchecked occurrences all along our Tibetan
frontier—you see, it is so uncomfortable for Anglo-Indian officials to
go up to the snows to make inquiries and so on—have been the chief
cause of Tibetan aggressiveness. There is no man so brave as the one
who believes his opponent is not going to fight; and perhaps now, after
the much-trumpeted, enigmatical expedition to Lhassa and the unexpected
sudden retreat from that city, they will be no better than before.
I was unable to accede to the request of the natives to remain to
protect their village, as I intended going farther; and, moreover, the
Government of India having become alarmed at my proceeding a second
time towards Tibet, behaved with a considerable amount of amusing
childishness. Government chaprassis were arriving in quick succession
with secret orders to prevent natives selling me provisions, to induce
my men treacherously to abandon me, steal my weapons and food, and
place every possible obstacle in my way.
Some native friends, who, according to custom, had presented me with a
ball of ghur and two handfuls of rice, were arrested and prosecuted,
being brought down to Almora, some 145 miles, for the purpose. Others
met with considerable annoyance, accusations of all kinds being
showered upon innocent people—even such gross nonsense as accusations
of hiding quick-firing guns and pieces of ordnance!
Both the Governor and the Commissioner at Naini-Tal, and the Deputy
Commissioner of Almora, seemed quite hysterical over the affair, and
some absurd threatening letters were written to me. My mails were
invariably tampered with, and all letters opened. Among the most
amusing requests may be noted one that I should show a Chinese passport
if I wanted to traverse Bhot (British territory), which made it seem as
if the cession of that territory to Tibet had really been
accomplished—although even then, as I unfortunately experienced before,
a Chinese Imperial passport has as much effect upon Tibetan officials
as a piece of waste-paper would on the Prime Minister of Great Britain.
I was ordered to divulge my plans, which of course I refused to do,
principally because I had no plans to divulge; and, further, was told I
must stop and “wait for Government orders.” I replied that, being
nobody’s servant, I would receive no one’s orders. I had not asked nor
wished nor needed Government assistance, and I would go when and where
I liked.
I was very sorry that the Political frontier Agent—a most sensible
man—was subjected to much inconvenience and anxiety by constant orders
to stop my expedition by any means—a matter in which I also happened to
be concerned. He could not, as ordered, starve out my expedition,
because I had plenty of food of my own. Silly as the orders given him
were, he obediently did his utmost to check my movements, and,
moreover, behaved like a gentleman into the bargain.
Some spies whom I found in my camp came in for some severe punishment,
and two Government chaprassis, who had one night been despatched to
threaten my men and induce them to desert and capture my food and
ammunition, received a sound thrashing, were disarmed, and I took them
prisoners and brought them along with me to do some mountaineering! At
the same time I sent word to those in authority that, when it should
suit me, on my return, I would personally hand over the two prisoners.
Further orders arrived that any one selling or giving food or showing
friendship to me should be arrested and sent down to Almora for
punishment. All this seemed very useless, as I possessed all I needed;
but, in order to prevent further persecution to some of my friends, I
decided to cross the boundary at once—the Kali River—and enter the
Nepal kingdom—a country also closed to foreigners, as everybody knows.
CHAPTER V
In the meantime the Tibetans, who had hastily retreated across the
boundary into their country, had given the alarm of the approach of my
expedition. A spy I had sent over reported that great commotion reigned
at Taklakot. Bridges had been hastily destroyed, stone barriers were
put up, while warlike preparations of all kinds were carried on in
feverish speed. A bluffing message was sent over by the Tibetans to
inform the Political Agent that 5000 men were ready to meet my force
and capture me again, when they would cut off my head and throw my body
into the river—a threat which was by no means new to me.
This sounded interesting, only the Tibetans forgot that they would have
to catch me first! The passes—both the Lippu and the Lumpiya (through
the latter of which I had evaded their vigilance on my first
journey)—were, they stated, strongly guarded. I well knew the
contemptible cowardice of the Tibetans, and I took but little notice of
these threats; for this time—unlike my first journey—I had twenty men,
all of my own selection, and they were magnificent fellows—faithful and
plucky to quite an unusual degree.
In answer to these Tibetan messages to the Government, it is possibly
of some interest to notice that the Government of the North-West
Provinces in all haste informed the authorities of Taklakot in words to
this effect:—
“Mr. Landor is coming to Tibet. Possibly he will enter the country. The
Government of India has taken steps to prevent any men accompanying
him, also to take away his baggage, provisions, arms, and ammunition.
He will enter alone and will be at your mercy. We [the Government] are
in no way responsible for his entering Tibet.”
This message surprised me even less than the Tibetan effort. Indeed, I
well knew that no one more than some officials of the North-West
Provinces wished me dead. You see, I had on several occasions shown
them up in a very poor light, and now again I was discovering fresh and
most unaccountable misdeeds on their part all along the line.
Naturally, I quite understood that it was an uneasy conscience and the
fear of being exposed which prompted them to act in such a childish
manner in order to prevent my seeing what was going on.
The Political Agent, who was constantly receiving orders which he was
powerless to carry out, such as arresting me,—which I defied him to
do,—seemed in much distress, and to relieve the strain upon him I
decided to cross over into forbidden Nepal territory. The British
authorities had taken the precaution to warn the Nepalese also that I
might cross over their boundary, that my conduct was not countenanced
by the Government, and that soldiers must be sent to stop me and
possibly capture me. This led to some incidents which gave us a good
deal of unexpected merriment.
A guard of Nepalese soldiers was hurried up, and, unaware that it was
there, I crossed over the boundary, with our rifles in their cases for
protection against the rain, and not at all prepared for war. Two of my
men, who carried a rifle each, were a distance ahead. On nearing a
small fort and guard-house they were pounced upon by Nepalese soldiers
who were hiding behind some rocks, the rifles were seized, and the
Nepalese escaped with them into the fort up higher upon the hill.
My men ran back to me in a great state of excitement to report the
occurrence. We hurriedly prepared a plan of attack, and without losing
any time climbed up to the fort. Upon the walls some gaily attired
figures peeped over, brandishing kukris and a few obsolete rifles. I
could hear them behind strengthening the hastily barricaded door. An
officer peeped over and asked what we wanted.
“I want my rifles back.”
“Your rifles are not here. We have already despatched them to Katmandu”
(the capital of Nepal).
“Very good. If you do not return my rifles within two minutes we will
come and get them ourselves.”
“We will fight you.”
“All right.”
Pounding with big rocks and by the aid of a wooden lever we got the
door loosened, and while the garrison’s attention was directed to
prevent our entering that way, four of my best men and I climbed over
the wall on the opposite side of the fort and covered the defenders
with our rifles. I demanded that they should lay down their weapons or
I would shoot. After some indecision, most of them did. The others,
especially one who fired at us, got a severe pounding and were disarmed
by my men, who had now all entered the fort.
We ransacked the place, and eventually recovered the captured rifles,
after which we bade the Nepalese a respectful salaam and proceeded on
our way.
“But,” humbly put in the trembling Nepalese, “you cannot travel on
Nepal territory. It is forbidden to foreigners, and I have orders to
stop you.”
“Very well, do it!”
“I cannot,” he meekly mumbled, as he rubbed aching bruises he had
received in the encounter. “But,” he said, “I will follow your
movements.”
“Oh, you can follow any movements you like, but mind you do not come
too near.”
“Oh, no, no, sahib!” he exclaimed.
The guard, in fact, followed us for some days—and always at a most
respectful distance—until we got high up among the snows and glaciers.
Then we lost sight of them. Anyhow, I had no further annoyance all
through my journey in Nepal, and found the few natives we saw quite
attractive, picturesque, and kind.
After leaving the fort we travelled practically south-east over very
rough country, my objective being to visit and if possible climb one of
the Lumpa peaks which towers in a majestic needle above most other
mountains in the neighbourhood. Every now and then, when we got to some
higher point of vantage, we got a beautiful view of it. My men—to my
astonishment—received my plan with enthusiasm, for they seemed to hold
the snows in veneration. Little they then knew how much they would have
to suffer upon them.
In that portion of North-West Nepal the population is sparse and
somewhat mixed. Perhaps the finest and most interesting types I saw
were the cross-breeds of Shokas and Nepalese, which seemed to produce
most striking heads. One of the coloured drawings representing a
typical Nepalese-Shoka young man, with temples shaved and long wavy
hair hanging down his back, is, I think, a good example. These men had
very fine traits about them, were most hospitable and civil, manly and
serious in manner. They were enterprising traders, carrying on a brisk
business mainly in borax, salt, wool, and skins, which they generally
bartered with Tibetans in exchange for grain, ghur, and other food
stuffs.
It is rather interesting to note that whereas similar frontier tribes
on neighbouring British soil are imposed upon, taxed and ill-used by
Tibetans, no interference at all is experienced by those living under
the protection of the King of Nepal. Possibly this is due to the fact
that when Nepalese subjects have been ill-used in Tibet an armed
expedition has been sent over the frontier by the Nepalese, and
reparation demanded and obtained at once.
Nepalese women are not unattractive, having large brown eyes, made
additionally languid by blackening the lower lid, long eyelashes and
well-cut features, skin of a well-polished, smooth, light-yellowish
brown, and most graceful hands and feet. The better class are generally
much decorated with heavy silver necklaces, bracelets, and rings, and
with huge nose-rings of gold, brass, or silver. They are handsome while
young, but they fade away at an early age, and the smooth skin becomes
wrinkled and grooved long before they are thirty. They are said to be
most affectionate, and of a somewhat jealous temperament, which they
couple with extreme conjugal fidelity.
In Western Nepal the hair is worn in many little plaits festooned on
both sides of the forehead, and a head-cover, white, yellow, or red,
such as is seen in India among Hindoo women, is usually worn.
The women have comparative freedom, and seldom are they seen completely
veiled. Sati or suttee, the widow’s self-sacrifice by throwing herself
upon the flames which have cremated her dead husband, is now forbidden
by law in Nepal. It is, nevertheless, indulged in to some extent in
districts far away from the capital.
Nepal is principally known to English people as the country from which,
by a special agreement, we draw recruits for our Gurkha regiments. It
should, nevertheless, be borne in mind that not all people living in
Nepal are by any means Gurkhas—far from it. We find in Nepal a great
variety of types—some pure enough, others distinct mixtures of two or
more races.
The Gurkha district proper lies in the north-easterly portion of the
Gandak basin, the chief city being Gurkha, some fifty-four or
fifty-five miles to the west of the Nepalese capital, Katmandu.
Formerly Nepal’s sovereignty extended over Kumaon, which we have
already traversed, as far as the Sutlej River. The Nepal kingdom, as it
stands now, is an elongated tract of country—mostly mountainous—some
500 miles in length, and less than 150 miles in breadth at its widest
points. As everybody knows, it is situated on the southern slopes of
the central Himahlyan range, and borders with Tibet on the north,
Kumaon (North-West Provinces) to the west, the Kali River, as we know,
forming the boundary; the North-West Province and Bengal to the south,
and Sikkim to the east.
Nepal is divided into three natural zones by high ranges with peaks
rising from 25,000 to 28,000 feet, these ridges shooting off southwards
from the main Himahlyan range. The eastern zone is drained by the Kosi
River, the central by the Gandak, and the Western by the Gogra. To the
above should be added what is called the Terai and the
thickly-populated Nepal Valley, which, geographically, must be classed
separately. Formerly Nepal was divided into twenty-four principalities
in addition to the Gurkha kingdom, but since the invasion by the latter
of the entire country they have been divided into five provinces—viz.
Gurkha, Malibam, Palpa, Pokra, and Khachi.
In the space at my disposal I cannot enter into the history nor go into
a detailed description of the many tribes which inhabit Nepal, but
generally speaking, in the aboriginal stock a Mongolian origin is
evident, particularly in the population of the central zone, where
recent Tibetan influence is marked; but this is not the case with the
inhabitants of the lower region, who seem to have descended partly from
a mixture of an earlier Tibetan and Aryan source. Perhaps among the
most prominent aboriginal tribes we should mention the Magars, Gurungs,
Newars, Sunwars, the Khambas or Khambus, and Yakhas (the latter two
closely resembling Rais), the Yakthumbas, Murmis, and Lepchas. Then in
the forests of Western Nepal we find to this day wild tribes of
Chepangs and Kasundas.
In the Terai district live the Tarus, a servile and ill-shaped people
of no great strength of character; in the eastern zone we have Limbus,
a name which practically includes Kirantis, Ekas, and Rais—a people of
apparently Tibetan origin, flat-faced, beardless, and with long
unplaited hair, who wear wide trousers and a short jacket instead of
the long coat of the Lepchas.
The central zone, from which most of the recruits for the British
Gurkha regiments are drawn, is inhabited by a small but strongly built,
warlike, and plucky people, the Magars and Gurungs, the Magars being in
their turn subdivided into six distinct tribes, of which the Thapa
tribe is the most numerous. Both the Magars and the Gurungs—who are
somewhat taller and more stoutly built than the Magars—although of
marked Mongolian characteristics, are by religion Brahmins, but have no
sort of strong caste prejudices such as one finds, for instance, in
India. Gay and simple-minded, with hearts of gold, faithful and
obstinate to an extreme degree, independent in themselves yet loyal to
their friends or employers, fond of fighting and possessing the courage
of lions, these fellows make wonderful soldiers indeed. Perhaps in many
ways they are not unlike the Japanese, both in appearance and
temperament, except that the physique of the Gurkha is the superior of
the two.
In the Valley of Nepal—or Nepal proper—we find mostly Newars and
Murmis. The Newars, who claim to be the aborigines of the Nepal Valley,
are in many ways not unlike the Bhotias or Shokas, and in many of their
customs and in their habitations show a marked similarity to those
tribes of Mongolian descent. Their language resembles Tibetan, and
their religion is a modified form of inherited Buddhism. The Newars are
much given to agricultural pursuits, and they do not display so
prominently the fighting qualities of the Magars and Gurungs. On the
contrary, they seem to devote all their energy to art and trade, of
which they seem to have the entire monopoly in Nepal. The Murmis
resemble Bhotias even more closely than the Newars. They are subdivided
into two classes—the Barathamang, which is the most numerous, and the
Atharajat.
Katmandu, the capital of Nepal and residence of the King and
Government, lies in this valley, and is a city of great size and some
beauty.
The Terai is inhabited by a poor, sickly-looking race called the Tarus,
malarial fever being rampant in their district, while wild beasts
abound in the jungle. They seem to be a poverty-stricken lot with a
wretched physique—although endowed with astounding strength and powers
of endurance. They divide their time between fishing, agriculture, and
hunting wild animals.
Now comes the western zone, which is entirely inhabited by non-Gurkha
tribes, such as the Doti and Jumli (the Doti’s country being south of
the Jumli’s), as well as by wilder tribes, such as the Chepangs and
Kusundas, the former being very similar to the Raots or Rajis of
Kumaon. Then there are minor Hinduised tribes generically known as
Parbatiyas (or hill men).
CHAPTER VI
The religion, customs, manners, and fashions of dress of the various
tribes composing the population of Nepal vary to quite a considerable
extent, and I have here not the space to go into them fully. But I will
quote a few.
The Brahmins differ little from their co-religionists of India, except
that they are not so strict in the observance of prejudices; the form
of Buddhism practised closely resembles that of Tibet. Superstitions
are rampant, both among Brahmins and Buddhists, and of course even more
so among the wilder tribes.
The Gurkhas, on the occasion of the birth of a child, indulge in
rejoicings for eleven consecutive days, the father being restricted to
the company of his relatives only. On the eleventh day a name is given
to the offspring. The child is suckled by the mother for a
comparatively short period of time, when a festival and dinner are
given, the child being made to swallow a grain of rice from each
friend.
Marriages are, as in India, arranged at a very early age, sometimes
when children are not more than six or seven years old, the betrothal
taking place a year or two before. Widows cannot marry again, but a
widower can. Divorces can be obtained in some tribes, by somewhat
simple methods, but fidelity is one of the chief virtues of Nepalese
women, and it is seldom that separation takes place. Besides, divorces
are a very expensive luxury. Moreover, an unfaithful wife may find
herself in prison for life, whereas the co-respondent is handed to the
mercy of the husband, who is expected to “chop him up” in public with
his vicious-looking kukri. They say that the offender’s life may be
spared if he submits to crawl under the husband’s leg, raised for the
occasion, a most humiliating alternative seldom accepted.
As in India, among Brahmin tribes, a great many misdeeds of vanity or
breaches of caste-rules are forgiven on payments in cash to the
priests, or the giving of the usual feast and feed.
The custom of shaving the head, moustache, and eyebrows in sign of
mourning at the death of near relations is followed by the Brahmin
tribes, and the body of the deceased is buried and not cremated.
Several non-Brahmin tribes, however, cremate their dead.
The Gurkhas who are recruited for the British army are nearly all
Magars and Gurungs, they being considered the best fighting material.
Members of the Khas tribe are enlisted solely for the 9th Gurkha
regiment. Recruiting parties are sent out from every regiment which
recruits for itself, and these bring down their recruits to the dépôt
at Garakpur. Here a primary medical inspection takes place, and
clothing is issued to the men before they are despatched to their
future corps. They wear a dark green uniform with black or red facings,
and are armed with Martini-Henry rifles, a bayonet, and a kukri.
The Gurkha Brigade consisted in 1899 of the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th,
9th, 42nd, 43rd, and 44th Regiments. The first five regiments have two
battalions; the 9th, 42nd, 43rd, 44th are single battalions. There are
eight British officers to each battalion (plus some others attached), a
medical officer, and sixteen Gurkha officers.
The men are, as a rule, excellent shots, fond of sport of all kinds,
and passionate fishermen and shikaris, knowing instinctively and
intimately the habits of most animals. They are hardy, cheery, and
willing to obey, but detest “nagging.” They are devoted to their
officers and proud of their corps; and, taking things all round,
possibly they may be put down as the most loyal native troops we have
in India. They know no fear. If an orderly were by chance to leave an
officer dead or wounded, either in the field or out on a sporting
expedition, he would lose his caste, be generally boycotted, and very
likely killed by his comrades.
The Gurkhas are inveterate gamblers and fond of all games, showing
great quickness in learning British games, at which they become quite
proficient—football particularly.
They are superstitious beyond measure, good or evil spirits playing an
important part in every day’s occurrences. Thus astrologers find plenty
of remunerative occupation in predicting events and showing how to
propitiate certain demons rather than others.
A curious feature of these fighters is their tender affection for
flowers. Indeed, there are many tender strings to the heart of a
Gurkha. They are devoted to their families, and most gentle and suave
in their home manners. They are jealous of their women, whom they do
not beat nor usually turn into beasts of burden like the natives of
India, and they show great pride in displaying their women-folks loaded
with jewellery from head to foot. The women are quite pretty, cheery,
and do not exhibit the affected shyness of the women of the Indian
plains, for instance.
One of the most notable features about a Gurkha is the marvellous skill
with which he handles his heavy-bladed kukri. It may be said that from
the days of his childhood, since as soon as his little hands become
strong enough to lift one, he is never without one; hence, when older,
he is very adept in its manifold uses. With one of those knives Gurkhas
can cut a buffalo’s head off at one stroke; and they can make fairly
good shots, at considerable distance, when throwing the kukri. They can
use it in such delicate work as shaping a toothpick or sharpening a
pencil. With it they chop firewood, and use it freely as a cooking
utensil.
When going bear-hunting they wind a blanket round the left arm and
carry a loaded stick in the right hand, the kukri being held between
the teeth or thrust in the girdle in front. When the bear gets on his
hind-legs to close with them, they hit him on the nose (being the
tenderest spot), and, before he has time to recover from the pain and
astonishment, they polish him off with their knives.
They delight in the company of tame animals, such as dogs or birds.
They are fond of smoking and drinking—and they can stand a lot—a fact
which makes them great chums with British white soldiers. They simply
adore Tommy Atkins, especially if he be a Highlander or a rifleman, and
they delight in his company; but they show the utmost contempt—racial
and general—for the natives of India. Their unbounded conceit is easily
forgiven and counterbalanced by their extreme truthfulness and honesty,
especially when first recruited.
Many Gurkha regiments have for some years taken up the system of
training a few picked men of good physique and sight, and of unusual
agility and sporting instincts, as recognised scouts. They are clad
more lightly than ordinary soldiers—generally in “cut short” football
knickers. Besides the scouts’ duty of discovering the enemy’s strength
and position, they are also used as sharpshooters, and specially
instructed for stalking “snipers” at night. When in India I had the
pleasure of inspecting the scouts commanded by Lieutenant G. Kendall
Channer, of the 1st Battalion 3rd Gurkhas, and I was much impressed by
them and by the business-like qualities of the officers and men.
CHAPTER VII
At the village of Chongur in Nepal I was able to purchase some extra
blankets and shoes for my men, as from this point we should soon come
among the snows, where we should remain for some time. Up to an
altitude of 11,000 feet we travelled among firs, and on very sharp,
slippery slopes without a trail. On a bit of level pasture-land we came
across two Jumli annuals or shepherds with some sheep. They were
curious types, wild and unkempt, with shaggy hair flowing upon their
face and shoulders. I do not think that I have ever seen men more
abruti—to use a French expression which fits them perfectly—than those
two. Shivering from cold, ill-clad, living on roots and whatever they
could pick up, which was not much, they were indeed the very picture of
misery and wretchedness. When they had recovered from their fright at
our approach, I gave them some food which would last them some time,
and their gratitude knew no bounds.
Farther on we met a Nepalese woman carrying a child slung in a basket
upon her back, while the husband walked peacefully behind. When the
camera was pointed at the couple they were so disturbed that the woman
dropped basket and child and took to her heels down a most precipitous
slope, while her better half ran away from us, also full speed, but on
a less dangerous route.
Farther on, as we got higher up, we encountered more shepherds, in as
pitiable a condition as the first we had seen, having nearly lost their
power of speech through leading a lonely life among these mountains.
They all suffered from fever and rheumatism; some from goitre through
drinking snow water.
The marching was very heavy, especially for my men who carried loads;
my pony, of course, had to be abandoned long before this, and I had
sent him down to lower elevations in charge of my sayce.
We were now nearing the magnificent Api Mountain, and we soon came to
the moraine of the glacier. We reached the glacier—which I named the
Elfrida Landor Glacier—at sunset, and it was indeed a most beautiful
sight with its huge walls of clear ice in irregular terraces, portions
only being in broken-up heaps. At the sides, mud of a greyish colour
and broken ice bordered the worn, eroded rock down to the level of the
valley where the glacier lies.
The glacier lies from N.E.E. to S.W.W., with two high peaks, one to the
N.N.W., the other to the S.S.E., the latter being known as the Api
Mountain. Two snow-fed streams descend from the glacier, and, joining
into a rapid torrent, become a tributary of the Lumpa River. The
natives call all these glaciers by the generic term Sho-gal, or “snow
glacier.”
The village of Chongur could be distinguished in the far distance to
the N.W. of us, down, down below in the valley of the Kali; and to the
N.N.W. we obtained a panoramic view of the Kuti River valley, with the
conical Bitroegoar Mountain and a high peak to the N.N.E. Even below
13,000 feet the vegetation had become very sparse, but patches of short
grass were found up to 16,000 feet. Above that all was absolutely
barren, and generally covered with snow. In the high valley we had
followed, whatever trees we found were weather-beaten and half-burnt by
the snow and cold winds of the winter months. For long distances we
occasionally walked on thick beds of wild strawberries. These high
valleys are considered good pasture-land by the Shokas, who send their
sheep for grazing in charge of annuals, such as those we had met.
The foot of the glacier where we pitched our tent was at an elevation
of 13,900 feet, and the temperature shortly before sunset not higher
than 33° Fahrenheit.
Perhaps to those who have never slept on the ice of a glacier it may be
interesting to know what it feels like. Barring a certain chilliness
which anybody can imagine, a first night on a glacier has many
surprises. I say “first night,” because we spent a great many, and we
got accustomed to the weird noises which kept us awake and in some
suspense on the first visit. Indeed, a Himahlyan glacier seems to be
the home of noises of all kinds. The wind blowing among the pinnacles
and recesses produces weird melodies like solos and immense choruses of
human voices; you can hear shrill whistling all round you when sharper
blades of ice cut the current of air, and roars like those of wild
beasts, only stronger, when the wind penetrates into some deep cavity.
No sooner were you closing your eyes again for a much-wanted sleep than
thunder, so loud that it made you jump, startled you, but when you
peeped out of the tent there were brilliant stars and a limpid sky
everywhere above you. Sleepy as you were, you could not resist—at
least, I could not, and I am not much of a star-gazer—the temptation to
gaze at the stars and planets. In the rarefied and limpid air they
showed like huge diamonds, and gave quite enough light to see all round
one, even when there was no moon. Indeed, no one who has never been to
exceptionally high elevations has an idea of the beauty of stars. They
appear several times larger than they do when seen from London or
Paris, for instance, and the magnificence of their ever-changing
colours is indescribable.
Well, there was poetry enough in that, but you were soon awakened from
your contemplation by some unexpected explosion which made you think
the whole landscape before you must have been blown up. But no, there
were no visible signs of commotion around. It was merely a new
crevasse, some hundreds of feet deep, splitting, for some reason,
climatic or other, in the ice. Constant rumblings you heard, near and
distant; and you only had to close your eyes and you could imagine
yourself in a forest with the wind rustling among the trees, or the
pleasant sound of a waterfall close by, or an æolian harp being played
by a divine hand.
Echoes, of course, there are by the dozen on mountains, and each sound
is repeated over and over again till it fades away. An occasional
boulder gets loose from the rotted rock up on the mountain side, and is
precipitated with bounding leaps on to the ice of the glacier; a huge
one weighing some tons came down that night and missed our tent by not
very many yards. My men said the spirits of the mountains were doing
all this for our special benefit, to see whether we were brave or not!
The big boulder they had flung at and purposely missed us to show us
their powers, but not to hurt us. This was a good sign. “The gods are
with us,” they stated; but internally I heartily prayed that we might
have no more “good signs” of that nature.
While I was trying to make some hot chocolate with a small
spirit-stove, my men were busy packing up, they bearing the discomfort
with some considerable pluck. We had not been able to make a fire, and
we had not the prospect of seeing many for some weeks to come. I always
found chocolate the most useful and sustaining food for mountaineering
purposes, and I carried any number of tablets in my pockets. On the
march I constantly ate it; food, I found, keeping one’s strength up and
being more easily digested under those circumstances, if spread in
small quantities over the entire day, than if eaten in large quantities
twice or three times a day at given hours. I had my chocolate specially
prepared with a percentage of meat and fat, which gave it additional
nourishment. For days and days at a time I lived on chocolate only, it
being impossible to cook food, and deeming it rather dangerous to eat
tinned meats cold.
I was able to overcome the caste scruples of my men, and they, too,
partook freely of my chocolate, although I never let them know that it
contained beef. Had they known this, most of them would have lost their
caste. They ate it because they believed it entirely prepared by
machinery and not touched by unclean hands!
I was sorry when we struck camp and left behind the beautiful glacier
and Api Mt., 19,919 feet. We soon rose over a pass (13,050 feet) where
we obtained a view of a second glacier, almost as fine as the first, in
precipitous terraces, and with a gigantic terminal moraine, covered in
great part by débris and rotten rock, fallen from the mountain at the
side. This I called the Armida Glacier. It spread in a direction from
N.E. to S.W. To the west of the glacier on the mountain side there was
hardly any snow up to 16,000 feet, but to the east, as one looked
towards it, there were huge masses.
The entire valley of the Lumpa river along which we were travelling
made part of a gigantic glacier, with side glaciers such as those we
have seen. In the lower portion of the valley the ice was covered with
débris.
At the foot of the Armida Glacier were some immense parallel crevasses
in the ice. The upper portion of these was a mixture of dark grey mud
and rock embedded in the ice, showing vertical streaks and
corrugations. Then there were some curious pits in the moraine, such as
the one shown in the illustration, funnel-shaped and of great depth,
some 60 feet deep and more, and about 100 feet in diameter. These
funnels, cone-shaped, had a great fascination—quite an irresistible
attraction—when one looked into them. The ice, of a beautiful light
green colour, was corrugated into grooves converging towards the centre
at the bottom, where a deep hole was generally to be found. The ridges
of the myriads of grooves reflected in a line of silver the rays of the
sun, and these many dazzling luminous streaks all converging towards
one point had quite an hypnotic effect on some of my more highly strung
men. One man became quite giddy in looking down, and very nearly went
over, and several other men experienced a strong desire to precipitate
themselves into these pits.
I puzzled my head a great deal to find out exactly how these funnels
were produced, and the only plausible explanation seemed that some
boulder fallen from the mountain side had, owing to its sun-absorbed
high temperature, gradually bored a hole into the ice. The walls of the
cylindrical hole, becoming in their turn exposed to the strong
sunlight, went through a process of melting, the heat affecting the
upper portion to a much greater extent than farther down, where the
strength of the sun’s rays would be mitigated by the influence on the
temperature of the air by the surrounding ice. Thus the quicker melting
of the upper portion compared with the lower would at once have a
tendency to produce the conical shape of the funnels.
Then, of course, the grooves in the ice are produced by the water of
the melting surface ice flowing down. In fact, in the daytime, the
lower centre hole, which had vertical walls, was almost invariably
filled with water.
Perhaps, to avoid the absurd criticisms of fault-discovering critics
(which criticisms arise merely from their own appalling and fantastic
ignorance), it may be as well to remind the reader that the sun’s rays,
even at very great elevations and among quantities of snow and ice, can
be very powerful—85°, 90°, and even more. This particularly if the
region in which one is travelling is, as was that where we were, in a
latitude north of 30° 4′ 0″ only from the Equator. Naturally, the drop
in the temperature when the sun disappears is enormous, from 60° to
100° being nothing very exceptional. This also applies in a lesser
degree between the sun and shade in the daytime. When marching, for
instance, due north or south in those regions, it is not unusual to
have one’s anatomy roasting on the side where it is struck by the sun,
and to be half-frozen on the other side.
We continued our journey upon the moraine of the main glacier, avoiding
as much as we could the dangerous cracks and treacherous holes.
Half-way up the main glacier we were at an altitude of 13,600 feet. On
descending some 400 feet we came to a plain wherein grew rhubarb and
some turnips, the former wild, the latter planted by Nepalese
shepherds. There were, in fact, three tiny shelters of stones and mud
where the poor wretches had lived. We were much rejoiced at finding
some shrubs we could use as fuel. The glacier we were leaving behind
was separated from this valley by a high dune of mud and débris.
After crossing a stream we came to a third, the Martia Glacier, some
15,500 feet above sea-level. This glacier was not quite so impressive
as the other two, but it was, nevertheless, a most beautiful basin
filled with masses of clear ice in irregular terraces. A great moraine
extended here across the valley from the glacier, forming a ridge which
we had to climb in order to proceed on our journey. There seemed to be
traces of iron in the débris of the moraine as well as in the rocks of
the mountains around, and upon the gigantic boulders which had been
shot down upon the ice.
On the opposite side of the Lumpa stream to the one on which we stood,
just before reaching the third glacier, were high vertical rocks of
brilliant colouring. To the south-east of the glacier at the foot was
the usual dune, and we again found a great many gigantic pits, all with
water at the bottom.
We came to a very dangerous crevasse which we could not cross, and we
had to make a considerable detour. The edge on which we had got seemed
on the point of giving way, and might have collapsed at any moment.
Where the surface ice was covered by débris it showed graceful
undulations and well-rounded mounds, but occasionally there were higher
hillocks of conical shape and quite pointed.
Still travelling upon the moraine of the Lumpa Glacier we arrived at
last at the spot where the Lumpa river has its birth, dripping gently
from the glacier. Here, too, the ice with the overlying débris showed
in its general lines the peculiar sweeping curves noticeable in all
these glaciers, the section to the east being, in this particular
glacier, an exception to the rule, and exhibiting a disorderly mass of
débris and huge blocks of ice.
We had reached a point where a bifurcation occurred, one arm of the
glacier extending to 160° bearings magnetic (S.S.E.), the other and
principal one to 120° bearings magnetic, towards the Lumpa Mountain.
We selected this spot to make our camp, and a very cold camp it was,
too. We pitched our tent alongside a big rock, and with fuel we had
brought up, tried, after sundown, to make a fire inside the tent in
order to keep ourselves warm. But we were nearly suffocated by the
smoke. During the night, while my men were asleep—and the fire gone
out—I changed the plates in three magazine cameras, forty-eight plates
altogether; a job which with semi-frozen and trembling fingers, and
careful packing of negatives already exposed, took me the best part of
two hours. Indeed, one of the great tortures of exploration in cold
climates, is the immense care with which one must nurse one’s surveying
and other instruments under most adverse circumstances, and the
inexpressible trouble which photography, if done seriously, involves.
For similar kind of work I always found plates infinitely more reliable
than films; but, of course, with them the use of a red lantern becomes
imperative, and often leads to the use of a good deal of bad language.
If you adopt an oil-lantern the oil gets frozen into a solid mass, and
it is somewhat troublesome to keep the lantern burning, whereas candles
have other disadvantages. As for feeling the film side with your
fingers, and changing plates in the dark, it is, of course, out of the
question when your hands are too cold.
Maybe another hint when mountaineering at great altitudes will be
useful to you. Never use a waterproof sleeping-bag, such as those you
see advertised and recommended, as the very thing you want on a
mountain. If you do, and the night is a cold one, you will find
yourself and your blankets soaked in condensed moisture from the heat
of your body coming in contact with the cold waterproof sheet, through
which it is unable to escape. Of course it is wise to use a waterproof
sheet to lie on under one’s blankets.
On that particular night, feeling extra cold and not thinking of
consequences, I wrapped myself up, over my blankets, in a waterproof.
The results were disastrous. Everything got drenched, and, when I got
up, blankets and clothes became solid sheets of ice!
CHAPTER VIII
Having seen that all my instruments were in good condition, I selected
about a dozen of my strongest men to accompany me on my ascent on one
of the Lumpa peaks. It had been sleeting and snowing during the night,
and when I roused my men shortly before five in the morning there was a
thick mist which seemed to penetrate to the very marrow of one’s bones.
With chattering teeth and a chilly nose, we got all things ready, and
brewed a parting cup of hot tea, after which we set out on our errand,
the other men remaining to take care of the camp.
Every now and then the wind cleared the mist, and we could see a
bright, clear sky above us which gave us hope that we might have a fine
day. I am not a believer in early rising; as a rule eight or nine
o’clock is my favourite hour for starting on a march, when the sun is
already high above the horizon. You then start off in comfort, instead
of waking with an angry feeling that you are being done out of some
hours’ sleep. On this occasion, however, we had such a long distance to
cover, and in all probability troublesome and dangerous marching before
us, that I wished to have as many hours of daylight before me as
possible.
No sooner had we started, following the main glacier in a direction of
120°, than a thick fog set in which made progress somewhat troublesome.
It seemed to get thicker and thicker as we were rising higher upon the
glacier. We had to find our way among numerous pits and crevasses. We
kept as close together as was practicable, but we were not roped
together. It has ever been my rule when mountaineering that every man
must look after himself. I take all sensible precautions to avoid all
accidents, and collective accidents in particular. If there has to be a
mishap, which is not likely, and some unfortunate man slips into a
crevasse, do not let him by any means drag down the whole party, as is
frequently the case when roped together. Besides, the rope in itself is
a great hindrance to one’s progress, and on very rough marching
exhausts much of the traveller’s strength, being either too tight or
too slack, and always getting in the way when it should not.
We tramped along as best we could over a great many transverse waves of
ice, covered here and there with débris—most fatiguing work. In the
first portion of the main glacier, on which we were, and which lay from
W. to E., the transverse waves followed a parallel direction of N.W. to
S.E. until we reached an altitude of 15,000 feet with a temperature of
42°; but in the upper part of the glacier, which lay from N.W. to S.E.,
these parallel waves lay in a direction of from S. W. to N.E. In the
higher portion of the glacier, 15,400 feet above sea-level, we came to
a regular maze of huge pits in close succession, and we were glad when
the sun shone brightly on us and little by little dispelled the fog, so
that we could see what we might expect ahead of us.
On our left we had precipitous mountains of grey rock; on our right
somewhat gentler slopes, mostly covered with snow. We at last reached
the crescent-shaped Lumpa basin, walled all round with two higher peaks
joined by a semicircular high barrier of snow-clad rock.
We were particularly fortunate as we approached. The mist lifted like
the curtain of a theatre and unexpectedly disclosed a magnificent view
before us, brilliantly illuminated by the light of the sun. I was lucky
enough to obtain several excellent photographs and sketches, one giving
a panoramic view of the scene being reproduced in this book.
I possess some negatives taken on that occasion that are of particular
interest, as showing the idiocy of certain people who maintain that
clouds do not form above an altitude of 20,000 feet. The very fact that
you find snow up to the summits at Nanda Devi (25,660 feet), and Mt.
Everest (29,000 feet), might, I think, be sufficient proof to the
contrary to any one except possibly a Royal geographer; but in my
negatives the clouds themselves show as they were forming on the summit
of one of the Lumpa peaks, which has an elevation of 23,490 feet.
A few negatives of lesser importance were injured owing to a most
uncommon occurrence. In my magazine camera the plate-holders were of
metal, and slid one on the top of the other when being changed for
exposure. Owing to the dryness of the atmosphere the friction of metal
on metal produced an electric spark inside the camera, which marked
some of the plates across like a streak of lightning, and somewhat
fogged them. Of course, I only discovered this on developing them.
My object in making the ascent of this high peak was not so much for
the sake of getting there as for the purpose of making some
observations on the effects of great altitudes upon human beings, a
subject in which I was then rather interested. We continued climbing
upon the glacier until we came to a big stretch broken into huge and
tortuous crevasses of immense depth. When you stooped over the edge and
looked down, the ice-walls on either side showed most beautiful tints,
from intense blue at the bottom fading in most delicious tones to pale
green and to the pure white of the surface snow. These crevasses were
very wide in some places, but here and there they were close together,
and we could easily jump across.
We then left the glacier, and proceeded climbing along the mountain
side to our right, upon extensive snow-fields. The first portion of the
ascent was in no way difficult, and we proceeded quickly enough
considering the great elevation. But on reaching 20,000 feet some of my
men were taken with mountain sickness, and they had great difficulty in
keeping up with us. They bled considerably from the nose, and were
eventually seized with such violent pains that we had to leave them
behind—to be picked up on our return. Out of twelve men only four were
still in good condition, and having seen to the comfort of the sick men
we left them, wrapped up in their blankets, in a sheltered hollow upon
the mountain side.
We next came to a patch of very troublesome loose débris, so steep that
even snow would not stop on it, and we sweated and sweated for some
time trying to get on. Every time you took a step you started a mass of
débris, sliding with a great roar down the mountain side, and you went
sliding back yourself almost to where you had moved from.
When we managed to get higher we were among bigger rocks, also quite
loose, and it seemed as if the sound of one’s voice was sufficient to
start dozens of them on a bounding race for lower elevations. We were
resting for a while when a lot of these stones came rolling and
bounding towards us with great force, and on the loose stuff upon which
we stood it was impossible to get out of the way quickly. One big rock
particularly came bounding down in such an erratic fashion that we saw
its approach with some concern. One of my men, in whose direction it
seemed bound, shouted for help and tried to get aside, but he was hit
with great vehemence in his legs and sent flying some feet into the
air. He was much shaken and bruised, but after some rubbing and
thumping he was able to continue.
When we were about to leave the débris we witnessed a most attractive
sight—a sight which, nevertheless, caused me considerable anxiety for
some minutes. It was the birth of an avalanche. Some snow having got
loose higher up upon the mountain, it began rolling down in little
balls, thousands of them, which got bigger and bigger as you were
looking at them, owing to the snow they collected on their precipitate
career. The avalanche passed in a furrow only a few yards from us,
affording a magnificent view; but this furrow, unhappily, led to the
very spot where I had left my sick men, down, down below, and we could
see them, as big as ants, lying wrapped in their red blankets on the
white snow, unconscious of the approaching danger. The myriad of
snowballs, which were no bigger than ping-pong balls when they started,
were as big as decent-sized buildings when they had gone some hundreds
of yards, and when two of them clashed in their descent it seemed like
an explosion of a mine, the scattered snow in powdered form being
thrown up to a great height and looking not unlike smoke. The hollow,
whirling sound as the avalanche whizzed past was quite impressive, and
I must confess that I was never so relieved as when I saw it just miss
my invalided men down below, and end its run with a great clash upon
the glacier at the bottom. It seemed like heavy thunder when it struck,
which was echoed for some minutes in the mountains all round and down
the passage through which we had approached the glacier.
When we reached the crest of the range we came to a difficult passage
where the rock, just like the blade of a knife, was so sharp and its
sides so steep that even the snow would not remain on it. We had to get
across somehow, and the only way to do it was to balance oneself on the
top of it—less than a foot wide—or, if one’s head was not steady
enough, proceed astride of it. It was only a few feet long, but the
drop, had one fallen, was several thousand feet on either side. Apart
from the fact that it was so high, there was no real difficulty in
getting across, and, panting and blowing, stopping every few feet for
breath, we proceeded higher and higher.
My men were suffering considerably, their hearts beating in a most
irregular fashion with occasional violent throbs, which caused me much
anxiety. These throbs, when they occurred, caused such sudden
exhaustion that the men fell down half-fainting, and it took some
minutes to revive them and bring them further. They were, however, most
plucky, and struggled like men, uncomplainingly. They never once asked
to give in and go back.
From an altitude of about 22,000 feet their sufferings took a somewhat
acute form, nausea and profuse bleeding from the nose causing them much
inconvenience. They complained of intense pains and abnormal pressure
in the centre of the chest as well as along the fissures in the skull,
particularly where the skull is thinner on the top at the point of
junction, and at the temples; also of a severe pressure low in the back
of the skull. They were much worried over the maddening buzzing caused
by the rarefied air, which they heard and could not explain. They
attributed it to something having got inside their ears. Their hearing
was temporarily affected when we got higher still, and they experienced
difficulty in hearing me speak at all.
When we had got to 23,000 feet, my nose, too, bled like a fountain, and
I could not stop the flow, but, contrary to my expectation, it seemed
to cause me relief rather than discomfort. I could breathe more freely,
and my heart did not beat in such a reckless manner as before. It
caused me a slight pain and pressure on the top of the skull, but
nowhere else.
Of course the exhaustion was indescribable. It was all one could do to
go four or five yards at a time, although the ascent after a certain
point was in no way difficult, because on looking at the mountain I had
instinctively chosen the easiest way to go up. One panted so
convulsively and the heart beat so hard and quick that it rather made
one reflect.
Possibly the most trying consequence of travelling so high up was the
weight which one’s limbs seemed to assume. One hardly had the strength
to lift them up. The effort of moving one’s legs in succession three or
four times exhausted one temporarily as much as if one had walked
thirty miles under ordinary circumstances.
Well, on we struggled, with an occasional grin at our plight. The last
few hundred feet of our ascent were indeed hard work.
One of my men, the strongest-looking lad in my party, who had been
panting most terribly and gasping for breath, unluckily burst a
blood-vessel when we were within a few feet of the top. He was in
intense pain. We screened him in a sheltered nook. He suffered very
much, poor fellow, and although on our return we brought him down
again, he eventually died.
At last we reached the summit—23,490 feet (measured by me with the
hypsometrical apparatus with three different boiling-point thermometers
checked at the Kew Observatory before my departure and after my return.
Two excellent aneroids which I also carried gave a similar figure
within a few feet).
The day was a beautifully clear one up there, but down below there was
much mist and many clouds, which took away a good deal from the beauty
of the panorama. There were, however, a great many high snowy peaks
towering above the mist like majestic white islands rising out of the
sea of clouds. The view was soon almost entirely obscured by clouds,
and with the exception of Api Mt., to the N.N.W., another peak, 20,280
feet, in Nepal, peeping through to the N.E. of us, one of the Lumpa
group and other mountains close by, we could see very little.
The peak on which we were was in a steep gradient on the side on which
we had climbed, but was most precipitous on the other side. In fact, it
was almost vertical right down to the glacier at its foot, some 6500
feet below. It looked as if one half of the mountain had at some remote
period collapsed, leaving the sharp-edged peak standing. There was not
as much snow on the top as lower down, as the wind blows a good deal of
the surface snow away, some melts with the heat of the sun, and the
slope of the mountain, even on the side we had climbed, being somewhat
steep, whenever sufficient snow had accumulated on the top its weight
caused it to slide down in avalanches. Even the day I went up we
counted some five or six avalanches in various parts of the mountain,
but none came quite so near as the first I described.
The rock was exposed in one or two places, and was so rotted that with
our fingers we could remove large slabs. When we had taken a good rest,
which restored us wonderfully—as soon as you sat down and did nothing
you felt well and relatively happy, except the lungs, which seemed not
to work quite so regularly—we took advantage of the rock at hand to
construct a cairn on the summit. After having inscribed the names of my
men and my own on a stone and on a piece of paper, we placed them in a
receptacle on the south side of the cairn and built them up all round
and above, so that they might be preserved as long as possible.
I then proceeded to take all the necessary observations—not, however,
before having devoured two whole pounds of chocolate, which I ate with
some snow to allay my thirst as well as my appetite.
I had been consuming on that ascent a great many lozenges of highly
concentrated meat,—each one was supposed to be as good as a meal,—and I
ate at least fifty in the space of eight hours and a half. I suppose
they were sustaining, but you had to eat lots of them for one lozenge
to sustain the previous one, or they left an awful feeling of emptiness
in one’s inside. An empty inside, I firmly believe, is a mistake for
reaching high elevations, or at any other time, so I had started with
my pockets full of chocolate, and what the lozenges could not do the
huge chunks of chocolate I chewed all the way up the mountain certainly
accomplished.
I think it was partly due to the constant nourishment I took all the
way up that I was able to break the world’s record in mountaineering,
going several hundred feet higher than other mountaineers, with
comparative ease. Had the peak which we climbed been higher, I could
have gone even higher and reached a considerably greater elevation. But
perhaps Nature gave me quite an abnormal constitution for work of that
kind, as people who know me can testify.
It is interesting to note that the strongest and most athletic-looking
man in my party on that particular expedition was the only one who
broke down badly and died; and the weakest, smallest-framed—almost
girlish in appearance, he looked so delicate—was the only one out of
all the followers I had employed who throughout stood the hardships and
sufferings without a flinch, showed the greatest endurance, and
eventually returned home in excellent condition.
Perhaps I should also mention that neither myself nor any of the men
who came up with me wore hobnailed boots in making the ascent, I
wearing some comparatively light boots of medium weight such as I would
wear in London on a wet day. In the way of clothing, too, I made no
difference between going up on a world’s record-breaking expedition and
taking a stroll down Piccadilly. I mean that I wore my Piccadilly
clothes up there—clothes of the thinnest tropical material, no
underclothing to speak of, a straw hat, and a small bamboo stick in my
hand.
It has always been my practice to simplify everything. One cannot get
away from the fact that the simpler you are in everything you do the
better, and with mountaineering particularly, the less you carry, the
less muffled up you are, the freer in your movements, the more you will
accomplish. That is to say, if your constitution is so made that you
can stand it.
I cannot get away from the fact that one can do no better than wear
such comfortable clothes as one is generally in the habit of wearing,
and I could never understand the object of parading in clumsy tweeds
strapped all over, when you need your movements as little impeded as
possible.
I will refer you to one of the coloured plates, copied from a
photograph taken at an altitude of some 20,000 feet on Lumpa by one of
my men before we left them on the mountain side. The picture shows the
author and the four men who accompanied him to the summit of the
mountain.
CHAPTER IX
We must go back a while in the narrative. On having reached the summit
and delivered themselves of the instruments, cameras, etc., which they
carried, the men immediately threw themselves down and fell fast
asleep, breathing heavily and quite exhausted. I let them rest awhile
before taking observations upon them. When I woke them up one by one
they did not respond very quickly,—as they usually did,—but seemed to
remain for some minutes semi-unconscious, as if they had been under the
influence of a narcotic. This was undoubtedly caused by the rarefied
air.
On the ascent above 20,000 feet I had noticed how profuse the
salivation had been with my men; the saliva glands being most active
when the men underwent exertion, but not so much now that they were
stationary. Curiously enough, one of the four men who suffered least
during the ascent and when up there on the summit was a fellow—a
Rajiput by caste—who had never been on a snow mountain in his life. His
determined enthusiasm, I think, and strong will helped him to no mean
extent.
I am unable to give the men’s names here, lest I should expose them to
further persecution from the Government of India, but we will call them
A, B, C, D.
A, 45 years of age, after a good rest, had a fairly regular heart-beat,
but very fast. He felt quite ill, and complained of a severe pressure
at the temples and the top of the head. Every two minutes or so his
lungs and heart showed some convulsive movements; also abnormal
movements were noticeable in the centre of the chest. His pulse
registered 105 beats a minute, and was extremely faint, while his
temperature was 102°. This was the man who broke a blood-vessel.
B, a Shoka, 50 years old, and who had constantly lived at great
elevations, had a stronger pulse, 80 pulsations per minute, with a
temperature of 100°·2. His forehead was burning, and he had a strong
buzzing in his ears. Pain and convulsive movements in the lungs, and
also in the centre of chest, every few breaths.
C, a powerfully-built Shoka, felt abnormal weakness, although his pulse
was only 78, quite regular, but so faint that one could hardly feel it.
The heart, too, beat quite feebly but regularly enough, when not
exerting himself. He had bled considerably on the ascent. His
temperature was 98°. His ears were buzzing, and he suffered from
tormenting pressure in the temples, top and back of skull.
D, the Rajiput, astonished me very much. He only had 76 pulsations,
very steady and strong, although he had bled profusely; his heart beat
violently and throbbed alarmingly every few moments. His respiration
was regular, but slightly quicker than normal. He complained of great
heat in the head. His forehead was burning; his temples, he said,
seemed as if they were being crushed in a claw of iron, and as if his
skull would split. He suffered from great pressure in the tenderest
spot on the top of his skull and also behind the head. His temperature
was 100°·2.
All complained of great heaviness in the legs and arms, of dryness of
the skin, particularly at the forehead and lips, and unquenchable
thirst. The pupils of the eyes were in all cases abnormally contracted,
although the light was not strong at the time of examination.
I was impressed by the distinctness with which sounds travelled; voices
sounding extraordinarily clear, quite crystalline, and if loud and near
producing quite a sharp and uncomfortable impression upon the tympanum
of one’s ears, notwithstanding that the rarefied air caused the
sensation of having my ears stopped with cotton-wool.
After half-an-hour’s rest the observations upon myself were as
follows:—120 pulsations per minute, and heart beating at a similar
rate, rather stronger than usual, but quite regular. Temperature under
tongue 99°·3. The forehead, unlike my men’s, quite cool but feeling
very dry, and there remained a slight pressure along the fissures at
the side of the skull. Both with me and with all my men the temperature
of the body around the heart was greatly increased, and we all suffered
from an insatiable thirst. We constantly filled our mouths with snow
and melted it in order to appease the uncomfortable feeling, but in a
moment the palate and throat felt quite dry, although, as I have
stated, salivation was profuse, especially while eating or taking
exertion.
While my men were busy constructing the cairn I did a very foolish
thing. From our pinnacle down to the glacier below in a vertical line
was a drop of some 6500 feet, and for some reason or other I took it
into my head to go and sit on the edge and dangle my legs over the
precipice. You see, one does not always have an opportunity of having
so much room to dangle one’s legs and feet in! In order to avoid
accidents I knocked off some of the surface snow and then, helped by
one of my men—who entered fully into the humour of the situation—I sat
myself down.
I was gaily kicking my feet about, when my man shouted that the ice and
rock were giving way from under me. Before I had time to get up from my
unpleasant position the fellow had pluck and sense enough to try and
reach over, seizing me firmly by the wrist, and as the rock and ice and
snow went from under, not only were my legs dangling over the
precipice, but my whole body was suspended in mid-air.
It seems that in his efforts to save me I might have dragged the man
down as well, had it not been for the presence of mind of a third
fellow who interrupted the construction of our cairn and seized my
saviour by the legs. After some dangling about—which seemed to last a
very long time—they eventually pulled me up.
Now, had those men been English or Scotch or Irish or French, this
incident might have supplied them with some excitement and a topic of
conversation for some time. But no; the man B, who had caught me in the
first instance, felt with his foot a spot where the snow seemed firm
enough, and he placidly remarked: “Sit down here, Sahib, this will not
give way,” and he sat himself down as if nothing had happened, while
the man C resumed the construction of the cairn without any comment.
My heart thumped a good deal from the sudden jerk—not to speak of the
prospect of the unexpected flight—but on feeling myself all over and
finding that I had not lost anything from my pockets, nor my straw hat,
I soon felt quite happy again. A glance at the two sketches
illustrating this incident will, I think, give a clearer idea of the
situation than the description.
We remained about an hour on our lofty pinnacle, the temperature in the
sun being 70°, and then we made our way down. Holding one another by
the hand we slid down the steep incline at a precipitous pace. The
distance which had taken us hours of toiling and panting in our ascent,
only took us a very short time in the descent. A thick mist was coming
on and my men were most anxious to get down quick.
We were sliding down at a terrific rate, using our feet as brakes to
control the velocity when it got too dangerous. We eventually found
ourselves again on the loose débris and here, too, we went down several
yards at each step, carrying down with us a mass of loose stones—a
regular land-slide—which rolled right down to the bottom with
tremendous fracas.
As we got lower, we all felt notable relief in breathing, and we halted
for a few minutes to pick up the men we had left below. They had
obtained a good rest, and were feeling better.
We gave a parting look to the magnificent glacier—which I named the
Charles Landor, after my father—and its stupendous irregular terraces
of clear ice rising vertically over 1000 feet in height. The terraces
were undulating on their summit, and showed a tendency to precipitate
towards the southern side.
On our return we followed a simpler plan. The tail of the glacier
showed three high ridges of ice, covered farther down with débris,
these ridges—two lateral and a central one—running practically parallel
to each other and being formed by the forcing up of the ice at the
sides and in the centre. Also, the snow precipitated from the sides of
the mountains would tend to increase their height—while the heat of the
mountain rock would cause the snow in its immediate neighbourhood to
melt, and thus leave a channel clear between the mountain itself and
the dunes thus formed. As there was some snow on the summit of these
dunes one got a fair grip with one’s feet; and walking upon their
summit involved no great difficulty, except that when one had balanced
oneself upon them for long distances one occasionally felt a little
giddy. This was, nevertheless, a great improvement upon walking down
below among the crevasses, holes, and pools, as we had done in the
morning, and saved us no end of time and exertion. True enough, if we
had slipped we might have shot down with some force into a crevasse
with little hope of coming out alive, but we must not slip, that was
all. As each of us had to look after himself, we were mighty careful
where and how we put our feet.
The central ridge here, as in most other glaciers, was usually higher
and sharper-edged than the lateral ones, and had also a more uneven
summit, rather like the conventional wave pattern, inverted arcs of a
circle coming in contact and forming pointed summits. We travelled on
the ridge to our left on leaving the glacier.
At six o’clock in the evening we again reached camp—oh, how glad we
were!—having been on the go steadily for thirteen hours, during which
time we had covered sixteen miles. This was not at all bad, at such
elevations and on such difficult ground. Of course, most of that
distance was between the camp and the glacier at the foot of the Lumpa
basin; the actual distance from the glacier to the summit, although
occupying the greater portion of the time, being comparatively small.
There were great rejoicings in camp that night, and they took the form
of an elaborate—but only half-cooked—meal, our fuel giving out in the
middle of the cooking. You see, at high elevations water takes such a
long time to boil; in fact, it boils without being hot. At that
particular camp it boiled at 187°·3—and cooking took an interminable
time. With a display before me—and it did not remain a display very
long—of tepid Bovril soup, sardines, army ration stew (semi-stewed),
corned beef, tinned plum pudding (Lord! it felt heavy even up there!),
and a warmish mug of chocolate—I felt as happy again—in fact, happier
than a king!
CHAPTER X
We made a very early start again the following morning, as I had the
intention of crossing the range to the north of us and exploring some
of the virgin glaciers of the Tinker region and in Tibet. The mountains
were, however, so precipitous that we had some difficulty in finding a
spot where we could climb up and take our loads as well.
We again proceeded upward towards the Charles Landor Glacier, but kept
on the dune to the left (going up) instead of on the one we had taken
coming down the previous night. Again we passed along huge cracks in
the ice, and here and there more holes in the ice—relieving somewhat
the monotony of the grey débris that covered that tail portion of the
glacier. Again we got another distant glimpse of the majestic glacier
itself towering in front of us with its gigantic ice-terraces. Perhaps
the reason that these terraces droop towards the southern side may be
attributed to the heat of the sun shining upon the ice of that side for
more hours than on the north side, as the high wall enclosing the basin
on the east side casts a shadow upon the glacier until the sun is well
up in the sky.
Somehow or other the dune we were on was not as regular as the one of
the previous night, and the débris which covered it was very loose and
slippery. It often crumbled under us, so that we thought we had better
march in the deep channel between the mountain side and the dune. Here,
too, we had to feel our way with great caution, as the ground was
treacherous, with cracks in the ice bridged over with snow and débris.
This seemed a great day for landslides. At every moment we heard
crashing noises of masses of débris being precipitated upon the
glacier, and some of them were quite near enough for us to see.
The range to the north of us seemed so uninterrupted and so steep
everywhere, with a base of rotten débris, and high vertical rocks at
the summit, that we were quite puzzled to find a spot where we could
cross it. I had noticed a likely—but difficult—place the day before,
and it was, indeed, the only accessible way up. We there left the
glacier and began a stiff climb on the loose débris, my men
experiencing much difficulty in conveying their loads up. Every few
hundred feet they had to lie down for some minutes to rest. Although
the fatigue was really for them overpowering, they took matters in the
right spirit, and instead of grumbling they laughed heartily at the
difficulty of breathing, and the thumping and throbbing of the heart.
We eventually got away from the lower débris and proceeded among large
slabs of rock, most slippery and troublesome, and as sharp as knives,
our feet getting constantly jammed between them. At last we came before
a wall of rock, at such a steep angle that it looked almost
perpendicular, with cracks and fissures in it, and on this we had to
climb, clinging with all our might with fingers and toes. This part of
the ascent was quite dangerous, for, had we slipped, it meant certain
death. The rock was so cold that one’s fingers got semi-frozen; and we
felt much relieved when every now and then we found a hollow or crack,
or projection, allowing sufficient room to sit down and rest, our legs
swinging over the abyss down below. The bringing up the loads gave us
no end of trouble, and it was a pleasure to see how thoughtful and
helpful my men were to one another.
We eventually got to a spot where we could go neither up nor down, as
some of the rock gave way; and it was with some trepidation that we
watched one of my Shokas make steps in the rotten rock while clinging
with one hand and his toes apparently to nothing. This took a long
time, and this difficulty being overcome and a way made, we climbed and
climbed on all fours until we reached the pass.
We heartily named it there and then the “Savage Pass.” We took a long
rest on the summit, and erected two large cairns with our names in
them. We obtained a most stupendous view of the glacier we had left
behind uncoiling itself several hundred feet below us. It looked very
nasty, with its huge cracks and crevasses, and the three dunes all
along it, like huge serpents uncoiling themselves. We had hardly time
to admire the scenery before we were enveloped in thick mist, to the
north of us particularly, the entire landscape being hidden from us. A
few moments later it began to snow. Water boiled as low as 182°, while
the temperature of the air was 51°, the altitude in feet being 17,331.
Whether because of the reaction after the hard work of getting up
there, or because of the sudden cold and depression in the atmosphere,
due to the coming storm, a number of my men were taken violently ill
with mountain sickness. They wrapped themselves in their blankets, and
said they were dying and could not move. After a good deal of
persuasion, and some shaking—which is always a good remedy for most
complaints—we made a start.
On the other side of the range we were confronted with very much the
same sort of ground as what we had found coming up. First now came a
wall-like rock precipice to descend—much more difficult always than to
ascend; and then the snow falling fast prevented our seeing many feet
ahead of us, besides making our hands, ears, and nose unpleasantly
cold. We clung to those rocks and went carefully down, the rock being
so rotted that it frequently gave way. In some hours’ work we were able
to take all the baggage, partly by passing it down with ropes from one
man to another, stationed at various heights upon the rocky wall. Even
ourselves had to be let down one by one with ropes in many places where
the rock was so smooth and vertical that it was impossible to cling to
it; but otherwise we were not roped together, the ropes used being
merely those for slinging the loads on the men’s backs.
There rose a cutting wind, which made matters even more unpleasant, and
drove the sleet and snow with great force into our faces. When the
difficult part of the descent was over, and we gradually got lower
down, the weather cleared somewhat, and we obtained a good view of the
scenery to the north. The vertical rock we had descended measured 600
feet in height.
A magnificent undulating sea of clouds lay before us, screening the
lower section of the valley; then three distinct glaciers showed
themselves to the north of us, in terraces like gigantic stairways, but
with their base hidden in the mist, and barren, desolate, snow-capped
mountains rising above them. Then two more glaciers appeared. Above the
most northerly of the three glaciers rose a peak 20,279 feet high. As a
matter of fact, when the mist cleared up a little more, we discovered
that these five glaciers were only the ramifications of one huge
glacier, but they were distinctly separated in their upper portion by
ridges.
A sea of clouds is always an interesting sight, annoying as it is, at
the time, when it screens the scenery one would like to see. In fact,
the formation of clouds upon mountains is altogether an engrossing
subject to an observant traveller. The clouds at elevations above the
perpetual snow-line (about 16,000 in the Himahlyas) have a more
feathery appearance than those formed below, and the higher the
elevation the more feathery and light they seem to be. On the snow-line
itself one generally saw clouds, chiefly of a globular character, and
in such close succession as to form long horizontal streaks. This was
particularly noticeable at sunrise and at sunset. During the night,
except in case of storms, clouds formed less profusely, and, when they
did, disappeared quicker than in the daytime. Just before sunrise,
however, when the atmosphere was gradually getting warmer, at
elevations from 13,000 to 16,000 feet, mists were constant, which
eventually dispersed when the sun was high on the horizon. Towards
sunset and soon afterwards they generally recurred again, but the
nights were usually very clear. In that particular expedition, being
always at very high elevations, I had an opportunity of seeing many
phenomena of curious interest and beauty.
One afternoon when I had climbed with two men on a small peak to
reconnoitre the country around, we were confronted by a sea of mist
down below. The sun was rather low behind us, and it projected our
shadows, well defined but in an elongated form of some hundreds of
feet, on the sheet of pure white mist beyond. It had quite a weird
effect, when we were gesticulating, to see our movements magnified in
the shadows to such gigantic proportions.
Another beautiful effect I observed on several occasions when enveloped
in mist, of immense white concentric circles with a luminous centre,
caused by the sun penetrating through different layers of mist. When
under similar circumstances the sun was behind the spectator instead of
in front, and the spectator himself not enveloped in the mist, a huge
spectre—the spectator’s shadow—was often reflected in the centre of the
luminous circle. As I have elsewhere described, the latter phenomenon
can be produced by the moon or the sun, by the former in a less
intensified form, by the latter with a circular rainbow of beautiful
colours.
There are many kinds of “seas of mist” upon mountains, some with
islands (mountain tops peeping through), some without; some
smooth-surfaced like a placid lake, others in undulations or actual
waves like a stormy sea. The shadows and lights play upon the mist and
produce many quaint effects, and objects assume curious and interesting
shapes.
One misty evening, near the Nui Glacier, I saw before me what seemed an
immense crouching lion carved in the rock, not unlike one of the famous
lions in Trafalgar Square, only some thousand times bigger. Sure enough
you could see the eyes, the luxuriant mane, the extended forepaws, and
the tail spread out with the typical end tuft of hair. It was only on
getting quite close that the huge animal showed itself to be a mere big
boulder, with three mani walls with terminal chokdens (cairns) erected
by Tibetans from its base, which from a distance formed the lion’s legs
and tail.
So much for optical illusions; there are a thousand more upon high
mountains, and it is the number of surprises one meets at every moment
which makes a lonely life at great elevations full of enchantment.
Having, on our descent from the Savage Pass, reached a lower elevation
and less perilous ground to tread upon, we directed our steps towards
20° (N.E.) bearings magnetic. At 16,100 feet we found moss, but now
dead and dry. Unfortunately for us we were benighted before we could
find a suitable camping-ground, and a violent snow-storm broke out
which made it very difficult to see where we were going. We were
endeavouring to get lower down, where we could obtain some shelter and
a slightly warmer temperature, my men being simply paralysed with cold.
They stumbled along, a row of black silent figures, I keeping the
direction in which I wanted to travel with a luminous compass.
We went on for a considerable portion of the night, the storm getting
so bad that we could not see where we were putting our feet; and
towards midnight, having come across a lot of big boulders, we decided
to take advantage of them and make camp. My men were so tired and
frozen that they simply threw themselves down, covered themselves up,
and went fast asleep, declining to eat any food. They had eaten nothing
that day, for they maintained that if you eat food when you are so cold
you will surely die. Of course their philosophy does not go quite so
far as to reflect whether it is preferable to die of indigestion or
from the low temperature. Personally, as I have never been troubled
with the former, I thought I would not risk the latter. While everybody
around snored and moaned or was delirious from pain, I got out a small
spirit Etna and attempted to brew myself some hot chocolate. Box after
box of matches went in trying to keep it alight, and when, after using
the patience of a saint, I had succeeded in making the water tepid, my
tent was blown down on the top of us, and upset the whole thing. So,
cold chocolate I ate in chunks and some corned beef—oh, it was
cold!—and some biscuits.
It was as lonely a meal as I have ever had, with the wind hissing and
the snow accumulating upon my shoulders, knees, and head. I did not
like to rouse my poor men to put up the tent again, for it was no use,
the snow was too deep and the pegs would not hold; but I made myself a
sort of low shelter with some boxes and the tent spread on them, and
having crept underneath, slept soundly till the morning.
“Oh, what a morning!” I exclaimed, when I opened my aching, half-frozen
eyelids. Worse than the night before, and the snow coming down as I
have seldom seen it come before. My baggage was buried altogether, and
so were my men, except for some breathing-space cleared near the head.
All the urging in the world would not get them up, and every time I
gave them a dig in sensitive spots with my bamboo stick, it only
brought forth pitiable moans and groans.
Towards 10 A.M. the storm abated somewhat, and we dug out the loads and
departed, my men still declining to eat any food. Hungry and shivering,
they were indeed a pitiable sight. Their normal sense of humour was
sadly lacking that day, and they strode unsteadily, with long, mournful
faces, as if they were about to mount the executioner’s scaffold.
We went on the whole day mostly in mist and sleet and snow, and towards
evening we arrived at the bottom of the valley. Excitement did not
altogether lack. Three avalanches came down during the day with
deafening fracas. One of them, which brought down a lot of débris and
rock, sounded like a regular battle, with sharp fusilading and big
artillery, with a deafening report at the end which almost stunned us.
Next we came to a broad river which it was necessary to ford, and
wading across it chilled us about as much as we could endure. Our toes
got so cold—almost frost-bitten—that it required some minutes of
rubbing and thumping before we could stand upon them again. The pain
was quite excruciating.
While we were in this plight we heard voices. We answered, and
presently two Jumli shepherds, half-scared and shaggy, cautiously
approached us. We received the information that some few more hours’
marching would take us to the village of Tinker, and for it we made
with renewed vigour. Stumbling and slipping constantly after it got
dark, we went on and on. More snow, more wind. Hour after hour passed,
but no village. At last, at 3 A.M., my men half-dead with fatigue and
hunger, we arrived at the modest little village of Tinker. My men had
wilfully been forty consecutive hours without a morsel of food, but
once under a roof with a blazing fire, they were now preparing to make
up for lost time.
CHAPTER XI
Tinker is a village of Shokas, at no less an elevation by hypsometrical
apparatus than 12,664 feet. Our arrival necessarily caused a great deal
of commotion, and everybody was up to see what was happening.
It is the custom in that part of Nepal—a habit of all Shokas
generally—that no stranger must enter a village after sunset without
sending a messenger ahead to warn the residents; so, according to their
code of manners, we were committing a gross breach of etiquette. I well
knew this, and upon arrival immediately asked for the chieftain of the
village to express my sorrow that we were unable to advise him of our
arrival.
The chief was a splendid fellow—an old friend of mine—a man with a
heart of gold and the manner of a most polished gentleman. He placed
his house at my disposal, and showered upon us lavish presents of
food—fresh meat, rice, ghur, and dried fruit. He would on no account
accept money, so I gave him presents of various kinds, and distributed
the money among his family and servants.
I have ever made it a rule never to accept presents from anybody
anywhere, and, when gifts are forced upon me, to give back some gift of
equivalent value. With natives particularly I ever followed this golden
rule, nevertheless displaying gratitude for their thoughtful offerings.
The house in which we dwelt was a stone structure, the rooms only some
7 feet high, with little slits of windows and a somewhat disjointed
door. When a huge fire was lighted in the room, with no escape for the
smoke or heat, you were simply roasted and suffocated, but after our
cold, fireless nights on the glaciers this felt to us the most
comfortable and luxurious abode we had ever been in. Fleas there were
in abundance—little fleas with marvellous jumping powers, and giant
ones of astounding voracity. With their proverbial partiality for
strangers, they of course directed their undivided attention to us
new-comers, and particularly to me. In a moment we were covered with
hundreds of bites.
The chieftain told me how the Tibetans on the frontier close by were in
a great state of excitement over my approach. They boasted of having
5000 soldiers ready to meet me, and hearing that I was now on Nepal
territory they had despatched them to the Tinker Pass to capture me.
The Tibetans had been for some days busy polishing up their matchlocks
and grinding their swords, and they had accumulated large piles of
stones to precipitate down upon me in ravines which we had to get
through. The same stories I had on many occasions heard before, both on
my previous journey into Tibet and on the present.
When we got up in the morning a great many yaks came in laden with
Tibetan wool, which the natives barter with Tibetans in exchange for
food-stuff, and also long strings of sheep and goats with double sacks
slung across the back and filled with borax. With some of these
caravans, unluckily, arrived—unseen by me—some Tibetan spies, and they
at once set to work to scare the villagers. There was a sudden
commotion in the village, the natives ran here and there conveying
their children, goods, and chattels into their houses, and in these
they barricaded themselves. Only the chief remained cool and collected;
and, to avoid getting him into trouble, and by way of precaution, I
shifted my quarters from his house to a high point commanding the
village, where I pitched my tents, placing men with loaded rifles on
guard of my baggage.
It looked very much as if there were trouble brewing ahead. Some of
these Nepalese Shokas are very curious people, shifty and unfathomable,
the life they lead being one of semi-brigandage and trading. They are
interesting enough as a type—flat-faced and of strongly Mongolian
features, as in the portraits of the long-haired young men I give in
two of the coloured plates—and they have from contact adopted some of
the dash and independence of the Nepalese. We took no notice of the
warlike preparations, and when some young fellows, bolder than the
rest, came out of their houses to inform us rudely that we must go at
once, they duly had their heads punched. We would go when it pleased
me, and not before.
Bad luck never comes singly, but it can sometimes be turned into good
luck. A Nepalese agent also arrived early that morning, and could
persuade no more messengers to come and approach me on the subject of
departing from their country, so he had to come on the errand himself.
With many salaams the Nepalese officer came forth, and, after tender
inquiries after every possible existing and imaginary relative of mine
he could think of, he gently entered upon the question of my leaving
the country. Asked whether he would like his head punched too, or a
gift of five rupees not to worry me and induce the natives to sell me
300 lbs. of rice, some goats, ghur, and butter, he at once said he
preferred the five rupees, and would endeavour to do all he could to be
of assistance. In fact, he went into the village again, and shortly
after the provisions were duly sold to me.
You see, five rupees would be to him, in Nepal, as much as he would
receive in cash from his Government for two months’ salary.
We sacrificed a goat for luck—the luck consisting chiefly in the dinner
that followed—and in the afternoon we made a start in order to cross
the Tibetan frontier.
The Tinker village is perched on a height some distance from the spot
where the two principal sources of the Tinker river join—one coming
from the five glaciers to the east (those described in the previous
chapter), the other source descending precipitously and with great
force from the Tinker Glacier higher up, to the north of the village,
and spreading in a N.E. direction.
Tinker itself is a quaint and interesting place. Flying
prayers—generally pieces of white cloth—decorated every roof in the
village, and some shrubs were similarly decorated with hundreds of
strips of cloth—red, blue, or white—deposited there by devotees.
Chokdens—piles of stones—were numerous, many of them constructed of
stones each of which was inscribed with the Tibetan prayer—“Om mani
padme hum.”
Farther up the mountain one found curious ancient cave-dwellings,
identical with those I have in a previous work described at Taklakot,
in Tibet, the peculiar composition of the rock permitting the chambers
to be hollowed out with comparative ease. These dwellings are very
suitable for that climate, being relatively warm in winter and cool in
summer, besides answering all the purposes of a fortress when built
high up into a cliff. In Tibet itself these cliff-dwellings are most
elaborate, and are connected by means of intricate passages and
galleries going right up to the summit of the high cliff. Outer ways of
communication are also noticeable, in the form of dangerous-looking
steps and sharp and narrow gradients, by which the lodgers can find
access to or escape from their apartments.
Upon the higher Himahlyas, in certain selected points, such as on
passes, or where two trails branch off, or near villages, is generally
to be found a gay exhibition of flying prayers, hundreds of them,
suspended from ropes stretched across upon high poles. Large banners
are also frequently to be seen at these spots. Passing caravans make
these favourite halting-places. Both the women of Tibet and those of
neighbouring tribes often select these spots for stretching their
hand-looms and weaving their fabrics.
The Tinker Glacier was a very beautiful sight with its high terraces,
and we followed it for its entire length on our way up to the pass. It
was a long and steep climb, mostly on snow, and as the trail was low
down between high mountains to the S.W. and N.E. the sun did not
penetrate for any length of time, so that the cold was intense. My men
were rather heavily laden, and at sunset, owing to our late start, we
had gone but a few miles.
We halted at a Tibetan camping-ground, where there were a number of
black Tibetan tents, their occupants bolting full-speed up the
mountain-side as soon as they saw us. After some coaxing, and promises
that we would in no way harm them, they gradually returned and attended
to their business. The women had erected a great many looms outside the
tents, and some jolly, but somewhat shaggy, females were noisily and
busily engaged beating wool previous to packing; others were spinning
it and winding it round long rods; others were speedily making narrow
strips of cloth upon their looms. Upon receiving small presents they
became quite friendly, and gave much information regarding the war
preparations of their countrymen. They said thousands of soldiers were
guarding the pass.
Next morning I went to see for myself, but the Tibetan soldiers had,
when I arrived, already beaten a hasty retreat, leaving nothing more
than their footmarks on the snow. Although I constantly heard of this
formidable army, I never was able to catch it up during my incursions,
or establish its exact position, much less meet it.
Everybody has heard so much of late of Tibetan scenery and travelling
that it will perhaps be more agreeable to the reader if I devote most
of the space which remains at my disposal to the description of some
Tibetan customs. It is well known that Tibet is a high plateau, S.W.
Tibet especially, where most of my exploration extended, averaging
heights of from 15,000 to 19,000 feet, so that people who live in such
a climate and such a country are bound to have peculiarities of their
own, and their ways offer many curious problems.
First of all, I will answer some of the most common questions—generally
very stupid—which I am daily being asked by people who try to be
clever, about the Forbidden Land.
“If you say that Tibet is such a high plateau, barren and cold, with no
trees and no agriculture to speak of, how is it that the people live
there?”
Well, if people stop to think a little, the same question applies to
every country. Why do negroes live in Central Africa, where it is so
hot? Why do people go and live in Panama, where it is so unhealthy? Why
do we live in London, where it is so foggy and damp? In the case of the
Tibetans, as with everybody else in regard to their native land, they
believe that no country in the world can possibly compare with their
own—which, indeed, in a sense, is true. They believe their land is the
most beautiful, the richest, the healthiest on earth, their religion
the only one, their civilisation the highest.
The Tibetans, having lived for so many generations at such great
altitudes, suffer a great deal when they travel to lower elevations,
and they experience a feeling of suffocation and heaviness which makes
them very ill and frequently causes their death. This is not so much
the case with natives of the Sikkim district and of Lhassa, which are
at a much lower elevation; but I am talking principally of the natives
of S.W. Tibet, few of whom live at an elevation of less than 15,000
feet.
“Then,” say other wise folks, “if you maintain that next to nothing
grows in Tibet, that the people are not farmers, how do they manage to
live?”
The answer is simple. The Tibetans import all their food from India,
Nepal, Cashmere, and China during the summer months, while the
snow-passes are open, and they store it in sufficient quantities to
last them all through the winter. Wheat, rice, tsamba (a kind of
oatmeal), ghur (sweet paste), sugar are bartered in large quantities in
exchange for borax, salt, sheep, and yak wool.
Another question that seems to puzzle most people is why polyandry
exists legally in Tibet instead of our marriage customs or polygamy,
and in the next chapter I will endeavour to explain the reason, as well
as why women are so much less numerous than men.
CHAPTER XII
The first two things that strike an observant traveller on entering a
Tibetan encampment are that the number of children in the population is
so small, and that the majority of Tibetans appear, to European eyes,
middle-aged, or even old and decrepit. The second remark is more easily
explained than the first, and many are the reasons which cause Tibetan
men and women to look well on in years long before they have attained a
really advanced age. I have seen a man with hands and face so wrinkled
that he might easily pass for an octogenarian, yet he was no more than
three-and-forty.
The women manage to preserve their complexion slightly better than the
men, by smearing the cheeks, nose, and forehead with a black ointment.
This, to a certain extent, prevents the skin chapping in the cold, but
the winds in Tibet are so terrific that they are disastrous to any
human skin, whether besmeared with grease or not. Indeed, no one who
has not been in Tibet knows what wind can be. I cannot better describe
a gale than by likening it to myriads of knives thrown at one with
great force. It cuts into one through any kind of clothing, and
penetrates to the marrow of one’s bones. The skin, particularly where
exposed, chaps and cracks and becomes a mass of sores, unless the
constant precaution is taken of keeping it well soaked in butter,
grease, or vaseline.
Again, the intense glare of the snow-covered landscape and the
extraordinary brilliancy of the atmosphere compel the natives
constantly to frown—as may be noticed in many of the illustrations
reproduced in this work—in order to screen their semi-closed eyes as
much as possible from the blinding light. This everlasting frown, of
course, covers the forehead with deep wrinkles and grooves, while
“crow’s feet” in continuation of the outward corners of the eyes and
deep channels at both ends of the lips disfigure the faces of Tibetans
at an early age. Naturally, to a European these wrinkles at once
suggest age, whereas they are merely caused by the inclement weather,
and they have been the chief cause which has led casual observers to
describe the population of Tibet as composed mainly of old people.
Another curious fact worth noticing is that, according to theoretical
scientists, the greatly rarefied air of the Tibetan plateau should
retard the growth of human beings, and that therefore a Tibetan should
reach the age of puberty later in life than people living in a
corresponding latitude but at lower elevations. This is not the case at
all. Tibetan boys and girls attain a state of maturity at a
comparatively early age. I have often noticed girls of fifteen or
sixteen and boys of eighteen or nineteen fully developed, and it is at
these respective ages that men and women of Tibet frequently marry.
Now let us try to explain why one sees so few children in Tibet.
Personally, I think it is mainly due to the custom of polyandry
prevailing in the country, which is bound to have disastrous effects
upon the birth-rate of healthy, strong children, with deteriorating
results upon every generation; and also undoubtedly the altitudes at
which the people live to a great extent limit the increase of
population. The generally unhealthy condition of most Tibetans’ blood
also greatly contributes to the non-fertility of parents.
We have yet another curious fact. To an average of fifteen male
children who are born and live in Tibet, only one female child is
healthy enough to survive. There are various reasons for this, and it
would be difficult to discover the primary one; but in my mind, and
from personal observation, I could not help associating that fact with
these two principal causes. First, the food diet of the parents, which
certainly has marked effects on the production of one sex more than
another; secondly, the greater mortality among the weaker female
children. Tibetans always told me that the death-rate in children under
the age of two years was very great in proportion to the number of
births.
It is impossible to give exact statistics, but, from constant inquiry
from families I met, I came to the conclusion that an average of three
children out of seven born succumb before the age of five. Of these
deaths, the majority would be female children.
The life of a Tibetan baby is not a merry one at best. He is cherished
by his mother when newly born, and for some days the new-comer affords
amusement to the tent-mates and the members of the tribe. Occasional
caresses are bestowed upon him, but the trials of having a loving
mother soon begin. She will besmear him from head to foot several times
daily with yak butter, the mother realising that by this process the
skin of her infant will be made impervious to cold; and with maternal
fondness she will press and force the butter into every pore of his
little body. This done, the baby is left naked in the sun so that under
the heat of its rays his skin may absorb the maximum of melted butter.
His next torture comes in the shape of piercing his poor little ears.
The lobes are rubbed between the first finger and thumb until they
become numbed, then with a long silver or brass pin the hole is made,
the fond mother being again the operator. As care is never taken to
disinfect the pin from the accumulation of dirt upon it, and as that
very same pin has for generations been used in the various capacities
of tooth-, nose-, and ear-pick, nail-cleaner, and head- and
back-scratcher, it is not infrequent to find that the ear-piercing
operation is accompanied by inflammation or some nasty sore or other,
causing the little fellow much unnecessary pain. Heavy ear-rings are
next inserted, elongating and disfiguring the little ears, in many
instances the lobes actually tearing down altogether owing to the
weight of the ear-ring.
Until a few months old the baby is made to lie in a basket, in which he
is carried about on his mother’s back—that is to say, if the mother is
in a comfortable enough position to own a basket. Otherwise she will
carry him on her back, suspended by his little arms, which she tightly
clasps over her shoulders; and as this mode of transport somewhat lacks
comfort, it is rather curious to notice the intelligence of Tibetan
babies in order to feel the least inconvenience possible. Under similar
circumstances the average civilised baby who felt his little arms
almost pulled out of their sockets would very likely cry and scream,
helplessly dangling his legs in order to be again deposited on terra
firma. The Tibetan baby knows better. Guided only by his instincts, he
will clasp his mother’s waist with his little toes, so supple that he
can use them almost like fingers. By thus supporting his own weight
upon her hips in the identical position of a monkey climbing a tree,
the tension on his arms is absolutely released and he looks quite at
his ease, even comfortable.
Babies in Tibet, as in other lands, do not lack a temporary charm. They
are by nature good, well-behaved babies; occasionally they are even
jolly. The clothes in which their mothers garb them are not devoid of
quaintness,—as can be judged by some of the illustrations,—and if often
size is preferred to style, it is, as in most countries, for economy’s
sake. Sometimes I have seen babies simply smothered in beads and
ornaments, but even the humblest displays a row of beads round his neck
and a charm or two.
Notwithstanding what has been said of the strange marital customs, the
average Tibetan woman is seldom absolutely sterile. This, of course, is
mainly due to the fact that if she survives at all to the age of
puberty, it is because she is strong and healthy; but at best she is
never so prolific as her Asiatic sisters or even European women. In
Tibet one rarely finds a woman with more than three living children.
The majority of mothers can only boast of one. Yet, on the other hand,
the Tibetan woman can bear children until a fairly advanced age. I
remember meeting a lady who acknowledged her age—after complicated
computation with the aid of fingers and toes—to be forty. Her skin was
so wrinkled and rough that without maliciousness one could have put her
down at fifty-five, but maybe she spoke the truth—she certainly was not
less than what she had stated. She carried in her arms a baby a few
months old.
“It is my baby,” she proudly said, screening with her hand the fat
offspring to prevent the “evil eye” of an inquisitive foreigner. “Go
away; do not touch him or he will die.”
I was in a chaffing mood, and chaff in Tibet can never be too personal.
“I do not believe that he can be your baby, for he has a smooth skin
and yours is rough and wrinkled. Were he your child he would have a
skin like yours.”
The woman, half-amused, half-astonished, called witnesses to testify
that the baby was really hers, and after assumed reluctance I
acknowledged that there existed some resemblance between mother and
son, in the lack of nose.
“Why,” I asked her, “did you not have the child sooner, so that he
might now be a help and comfort to you in your old age?”
She said she had had two other children, but they had died, one when
only “a few moons” old, the other when about four years of age.
With the exception of the few larger towns, Tibet is peopled by small,
semi-nomadic tribes. A large tribe may number a hundred tents, but the
average is from ten to fifty tents. Each tent is inhabited by one
family, although investigation generally brings out the fact that
nearly all members of a tribe are related to one another owing to the
constant intermarriage among themselves.
This constant intermarriage also contributes to a great extent to the
decadence of the race generally, and to the diminution of the
population with each generation.
I had several opportunities of noticing the difference which existed
when either the wife or husband had come from a distant tribe. There
were generally more children to the union, and they were invariably
stronger, both physically and mentally. The Tibetans are well aware of
this, and when a tribe is likely to die out from the causes I have
stated, fresh blood is imported into it by the advice of the Lamas in
order to revive it.
I found that the cleverer men I met in the country were generally born
from parents of different tribes, and not infrequently of widely
separated social positions.
In cases of crosses between different races altogether, such as a
Tibetan and a Nepalese, for instance, or a Shoka, or other frontier
tribes, the families were larger; but these semi-foreign marriages are
not common, and cannot be given as a general rule.
Wilful infanticide is seldom practised in Tibet, and cannot be put down
as one of the causes limiting population. It, of course, occasionally
occurs, for instance, in order to suppress an illegitimate child, but
the custom is greatly looked down upon by Tibetans, although no
punishment—beyond the contempt of the entire tribe—would be meted out
to the culprits.
The women of Tibet are seldom separated from one or other of their
husbands. When one man goes for some days to take the yaks or sheep to
a distant grazing ground, another fills his place in the tent.
Occasionally more than one of her legal husbands live together happily
under the same tent, but usually not more than one at a time.
As I have fully explained in a previous book, In the Forbidden Land,
marriages are principally family arrangements, where a girl becomes the
wife of several brothers; and, in any case, bachelors are, as a whole,
to be greatly congratulated in Tibet.
Other minor causes there are which tend to limit population, but which
cannot very well be mentioned here. Several diseases of the blood—very
common—decidedly do not improve the race; and possibly all these
evils—some natural, some unnatural—may in time bring about the
disappearance of the Tibetan race from their lofty and sacred land.
CHAPTER XIII
Another thing that strikes the traveller in Tibet is the sturdiness of
Tibetan ponies,—long-haired, short, stumpy little brutes, which possess
most marvellous endurance under circumstances which would kill most
horses. They live on whatever grass they can find, which is not much—at
best, short semi-dried blades which take a good deal of looking for
before you can see them at all. Tibet ponies have all the qualities of
a goat and antelope combined, and I have seen them, with a rider on
their back, go up gradients where a human being would have great
difficulty to go up on foot.
The dogs of Tibet are not quite so attractive, being either vicious to
a degree or else stupid, lazy, and uninteresting. The common kind is
not unlike our sheep-dog, except that the hair is longer, which in some
cases gives them a slight appearance of collie dogs. They are generally
ill-treated and suffering, and they seem to have no affection for
anybody. They possess plenty of intelligence, especially those trained
by shepherds, and they are indeed a great help to their masters in
driving the flock in the right direction and keeping the sheep
together. These sheep-dogs are generally made to carry a broad leather
collar with an immense brass bell.
Perhaps, talking of dogs’ affection, I might here give some account of
a Tibetan dog—a friend of mine—that I met on my first expedition into
Tibet, while I was being chased all over the country by the Tibetan
army. One night, during a storm, we were attacked, and I heard a number
of voices around my camp. I only had two men left, and we jumped up to
defend ourselves. Stones were flung at us with slings—an art at which
both Tibetan men and women excel. From their earliest childhood they
keep in constant practice at flinging stones, and in daylight they can
hit the mark with great accuracy. Shepherds use them constantly, and
can pick out any sheep in a flock of hundreds. We kept close to the
ground, rifle in hand, a few feet from our tent, to avoid being hit, as
evidently they were aiming at it, it being of a lightish colour. They
struck it several times. With them was a dog barking furiously all the
time. Dog and men seemed to be approaching—at least, by the sounds of
their voices, for I could not see them. This seemed an appropriate time
to fire a shot, which would undoubtedly, as usual, cause a stampede. It
did. Only the dog remained, barking and yelping the whole night, but we
were otherwise not troubled in any other way, although, of course, we
kept watch until sunrise, when all we found were numerous fresh
footmarks a few yards from our tent.
The dog ran about a good deal, barking and barking, until we prepared
our breakfast, when he sat himself down upon his hindquarters and
watched the proceedings with keen interest. He seemed very shy, and
whenever we tried to get near him he bolted away with his tail between
his legs, howling madly as if he had been hit by a stone. Dogs in Tibet
are so accustomed to have stones flung at them at every possible
opportunity that no doubt in his imagination he fancied he had been hit
by a missile each time we raised our hand to caress him. Animals are
not unlike people in that way.
At last, by offers of tinned meat and the use of the favourite Tibetan
term of endearment, “Chochu, chochu,” the dog became our friend. He
seemed utterly astonished at being caressed, and rubbed himself
affectionately against our legs. He took a particular fancy to Mansing,
my faithful man who developed leprosy, and from that day the dog
followed us everywhere. Mansing, who was suffering considerably, and
who took no interest whatever in scientific observations, photography,
surveying, etc., had at last a sympathising friend to whom he could
confide his grievances. The two were inseparable, and whenever we
stopped Mansing pathetically conversed with the dog, who seemed almost
to understand all the coolie was telling him.
It was rather a puzzle to me why this dog followed us so long, for we
had so little food that we could but seldom spare him any. He slept
near us at night with his head on the lap of one of us, and during the
march he showed quite sporting instincts by chasing antelopes and kiang
(wild horse) when we encountered herds of hundreds of them. Curiously
enough, when we entered a Tibetan encampment he always avoided being
seen in our company. It seemed almost as if he realised that we were
not welcome guests in the country, and feared the consequences.
Possibly he only temporarily left us to see what he could pick up in
the way of food, but whenever we came across him in the encampment, he
never would show signs of recognition, much less of affection, as was
the case when he would rejoin us some miles beyond on the march, when
he made ample efforts to reingratiate himself. He seemed almost to want
to express: “Sorry I had to cut you in the encampment, but I really had
to!”
At last the day came when we were captured, and underwent several kinds
of tortures, as I have already described in In the Forbidden Land. The
dog had vanished, and, to tell the truth, we did not give him much of a
thought, as we were somewhat concerned about ourselves.
One day, when Mansing and I were stretched, or rather suspended, on a
primitive kind of rack, and we were for some time left to ourselves—the
soldiers and Lamas having retired some distance off into the huge tent
of the Pombo, a high official—the dog sadly walked towards us, sniffing
us, and rubbing himself against Mansing and me. He was particularly
affectionate to Mansing, whose face he licked several times; then with
a pathetic movement of his head as if to express his sorrow, he gave us
a parting sad look, turned his back, and walked slowly and sorrowfully
away. That was his last mark of friendship and the last we saw of him.
Tibetan encampments have no great interest except for the peculiar
shape of the black tents—a pattern of shelter most suitable for the
climate of their country. The two sides of the tent are separate, and
when the tent is put up it leaves an aperture all along its highest
ridge. This is for various reasons. First, because the Tibetans light
fires inside their tents, and an opening is necessary to let the smoke
out; also as a means of ventilation, the cold air not penetrating so
quickly as when it comes in at the sides, owing to the warmed
atmosphere inside. The black tents are woven of a coarse and waterproof
fabric of yak hair. Through the slit at the top generally protrude the
props of the matchlocks bundled against one of the tent poles.
Every man in Tibet owns one of these weapons, and is considered a
soldier in time of war.
The inside of a large Tibetan tent is quaint enough when you have
reached it by skipping over masses of dirt and refuse which surround
its outside. Only, when you peep in, the odour is rather strong of the
people, old and young, all since birth innocent of washing, and the
smell of badly-prepared skins, and stores of chura (cheese). Nor must I
forget to mention the wall of yak-dung erected right round the tent
inside to serve the double purpose of protection against the wind where
the tent meets the ground, and of fuel, being gradually demolished to
feed the double mud-stove erected in the centre of the tent. Mud alone
is also occasionally used for the inside wall.
As you know, dung is practically the only fuel obtainable in the
highest parts of Tibet, although occasionally a few low shrubs are to
be found. The fuel is constantly collected and conveyed from one camp
to the next, when changing in order to find more suitable grazing for
the sheep and yaks.
The centre mud-stove is built according to the most practical notions
to make it draw properly, and upon it can nearly always be seen one or
two large raksangs, brass vessels in which brick-tea is being stewed
and stirred with a long brass spoon. But the operation of tea-making is
rather complicated in Tibet. After the leaves have been stewed long
enough the liquid is poured into a dongbo, or cylindrical wooden churn,
in which have been deposited several balls of butter with copious
sprinkling of salt. A piston which passes through the movable lid is
then vigorously set in action, and when well stirred and steaming the
mixture is served all round and avidly drunk in wooden bowls, one of
which every one carries about the person. Tsamba, a kind of oatmeal, is
frequently mixed with the tea in the bowls, where it is made into a
paste with the fingers.
No matter how much non-Tibetan folks may find merriment in the idea of
tea being brewed with butter and salt, there is no doubt that for a
climate like Tibet it is “the drink” par excellence. It warms,
nourishes, and is easily digested. I very often indulged in the luxury
myself, when I could obtain butter, only, my digestion working rather
rapidly owing to the amount of roughing we daily endured, I left out
the salt so that I should not digest the mixture too quickly.
The richer owners of tents generally have a sort of folding shrine,
with one or more images of Buddha, which occupies the place of honour
in the tent. Numerous brass bowls and ornaments are displayed in front
of these images and also offerings of tsamba and butter. Wicks, burning
in butter, are occasionally lighted around and upon the shrine.
Decrepit old women seem to spend most of their time revolving their
prayer-wheels and muttering prayers in front of these altars, and when
occasion arises thus teaching little children to do the same. The
younger folk, too, are very religious, but not to the fanatical extent
of the older ones.
It is quite amusing to see little mites—children are always quaint in
every country—try to master the art of revolving the prayer-wheel. It
must be revolved from left to right, to pray in the proper fashion,—not
that if you revolved it the other way you would necessarily be
swearing, only, according to the laws of Tibetan Buddhism, prayers spun
in the wrong direction would have no effect and bring no benefit. In a
similar way circumambulations, either round hills for pilgrimages, or
round a tent, or round a sacred lake, must always follow a similar
direction to the revolving of the prayer-wheel.
In Lhassa and many other sacred places fanatical pilgrims make these
circumambulations, sometimes for miles and miles, and for days
together, covering the entire distance lying flat upon their bodies,
then placing the feet where the head was and stretching themselves full
length. Inside temples a central enclosure is provided, round which
these circumambulations are performed, special devotions being offered
before Buddha and many of the other gilt or high-coloured images which
adorn the walls of the temple.
As can be seen by the coloured plate illustrating one of these scenes,
from the ceiling of the temple hang hundreds of long strips, Katas,
offered by pilgrims to the temple and becoming so many flying prayers
when hung up—for mechanical praying in every way is prominent in Tibet.
There is, after all, no reason why praying should not be made easy like
everything else. Thus, instead of having to learn by heart long and
varied prayers, all you have to do is to stuff the entire prayer-book
(written on a roll in Tibet) into the prayer-wheel, and revolve it
while repeating as fast as you can go these four words: “Om mani padme
hum,”—words of Sanscrit origin and referring to the reincarnation of
Buddha from a lotus flower, literally “O God, the gem emerging from the
lotus flower.”
The temples of Tibet, except in Lhassa itself, are not beautiful in any
way—in fact, they are generally very tawdry and dirty. The attention of
the pilgrims is directed to a large box, or often a big bowl, where
they may deposit whatever offerings they can spare, and it must be said
that their religious ideas are so strongly developed that they will
dispose of a considerable portion of their money in this fashion.
Large monasteries, of red or yellow Lamas, are attached to these
temples, where proselytes are also educated. These Lamas, whatever
their colour, are very clever in many ways, and have a great hold over
the entire country. They are, ninety per cent of them, unscrupulous
scamps, depraved in every way, and given to every sort of vice. So are
the women Lamas. They live and sponge on the credulity and ignorance of
the crowds; and it is to maintain this ignorance, upon which their
luxurious life depends, that foreign influence of every kind is
strictly kept out of the country. Their abnormal powers have been
grossly exaggerated. They practise, it is true, hypnotism, but that is
all. They can perform no more marvellous feats than any one can do in
England who is able to mesmerize. As for the Mahatmas, who, our
spiritualistic friends tell us, live in Tibet, they are purely
imaginary, and do not exist. The Tibetans have never heard of them nor
about their doings.
Personally—and I am glad that the few men who know Tibet from personal
knowledge and not from political rivalry agree with me—I believe that
the intrigues of the Lamas with Russia are absolute nonsense. Tibet, it
must be remembered, was not forbidden to Englishmen only, but to
everybody from every side, whether native or white, certain Nepalese
and Chinamen, only, having the privilege of entering the country. It
was a fight against Western ways in general which the Lamas were
carrying on, quite successfully owing to the geographical position of
their country, and the natural difficulties of reaching it, and not a
fight against one race more than another. The accounts of the Lhassa
Mission to the Czar were possibly the best diplomatic practical jokes
which have been played upon this credulous country; and the mythical
and much-feared Dorjeff is possibly—at least as far as power is
concerned—nothing more than the creation of hysterical Anglo-Indian
officials who, everybody knows, seem to see the treacherous hand of
Russia in everything.
Perhaps no other country but England would be so rash as to go and sink
millions of pounds sterling good money on a country that is, for all
practical purposes, absolutely useless and worthless. This does not
detract from its pictorial, nor from its geographical or ethnological
interest; from these points it is most interesting indeed.
Agriculturally, as I have stated, nothing grows there; no very wealthy
mines have so far been discovered, the only mines that are plentiful
being of borax, which has not sufficient market value to pay for the
expensive carriage from Tibet to the coast. Regarded as a climate for a
sanatorium for our sick soldiers in India—for which Tibet is frequently
recommended by Anglo-Indian papers—I believe that such an establishment
would be a very quick way of disposing altogether of all the sick men
sent there. And as for such gigantic schemes as the construction of
railways, say from India to the upper waters of the Yangtze-Kiang, or
to Pekin, the expense of taking a railway over the Himahlya range and
keeping it in working order during the wintry months—nine out of
twelve—would, I think, never be remunerative. In Tibet itself the
construction of a railway would be comparatively easy, as great
stretches of the country are almost flat. Stations of imported fuel
would have to be provided for the entire distance across Tibet, and the
engines would have to be constructed specially to suit the great
altitude.
For trade and commerce with the natives themselves, the population of
the country is so small, so deplorably poor and so lacking in wants,
and the country is so large that, personally, I do not see how any
large commercial venture in such a country can turn out successful. It
is very difficult to get money where there is none. Small native
traders, of course, can make small profits and be satisfied. Besides,
the intercourse between Tibet and the neighbouring countries,
particularly those to the south, can only take place with comfort
during three months of the summer when the high snow-passes are open.
So that, much as I would like to see Tibet open in a proper way to
travellers, I cannot quite understand the necessity of the Government
spending millions of money and butchering thousands of helpless and
defenceless natives in a manner most repulsive to any man who is a man,
and of which we can but be ashamed—and all this to obtain a valueless
commercial treaty. It is true, the Tibetans had been very impudent in
every way on our frontier, but for this we only have to blame ourselves
and our incompetent officials. If, instead of giving way to their
bluff, we had kept a firm hand, matters would have been different.
Even in the case of my capture and torture on my first expedition into
Tibet I never had a feeling of resentment towards the Tibetans for what
they did to me. It was very exciting and interesting for me to
endeavour to reach their sacred city, but I did so at my own risk and
against their repeated warnings and threats, and I got nothing more for
it in the end than I expected, in fact, bad as it was, considerably
less. Highly amusing as it was to me to give them endless trouble, it
was undoubtedly equally enjoyable to them to torture me, when once they
succeeded in effecting my capture. Possibly, if I now have any feelings
at all towards the Tibetans, it is a feeling of gratitude towards them
for sparing my life in the end, which, by the way, they came within an
ace of taking as they had promised to do.
As a punishment for what they did to me—because, after all, my men and
I suffered a great deal more than the average man could stand—the
Government of India practically ceded, as we have said, all the rights
to Tibet of an immense district of British territory at the frontier.
Can you blame the Tibetans for doing worse if they had a chance?
CHAPTER XIV
In heart and soul the Tibetan is a sportsman; but if you look for grace
in his movements you will be sorely disappointed. Indeed, more fervour
and clumsiness combined are hardly to be paralleled anywhere. Perhaps
the Tibetan is seen to advantage on his pony, and some of his feats on
the saddle I will here describe.
Horse races are quite a favourite form of amusement, and are run in a
sensible manner. Only two ponies at a time go round the course, the
final race being run between the winners of the two best heats. Praying
is usually combined, in some form or other, with everything people do
in Tibet, and so even races are run round the foot of an isolated hill
or around an encampment of tents; for, as you know, circumambulation of
any kind, if in the right direction, is equivalent to prayer, and
pleases God. Thus, just as with their prayer-wheels, a rotatory motion
is kept up from left to right, so races are run in the same way from
the standpoint of the spectator.
A Tibetan race would astonish an English crowd—the means adopted by the
well-matched couples being very effective, if somewhat primitive. Such
simple devices as seizing one’s opponent’s reins, or lashing him in the
face to keep him back, or pushing or pulling him off his saddle, are
considered fair and legal means in order to win the race. The last heat
is usually the most exciting, especially for the spectators, for blows
with the lash are exchanged in bewildering profusion by both riders
taking part in it, their respective ponies sharing unsparingly in the
punishment. Occasionally the race becomes a regular hippic wrestling
match, when both riders, clinging tightly together, tumble over and
roll to the ground. When the ponies are recaptured, the bruised
horsemen remount and continue the race as if nothing had happened.
The heavy sheepskin coats worn by the Tibetans are some protection when
the lash is applied, and the pain inflicted is not always in proportion
to the noise made by the blow; but such is not the case when they catch
one another across the face.
The winner is presented with a kata by the umpire—a high Lama or a
military officer, a most picturesque creature in a brilliant red coat
and fluffy hat, who has a peculiar standard with hundreds of long,
vari-coloured strips of cloth, or flying prayers. Sitting on a handsome
pony, with gaudy harness of green leather inlaid with brass, a valuable
Chinese rug upon the saddle, and many tinkling bells round the pony’s
neck, the umpire and his pony certainly produce a gay ensemble. This
gentleman takes himself very seriously, and seldom condescends to
smile.
The kata, or “scarf of love and friendship,” which is given to the
winner is a long piece of silk-like gauze, the ends of which have been
trimmed into a fringe. As I have elsewhere described at greater length,
these katas play quite an important part in the social intercourse of
Tibetans. They can be purchased or obtained from the Lamas of any
monastery, or where no monastery exists the natives manufacture them
themselves, for they are constantly needed. No gift can be sent nor
accepted without “a veil of friendship” accompanying it, and no
stranger ever enters a tent without offering, with outstretched hands,
a kata, which he quickly lays at the feet of his host. Diminutive katas
are enclosed in letters; sweethearts exchange katas on every possible
occasion—until they are actually married. Polyandry being prevalent in
Tibet, when one of the several husbands returns to his wife after the
customary absence, he never fails to bring a kata with him. Not to
offer a kata to an honoured visitor is as palpable a breach of manners,
and as great a slight as can possibly be offered in the Forbidden Land.
Necessarily, when a kata has been blessed by the Lamas, or is won in a
race before high officials, it has additional value, and these simple
folks value it more than a gift of money or food. It is stored away in
the tent among the heirlooms, and is handed down to posterity.
A slightly more difficult feat, very common in a similar form in most
countries, is the picking up of a kata by horsemen at full gallop. One
horseman, a high official, revolves the kata seven times in the wind,
and then darts full gallop in one direction, followed by twenty,
thirty, or more horsemen riding wildly, and each trying to push his
neighbours out of the way. The official, some thirty yards ahead, flies
the kata in the wind, and when fancy takes him lets it drop out of his
hand. The kata eventually settles on the ground, and the horde of
riders gallops away from it, yelling and quarrelling. At a signal from
the officer the horsemen turn round and make a dash for the scarf,
towards which all the ponies are converging. Clinging to the saddle
with one hand and hanging over, each rider attempts to pick up the kata
without dismounting. Collisions and nasty falls are numerous, and this
sport generally partakes of the character of an all-round fight among
the ponies’ legs. Somebody, however, always succeeds in picking up the
scarf and getting clear of the others, when he triumphantly rides round
the camp fluttering the prize in the wind.
Some of the younger fellows are clever at this sport, and when one
rider at a time does the feat, he seldom misses picking up the kata at
the first swoop.
An interesting and more difficult feat of horsemanship I witnessed in
Tibet was the loading and firing of a matchlock while at full gallop—a
performance which requires a firmer seat on the saddle than appears.
The heavy and cumbersome weapons had to be unslung from the shoulders,
the props let down, the fuse lighted by flint and steel, some gunpowder
placed and kept in the small side receptacle, and last, but not least,
the shot fired off—that is to say, when it would go off! The full use
of both hands was required in this exercise, and therefore the horsemen
held the reins with their teeth. When firing they lay almost flat on
the ponies’ backs in order to prevent being thrown by the sudden
bucking of the frightened ponies.
Another exercise consists in bodily lifting a person on the saddle
while the pony is at full gallop. The pedestrian is seized as low near
the waist as possible, and the impetus of the pony’s flight, not the
rider’s actual strength, is utilised in raising the person on the
saddle.
The women seemed particularly interested in this sport, because a
practical application of this exercise is used by enterprising lads of
Tibet to overcome the scruples of reluctant maids who do not
reciprocate their love. At a suitable opportunity the doomed young lady
is abducted bodily in that fashion, and conveyed in all haste to the
suitor’s tent, with the honourable intention, of course, of making her
his happy bride.
Women are scarce in Tibet, and actual raiding parties, I was told,
occasionally take place against neighbouring tribes in order to obtain
a fresh supply of wives.
Taking things all round, there are few men and women in Tibet who
cannot ride well, yet there are few who can claim exceptional skill in
that line. The Tibetan generally values his bones too much to indulge
in fancy tricks upon his pony. Some young fellow, more ambitious than
others, will master the art of standing erect upon the saddle while
going full speed, his feet being inserted into the stirrups, which have
for the purpose been shortened as high as they could go. By pressing
with his ankles against the saddle he manages to maintain his balance,
in the familiar way of the Cossacks and tribes of Central Asia, who all
excel in this game.
Tibetan saddles, as you know, are in appearance not unlike a cross
between a Cossack saddle and a rude Mexican saddle, and as good as
neither, but quite suited to the country where they are used. Men and
women ride astride, with exceptionally short stirrups, so that the leg
is bent at the knee at a right or even an acute angle. In order to
maintain one’s equilibrium when riding fast some additional stability
is obtained by stretching out the arms sideways.
Taking all things into consideration, there is no doubt that in a
rugged, mountainous country like Tibet, and for a Tibetan, his is the
most practical and useful type of saddle, and his fashion of riding the
most sensible—evidently the outcome of practical experience. When
riding in caravans, driving herds of laden yaks or ponies, the
advantages of legs doubled up high upon the saddle are soon apparent,
avoiding the danger of crushing one’s lower limbs or having them partly
torn off. In the English way of riding, when among obstacles, one’s
legs are always in the way; in the Tibetan fashion they are always out
of the way, or, at any rate, can easily and quickly be moved over from
one side to the other of the saddle. Also, when tired of riding in one
position, altering one’s position to side-saddle is quite convenient
and easy.
The blocks of the saddles are of wood imported mainly from India,
Nepal, or China, with bindings of hammered iron or brass, often inlaid
with silver and gold. Lizard skin and coloured leather adorn the front
and back of the saddles, and a substantial pad covers the central part
and the otherwise very angular seat. For extra comfort
rugs—occasionally valuable and always decorative in blue and red
tints—are spread, while to leather laces behind the saddle are slung
double bags containing tsamba, chura, or cheese, a brick of compressed
tea, and whatever sundry articles may be used on a journey. The last,
but not least attachment on a Tibetan saddle is a long coiled rope of
yak hair with a wooden peg at the end for tethering the pony at night.
Whatever one may say of Tibetans, the best-inclined could not
compliment them on their shooting. Their matchlocks—their only
firearms, made in Lhassa and Shigatz—are weapons so clumsy and heavy
and badly made, that when fired it is truly more dangerous to be behind
them than in front of their muzzle. During my captivity in Tibet in
1897, indeed, I was fired upon twice—by distinguished marksmen who took
accurate aim only a few paces from me—but neither time was I hit. Nor
in all my experience of Tibet have I any remembrance of ever seeing a
Tibetan hit with a projectile from his matchlock anything which he
intended, although the range was never more than twenty or thirty
yards. Few are the matchlocks in the Forbidden Land which will carry as
far as fifty or a hundred yards.
They possess a long barrel, not always perfectly straight nor
cylindrical; they are smooth-bore, the explosion being caused by a
primitive fuse attachment which, when lighted by means of a flint and
steel, applies the fire to a small cup of gunpowder at the side of the
barrel. They have a peep-hole sight, but this is absolutely devoid of
mathematical accuracy, and the bullets and gunpowder used by the
Tibetans are home-made and of inferior quality. Pebbles, or small
pieces of iron, are frequently used for ammunition. A movable prop is
necessary in order to enable the long weapon to be held in a horizontal
position, and this should in a way facilitate accurate shooting. Apart
from the various faults of the matchlocks themselves, an additional
difficulty arises in Tibet even when firing with more perfected
weapons. Shooting at great altitudes, it may be pointed out, involves
special sighting of one’s rifle; the variation in the trajectory of a
projectile being considerable, at 15,000 or 16,000 feet above
sea-level, owing chiefly to the rarefied air. The clearness of the
atmosphere also prevents the correct estimate of range. For instance,
with my ·256 Mannlicher rifle, with the usual sight at 100 yards, it
was necessary at that altitude to aim about a foot lower than the
target in order to make a bull’s eye.
When people get to high elevations for the first time, and until they
have the cause explained to them, or learn it for themselves, this is a
constant puzzle, and frequently leads to the condemnation of a good
weapon.
It must be said for the Tibetan that his eye is generally fairly
accurate and his hand steady, and with bows and arrows I have seen some
archers make quite creditable performances. These are, however, now
looked upon as obsolete weapons by the natives. The soldiers as well as
civilians are armed with matchlocks.
Men and women in Tibet are extremely skilful in the use of a rope
sling, which they always carry about their person, and with which they
can fling stones long distances with great precision. It is not
uncommon, as I have said, to see them strike in this manner a picked
recalcitrant sheep in a large flock, or a distant yak which they want
to drive to camp. Even children, through constant practice, are adepts
at stone-throwing.
All over Asia, as we have seen, is found the ancient custom of
“stone-fighting,” either as a sport or to settle disputes between
factions; and although in Tibet these combats do not assume such
gigantic proportions as in Corea, for instance, where thousands of
combatants are engaged in fierce fights, still in the Forbidden Land,
too, there is plenty of scope for broken skulls and bruises. The
battles are generally fought between the male members of two or more
rival families, and seldom between large factions or guilds, except in
big towns such as Lhassa or Shigatz, where these stone fights
occasionally assume alarming proportions. They are undoubtedly a speedy
and practical method of settling controversies among rival families,
besides affording some considerable amusement and excitement to the
gathered crowd of spectators watching the progress of the combat well
out of range of the missiles.
Stone-throwing in a different form, as a sport, is indulged in on
festive occasions by young men. Some large rocks, more or less
spherical, and some 30 to 50 lbs. in weight, being collected, and the
participants in the game having divested themselves of their heavy
coats, which are left hanging from their waistbands, the rocks are
lifted and swung over the head and flung some considerable distance,
often ten or twelve yards, either into an appropriate hole or near a
mark-stone. This exercise generally takes place near a mani wall, such
as is represented in the illustration in this book. Another form of the
same game consists in kicking to or near a particular spot a small
stone with the instep of one’s foot, swinging one’s stiffened leg as if
it were a golf-club.
Wrestling is one of the few other sports noticeable in Tibet. It is,
however, not commonly indulged in, and is done according to no rules.
It is, in fact, in the “catch as catch can” style, with additional
biting and vicious kicking until the victor can firmly hold the
helpless vanquished flat under him.
The amusement which always causes much mirth among Tibetans is
tobogganing. They do not always indulge in it as a sport; but when
opportunity offers, for instance, to save themselves the trouble of
long and steep descents on snowy mountain slopes, they greatly enjoy
the fun. I have seen Tibetans slide on their backs at a terrific pace
for a hundred or two hundred yards down precipitous inclines, laughing
and yelling, with their heavy sheepskin coats collected in front, and
their legs up in the air except when required for steering purposes.
With the exception of the above, I do not recollect seeing any other
national sport; nor, as a matter of fact, do Tibetans indulge much in
sports of any kind—partly owing to the great altitudes which they
inhabit, where violent exercise leads to considerable personal
discomfort and suffering; partly because of a somewhat depressed
nature. Although not always devoid of considerable humour, the Tibetan
can seldom be roused from his normal sulkiness and made to put forth
superfluous exertion either for his own delectation or that of others.
Also, the nomadic existence which he leads from one end of the year to
the other, is full of ever present wild excitements and surprises. He
often travels over snowy passes several thousand feet higher than the
highest mountains of Europe, where precipices and avalanches and
land-slides or falling rocks are of daily occurrence, and any devised
sport becomes in comparison rather tame and uninteresting.
Naturally, there is no such thing in Tibet as training to be an
athlete, nor are the few sports and games specially taught to the
children. They are merely picked up from one generation to the other by
imitation. The Tibetan is extremely hardy and wiry.
Amusements which are the result of prosperity and happiness are not
plentiful in Tibet. Playing cards and dice and a primitive sort of
chess, and one or two more elaborate games imported from China and
Nepal, are occasionally to be seen; but perhaps the most interesting to
us is their dancing, notably their war-dances, curious in people so
little martial. With a sword in one hand and a kata in the other, and
with the knees bent, the dancers keep time to the beating of a double
drum and the clapping of hands from the spectators. They attempt some
more or less clumsy revolutions on their heels, but the movements of
their arms are quite graceful. Alternately each bent arm is raised in
front of the head, while the other is held far back, and they manage to
give a pretty semi-rotary twist to both forearms and hands when they
have reached the highest and lowest points respectively.
As the dancers and musicians get excited the movements of the arms and
legs are greatly accelerated, and some of the best dancers can move
their limbs so quickly that on looking at them one’s eyes get confused
to such an extent that only a shapeless moving mass is distinguishable.
Owing to the rarefied air, they cannot, however, keep this up very
long, and, panting, their lungs in convulsion and eyes bulging out of
their sockets, they abruptly end the dance with a suggestive and
humorous—often too humorous—posture, or else with a leap in the air,
doubling up the body and resting the head upon the knees before the
feet touch the ground again.
The most appreciated dancing, from a Tibetan point of view, is when the
performer can continue his evolutions, bringing his legs forward
alternately with knees bent low and almost touching the ground. In a
way, this dance is not unlike Russian peasant dancing. The best dancers
give solo performances, while the rest join in a circle round and round
them until they get tired out and dizzy.
The women’s dancing has precisely the same characteristics, except that
it is done with no sword. Only a kata is held in the right hand, and
the contortions are less exaggerated, and, therefore, more graceful.
The abrupt end also is done away with, together with odd posturing. The
women, whenever I saw them dance, usually danced singly to the
accompaniment of softer and more sentimental music than was the case
with the men. They added sad, melodious chanting to their movements,
weird and wild to a degree, yet full of expression and quite pleasing
to the ear.
CHAPTER XV
The Tibetan in his normal life is occasionally an amusing being, full
of coarse humour, and with a bounce which carries him through his
existence. When alone, he is quiet in his manner, and will spend his
leisure hours spinning wool or in some other such feminine occupation,
while his women-folk do all the hard work about the tent. As will be
seen by the illustrations in this book, both Tibetan men and women look
clumsy and heavy. Anatomically, they are well-built, small but wiry,
and rather thickly set, but very seldom with any great abundance of
flesh and fat, except the Lamas, who lead a lascivious and lazy life.
Tibetan clothing is mostly responsible for the funny appearance they
present, men wearing sometimes three or four coats, skin or woollen,
one on the top of the other. The sash or belt, which is intended to be
at the waist, is usually considerably lower down owing to the weight of
the variety of articles the wearer constantly carries stored away round
the waist in his outer coat,—wooden bowls, balls of butter, bags of
tsamba, a bundle of wool for spinning with the distaff, the
prayer-wheel, and a quantity of rags,—which bulge out at the waist all
round his body and drag down his coat. This often gives them the
appearance of being quite short-legged, though, of course, they are not
really.
Men and women wear picturesque, most comfortable and practical long
boots, the legging being usually red or white, the thick soles of rope
well protecting the foot all round. These boots are largely
manufactured in Lhassa and Shigatz, but people also manufacture them
themselves. Officials wear leather boots of the Chinese type, with
thick wooden or leather soles with a few huge iron nails underneath and
a curled-up toe.
Among the coloured illustrations will be found paintings of Tibetan
women—from babyhood, in an ample and striking robe of white and blue
checks; at the age of twelve, with shaggy hair hanging down the back
and shoulders and a sufficient collection of ornaments round the neck;
an older dame, of middle class and age, in her everyday costume, with a
sash enveloping nearly one-third of her body; then a lady of rank and
beauty, fully decorated with amber necklace, gold and malachite brooch,
elaborate earrings, and a much-adorned aureole upon the head. She sits
modestly on bags of borax, and displays feet of some considerable size.
Well, that is the fault of the ample and padded boots which she wears,
and not a fault of the foot inside—not small, mind you, but generally
well-formed—nor of the painter who depicted the scene.
Next we have a religious lady praying before a tent shrine, turning her
back to us and displaying in its full glory her Tchukti—that is to say,
three broad bands of three sections each alternately blue and red.
These bands of heavy cloth reach from the shoulder to the feet, and
they are ornamented with coral or malachite beads, silver coins and
bells, and at the lower end a row of little brass or silver bells is
generally attached. Nearly all the money earned by the woman (and
frequently that of the husband) is sewn on to the Tchukti, so that the
family fortune—when this fortune exists—hangs down women’s backs to a
number of neat little tresses of the woman’s hair to which it is
attached. When the Tchukti is worn the hair is parted in the middle and
plastered down with melted butter.
Last, but not least, you will find the portrait of a Tibetan old lady,
who somewhat resented being sketched and had not her sweetest smile
upon her face. Rather bony and toothless, with a wrinkled skin which
would put to shame a crocodile, one leg stretched out because she had a
rheumatic pain and could not bend it, she used quite bad language when
I quickly portrayed her. She predicted and wished misfortunes of all
kinds which should descend upon me.
Perhaps you will notice, in most of the illustrations representing
Tibetans, that the people depicted in them have their eyes half-closed.
This is one of the most characteristic points about a Tibetan face,
especially when out of doors and conversing. First of all, as you know,
the Mongolian eye is elongated between heavy lids, and does not afford
an extensive view of the iris at any time; then, owing to the intensely
brilliant light, the severe and constant winds, and plentiful snow, the
natives get into the habit of accentuating the squeezing of the
eye-aperture for protection. This causes crow’s-feet to appear on men
and women at an early age, and a much corrugated forehead and brow.
I had occasion on this journey to pay a visit to a quaint tribe of
Tibetans calling themselves the Kam-par, or people from Kam (Tibet).
They possessed extraordinary features—from intermarriage with some
tribe of Nepal, I should think—intensely cruel faces in many instances;
others quite refined, especially those of the better class. The young
man whose portrait I give, very girlish-looking, with an elaborate hat
ornamented with gold embroidery, was the son of the chief, and quite a
nice-looking boy, with suave manners and a humble voice. He had long
hair in waves upon his shoulders, and a short pigtail behind. But some
of the older men, such as the one I portrayed, had brutal faces, and
their manner was somewhat coarse, sulky, and blunt. They possessed
highly developed cheek-bones, slits of eyes, and prominent drooping
lips. The nose, however, was more developed than on other Tibetans.
These people, like most other Tibetans, practise a form of cannibalism
which is not at all uncommon in Tibet, especially in their funeral
ceremonies. The Lamas, as is well known, often drink human blood out of
bowls made of human skulls.
This tribe, a nomad one, was, among other employments, given to a
certain amount of brigandage; and, in fact, among them I found a
well-known brigand—a long-lost friend of mine—whose portrait I also
give in these pages. He possessed quite a striking-looking head, with a
good deal of determination upon his features, a fierce moustache, and
masses of curly hair trimmed straight at the height of the shoulders.
He always shouted at the top of his voice whenever he spoke; always
heartily laughed at everything you said; and, to show his approval,
struck you upon your shoulder with his ponderous hand after each
sentence. He was one of the most powerfully built men I have ever met,
his strength being quite extraordinary; and, for a brigand, quite an
agreeable companion out of business hours.
Polyandry, when the wife is shared among brothers, as is the case all
over Tibet, is practised by this tribe also; and when I met them they
were employed in conveying salt and borax, from Gyanema over the Darma
Pass into India. These Kam-par occasionally travel as far down as
Tanakpore, the borax and salt being carried entirely on sheep-back.
When one got over the peculiar expression of their faces, the Kam-par
were amiable enough.
Their women were highly decorated with numerous brass ornaments with
pendants, and silver bracelets inlaid with malachite. Teeth of
musk-deer were freely used as ornaments, as well as being used for such
useful purposes as picking one’s teeth, cleaning the nails, and so on.
The chief wore his hair parted in the centre, and plaited into small
tresses which joined into a single pigtail behind. The skin was of a
sallow yellowish colour. The upper portion of the eye, as is often the
case in people who are constantly exposed to a brilliant light, was
much discoloured, and a peculiar whitish tinge veiled the entire iris
of the eye. In the way of clothing they showed a marked preference for
bright red and yellow textiles, and on their visits into Kumaon they
had invested their savings in buying old regimental brass buttons, with
which the women were freely ornamented. Bracelets of glass beads, and
also necklaces of coral and amber, were displayed with pride.
These people had beautiful tents, the inside being most comfortable,
with Chinese carpets spread on the floor, cushions to rest the head and
back upon, and cured skins spread everywhere where they might come in
useful. Elaborate altars, some double-tiered, with as many as seven
images of Buddha, were to be seen, and upon them burning lights galore,
incense-sticks alight filling the tent with saintly fumes. Bags of
butter and chura and sweet paste hung from every tent-pole. All round
the tent, inside and also outside, were high walls of double sacks of
borax. Outside, on high posts, with an ingenious contrivance to prevent
animals going up, a lot of meat was prepared, with salt, in thin
slices, and exposed to the sun to dry.
As is always the case, with this tribe too travelled a number of Lamas,
who practically controlled everything. One of these Lamas had as
repulsive and murderous a face as it is given to any human being to
possess. True enough, his first boast was that he had killed three
people (the natives said a good many more). His manner towards the
people was most brutal. He was a tall man of marvellous muscular
development, and between his most repulsive lips, which never seemed to
close, he displayed a set of most powerful long pointed teeth, such as
those one would see in a wild animal. His head-gear consisted of a
vizor made of long, bristly hair—not unlike the half of a
chimney-sweeper’s brush—which he fastened round the forehead and back
of the head with a string.
This gentleman was inclined to be overbearing, even intrusive; and, to
show his courage as well as muscular power (possibly to frighten me),
he thumped and knocked about his people in a merciless manner, always
taking care to select the helpless and weaker ones. His brutality
irritated me considerably. I was standing near his tent, and he came in
with a long knife—he had been making himself a stick to beat the people
with. He was still foaming with rage. There was a woman, his servant,
sitting near the fire, and he asked her whether the tea was ready in
the raksang. She replied it was not, upon which he administered a
terrific kick in her stomach which would have killed any woman but a
Tibetan. I could stand no more. I seized my rifle by the muzzle and
applied the butt upon his face in a fashion which somewhat flattened
his nose more than it originally was and loosened some teeth. All
bullies are cowards in any country, and he made no reply whatever.
No doubt I shall be blamed—as I have been before—for administering my
own justice in other people’s countries, but I cannot help feeling that
the weak should ever and at any cost be protected against unwarranted
attacks of the brutally strong.
Another similar, but more comical, incident—one of many—occurred
another day, when a shapeless figure, almost bent over in two and
walking unsteadily upon his feet, approached my camp. We were in a
barren, desolate spot, cold and dreary, and my men had put up chokdens
of stones all round the camp.
The queer stranger had a most comical appearance, his waist down to his
knees, so full was his coat with stores of all kinds. He bowed
profusely, his shaggy hair flying—as much as it could fly, for it was
so dirty and entangled—in the breeze.
“Who are you and what do you want?” we asked him.
“I am a poor, poor man, with no food and no friends.”
I well knew this to be a lie, as I had had similar visitors before. He
was a mere Tibetan spy—a soldier in the disguise of a beggar, to come
and find out all about us.
“What do you want?”
“I am hungry and have pains in my inside for lack of food.”
I ordered my cook to give him plentiful meat and rice and some sweet
paste. A little of it he ate; the rest he stored away in his coat,
wrapped up in dirty rags.
“Is there anything else you want?”
“Yes, I would like some tchah (tea).”
A jug of tea was handed him.
“Anything else you wish from us now?” we inquired of the Tibetan, who,
while pretending to sip the tea, was counting the number of my men, was
trying to see how many rifles we had, and was taking in everything all
round with his ferreting eyes. But although he was a splendid actor,
his infirmities, I had detected at once, were all put on for the
occasion.
“Can I be allowed to prowl around your camp and see what I can pick
up—anything you have thrown away?”
“Yes, certainly; but mind you do not pick more than you expect.”
The man crawled about camp—I ordered my men to pretend not to notice
him—while I observed him closely, all the time pretending to be busy
writing. By means of a small looking-glass I could watch his movements
even when he was behind me. The fellow was examining all my baggage
carefully, and especially our rifles which lay about. Having persuaded
himself that none of us were looking at him, he raised the flap of my
tent and had a good look inside. When he had finished his inspection he
came to bid me good-bye.
“Have you had all you want, do you think?” I asked him.
“Yes, indeed. He was grateful. He now wanted to go.”
“Before you go, I want to give you a remembrance to teach you that when
you accept people’s hospitality you should not practise treachery.”
Snatching out of his hand a long stick he carried, I applied to him a
good beating—not that it hurt him much, because he was so padded with
articles he had stored in his coat. In fact, in trying to struggle
away, his sash got undone and he dropped a number of little bags
containing tsamba and butter, provisions which were evidently intended
to last him several days on his spying expedition. Also two daggers.
My men, who entered fully into the spirit of the joke, chased him out
of camp with a well-directed shower of stones. Needless to say, “the
starving Tibetan cripple” outran them all. From a high point of vantage
I watched him with my telescope. When some distance off he went among
some rocks, picked up his matchlock which he had hidden there—and
continued his flight.
CHAPTER XVI
As you know, the Tibetans when saluting put out the tongue to its full
extent. If they are wearing a cap it is removed and placed upon the
ground in sign of respect, especially if the person saluted is of high
social standing. The hands, joined with the thumbs together and raised,
are waved up and down in front of the forehead.
There is a code of social etiquette among Tibetans even of the most
degraded tribes. For instance, it is not customary to enter a tent
without first announcing one’s presence and demanding admittance. Also,
no Tibetan traveller, except Government messengers, will enter an
encampment after dark unless he has warned the inhabitants beforehand.
It must not be argued that because the officials of Tibet—the Lamas
particularly—show intense cruelty, especially to foreigners, everybody
in Tibet is cruel. On the contrary, there are many folks in Tibet who
possess generous hearts. The people are charitable to a degree, even
the poorest sharing what little they have with strangers poorer than
themselves. During my captivity in Tibet, on my first expedition, on
many occasions individual Tibetans showed sympathy and consideration,
when, had it been discovered, it would have cost them their heads. So
that, after all, not all Tibetans are bad. If anything—barring the
Lamas—the people are rather good-natured and easygoing, easily led and
influenced if taken the right way.
Tibetan men are not fighting men, and are, perhaps, the most
contemptible cowards in face of danger. Curiously enough, it is not
fear of death which makes them pusillanimous, but apparently the notion
of getting hurt and the absolute lack of resolution. If ordered by his
superiors and impressed with the idea that if killed by the enemy he
will find himself in heaven, whereas if he bolts and returns to camp he
will be beheaded and go to a hell of ice and snow—yes, the Tibetan hell
is a cool place; but their heaven is warm, with splendid grazing for
yaks!—then, indeed, a Tibetan will stand helplessly to be shot without
defending himself, while Maxim guns and shrapnel and other things of
the kind are playing upon him. The carnages of the British Tibet
Mission, of which we importers of civilisation should not feel too
proud, are a good instance of this.
So, again, although a contemptible coward, he does not fear death. I
myself, while in Tibet, could confirm this statement by many personal
experiences. When officials came to induce me to leave the country they
maintained, and it was true, that they had strict orders from Lhassa to
drive me away. If they returned unsuccessful from their mission they
would, they declared, be beheaded. When I insisted on continuing my
journey they frequently handed me their sword, requesting me to cut off
their head then and there, which would save them the dishonour of
degradation and a public execution.
Once or twice, as the Tibetans on my first journey had given me a taste
of what it felt like to be taken out to the execution ground and have a
sword flourished round my neck, I thought that I was fully entitled to
try a practical joke and see what effect the similar sensation would
have on Tibetan officers. Only, of course, in my case I had not asked
to be beheaded, and therefore the process came more as a surprise,
besides being carried out in dead earnest up to, but fortunately with a
postponement of, the last stroke.
To go on with my narrative, I pretended to accept the offer of the
Tibetan officers, and, calling all my men, lined them up to witness the
execution. The Tibetan officers knelt down, somewhat trembling but
quite resigned, and cleared their necks to make my work easy. Many of
them did not flinch, but some did when I approached, brandishing the
sword in their own fashion; and, by Jove! the latter proved themselves
to be the champion runners of the country. Naturally, I never injured
these fellows in any way, and when they showed any determination at all
I always gave them a suitable present of some sort or other.
After the performance was over they fully entered into the humour of
the joke themselves, and we used to have very hearty laughs over it,
and endless cups of tea.
When you travel in Tibet you see, in the daytime, men and women garbed
in heavy skin coats; only one sleeve at a time is put on while half the
chest and the other arm are left bare. This, to any one not suspecting
the reason, looks very incongruous, and has led to all sorts of
ridiculous explanations from the usual theoretical scientists at home.
The real explanation is simple and is this.
As I have elsewhere explained, the heat of the sun is in Tibet very
great—especially in Southern Tibet,—the latitude not being many degrees
north, and the power of the sun’s rays is even intensified by the
clearness of the rarefied air. On the other hand, owing to the immense
elevation, the cold is intense wherever the sun does not strike, so
that it is not uncommon to feel absolutely roasted on the sunny side
and frozen on the other. Hence the necessity of having winter clothing
to cover half your anatomy, while the other half demands nothing more
than tropical bareness.
The Tibetans are not artistic by nature. Their art is of the most
rudimentary kind. A few earthen pots, graceful enough in shape, but of
no extraordinary beauty, are manufactured by them, and some brass and
iron vessels are made in the cities. Also, of course, in a population
of several millions there have been a few individuals who have
attempted more ambitious works of art, such as paintings (mostly of
religious subjects) and sculptures, but although in the paintings the
colouring is bright, and much care is devoted to details, anatomical
accuracy and proportion are always lacking in the figures, and not even
a shade of perspective is to be noticed in their landscapes. In certain
conventional decorative ways, however, the Tibetans are quite masters,
as, for instance, in the gigantic religious inscriptions one frequently
finds all over the country upon dangerous vertical cliffs. One of the
coloured plates given in this book represents a young Lama—the Lamas
can always be distinguished in Tibet by their clean-shaven
heads—inscribing the words “Om mani padme hum” upon the face of a rock.
The work is carried on at a great height, the artist being suspended in
a rope sling. Lamas with any special talent in this direction are kept
in monasteries and sent all over the country to adorn the barren
landscape, especially on high caravan routes, with these sacred
characters. Perhaps, when Tibet has been fully opened to foreign
civilisation, these talents will find a more remunerative occupation in
substituting for the sacred words advertisements of fancy soaps and
hair restorers.
These sculptors, and, in fact, most of the cleverer Tibetans, are
practically ambidexter, being able to use either hand, especially in
works which require no great delicacy of touch. As can be seen in the
illustration, the young Lama is using the hammer with his left hand.
The cloth made by Tibetans is of great strength, especially fabrics of
yak hair, but seldom of a handsome design. Very irregular designs are
occasionally attempted, but usually the Tibetan woman is wise enough
never to depart from the striped pattern. Tibetan fabrics are generally
woven too narrow for any practical use in European countries.
CHAPTER XVII
Perhaps some of the experiences we had on our trip across country may
interest the reader. Instead of returning by Tinker we proceeded in a
north-westerly direction, employing an old man—a most peculiar fellow,
so wrinkled that he seemed almost mummified—who said he knew the way
across the intricate ranges. When we had nearly reached the summit of
the range, we came in for a very bad storm, a regular blizzard, and it
delayed us for some hours. My guide, as is usual with guides, lost his
head, and, what was worse, also his way. We could not remain where we
were, and we could not see where we were going.
I took matters into my own hands, and, by compass, tried to find my way
to where I supposed the place was; but we experienced great difficulty
in getting along, owing to the snow being driven with great force into
our faces and obscuring the view a few yards away from us. I found the
pass right enough, the blizzard abating for a few moments, and we sank
in soft snow up to our knees, which made marching very heavy. We
descended a few hundred feet and found ourselves in a sort of gully,
which necessitated making another ascent to a higher and more difficult
pass before we could descend into the valley where the sources of the
Ganges are to be found.
Night was coming on fast, my men were in a pitiable condition from
fatigue and cold, and the wind blew the ground-snow—frozen into grains
like sand—in regular whirlwinds round us, which pretty well blinded us.
I was ahead of my party with two men, struggling up the steep incline,
when some of those in the rear shouted that three of my men had
remained behind and were missing. They were no longer answering the
signals we constantly made in order not to lose one another. This
necessitated a long delay and a search being made for them. One of the
pictures in this book shows us shouting to them in order to find their
whereabouts, but we shouted ourselves hoarse and got no answer. I
detailed two of my best men to go back to find them, and provided them
with extra blankets, as they would very likely spend the night up there
and not catch us up till the next day. I also left the mummified guide
with them.
We went on and eventually got over the higher and more difficult pass
before it got too dark, the wind blowing so hard that we had at times
great difficulty in proceeding against it. The descent was most
dangerous, the snow was treacherous, and when we got lower down we got
among a lot of loose boulders and dangerous sheets of ice, which gave
us no end of trouble. We were benighted, and it got so dark that we did
not see where we were putting our feet, which, half-frozen as they
were, constantly got jammed and knocked and bruised. Some of the
rounder boulders frequently rolled under us as we trod on them, and
caused us very nasty falls. At each step we unavoidably started a
regular landslip of rocks and débris, rolling down the steep mountain
side, the fracas of which, with the howling of the wind, made quite a
diabolical noise.
The lower we got, the warmer it became, and, of course, the snow
lessened and eventually disappeared. We travelled for a long distance
along the bed of a river, and, farther on, upon what seemed the ancient
bed of a lake, an immense, flat stretch of gravel.
Having got among some big boulders, which necessitated a lot of
fatiguing work on all fours, one of my men, in trying to help me to get
down a big rock, slipped, and dragged me with him, a jump of some 15
feet. As I fell on my back, I was considerably shaken, while my man
injured his arm rather badly.
A little later, having reached the camping ground of Dongan, we halted
and pitched our tents at four o’clock in the morning. It was not till
late in the day that the missing men and those sent to their relief
arrived in a pitiable condition. They had been compelled to abandon two
loads. One man was badly frost-bitten, another taken with such violent
cramps and pains in his inside that I had grave fears for his recovery.
He had to be carried, which involved a terrible tax on my other men,
who were all much worn and footsore.
Our march the previous day had been over twenty-two miles. Dongan was
only 14,100 feet above sea-level, and we felt comparatively comfortable
and warm. We had three high peaks to 80°, 100°, 125° b.m., and to the
north-west was the Lippu Lekh, 16,780 feet.
I revisited the source of the Ganges, a pretty little spot where a
limpid spring gurgles out from under a big boulder, and forms a
crystal-like pool adorned with chokdens. This water is deliciously
cool, and very nearly caused the death of three of my Hindoo men. They
drank copiously while soaked in perspiration, and washed themselves
prior to eating their food. They were seized with a colic accompanied
by high fever, and they groaned in their contortions upon the ground.
We applied massage freely and violent rubbing, which, with an
additional quick cure of my own, is very successful on such occasions;
and eventually—after some hours—they were able to continue, although
still suffering.
Partly owing to the strain being over, partly owing to the intense
sufferings of the previous day, and the excessive eating to celebrate
the temporary end of our troubles, three more men were taken very ill
on our way up the Kuti valley, and I had to send them down into
Garbyang.
I was now again in Bias, a portion of the country practically ceded
that year by the British Government to Tibet. In fact, Tibetan
emissaries had been in all the villages—Gungi, Nabi, Ronkan, and
Kuti—imposing upon the natives in every way, claiming taxes and
proclaiming Tibetan sovereignty.
At Kuti, where I arrived, as usual, in the middle of the night, owing
to the long marches we did daily, I had the surprise and pleasure of
meeting Nattalì again, one of the strongest-willed, noblest-minded,
pluckiest, and sweetest little ladies I have ever met. She was a Kutial
Shoka, and as pretty as they make them. Her grace of manner, her
inconceivable thoughtfulness and absolute purity of thought were enough
to put to shame many a woman of more civilised countries.
Being a lady of wealth, for a Shoka—for her husband was one of the big
traders of the district—she owned the finest house in Kuti. She would
not hear of our remaining under canvas, and insisted on evacuating the
house to let us occupy it. Not only that, but the poor thing sat up
half the night to prepare sweets and all sorts of luxuries for our
benefit, and I had a great struggle the next day—even the sweetest
woman can be obstinate—to make her accept a sufficient remuneration for
her trouble.
Both Tibetan emissaries and men from the British Political Agent were
hiding in the village in order to attempt wrecking my expedition and
stirring the natives up against me; in fact, the people were most
turbulent in the morning, and I thought we should come in for a good
fight. We had to knock about some of the villagers, who seemed morose
and inclined to give trouble, and at one moment it looked as if a
general battle might result. Stones were thrown at us, and we thought
we had better disperse the crowd before it got too formidable. While my
men pounded away on some of the more excited folks and drove them back,
Nattalì stood by me and gave her rebellious countrymen such sonorous
cracks on the head with a heavy stick—heavens! was she not quick with
her hands!—that I had to sit down on a stone, in convulsions of
laughter. Then she even persuaded a number of Kutials to enter my
employ and accompany me. Others who refused to come she called cowards,
spat upon them, and again gave them a taste of the stick. I liked her
very much for that.
A relative of hers, whom she particularly warned to be faithful to me,
proved himself one of the most hard-working and devoted followers I
have ever had.
I well remember her, the day we left. She, with a great many villagers,
came to accompany us to the boundary of their village, a high point
from which an extensive view is obtained of the upper course of the
Kuti River along which we were to travel. Having bade us a melancholy
good-bye—for she had a presentiment that we should have great trouble
before us—she sat herself upon a rock, resting her placid little face
upon her hands, and she remained watching us until we were out of
sight. Every now and then we waved our hands at her, and her little arm
waved a parting salute against the bright line of the sky. That was the
last we saw of Nattalì.
By a most remarkable coincidence, as I sat down in my London rooms to
jot down these words for publication—now five years later,—as I was
writing the word “Nattalì” upon the paper a letter from India was
handed to me. On opening it, it contained the sad news that Nattalì was
dead.
CHAPTER XVIII
The corrected elevation of the Kuti village by boiling-point
thermometers is 12,554 feet—possibly one of the highest villages in the
world.
It was my intention to go up the Kuti River in a north-west direction
and cross over the Lebung Pass into the Darma district, in the northern
part of which I wanted to explore some glaciers and passes. The way up
the Kuti River was naturally very rough, but we had no great
difficulty; and as my own men were refreshed, and I also had excellent
additional followers and lavish food for everybody, everything went
well enough until we reached Jolinkan.
The Government chaprassis whom I had taken prisoners were getting very
anxious, now that they saw before them another prospect of camping on
snow and ice, and endeavoured to escape. I stopped them in time, and
warned them very seriously. With long, depressed faces they swore they
would not leave me till it pleased me to deliver them in person to
their superior officer.
We had brought up some sheep, carrying loads of food, and their
services answered a double purpose. When the loads were consumed the
transport animals provided nourishing diet for my men.
Our camp at the foot of the Lebung Pass was 14,913 feet above
sea-level.
We here abandoned the Kuti River, and after a good night’s rest
proceeded to ascend the Lebung Pass, by which we were to cross the high
range separating the valley of Darma from that of the Kuti River. Along
this range, a spur from the Himahlyan main backbone running somewhat
tortuously in a general south-east direction, are several peaks rising
to great elevations: 20,760 feet, 20,250 feet, 20,324 feet, 20,386
feet, 20,328 feet, 20,264 feet, 20,455 feet. The ascent on the east
side was very steep, but presented no great difficulty, although my men
suffered considerably owing to having over-eaten themselves the
previous night and in the morning before starting.
On the pass, 19,016 feet, we erected a cairn, and I took observations
on most of my men. They nearly all suffered from mountain sickness, and
the pulse of all was much accelerated. The highest registered 126, 118,
134, 108 pulsations. The average pulsations of these men at the
altitude where they lived was from 66 to 90. The usual symptoms were
present: a very warm forehead, pains and vigorous thumping at the
temples, pressure and aches in the top and back of head. Curiously
enough, when the pain in the temples was only on one side, it was
generally on the right side of the head. Occasionally this pain
extended all along the posterior fissure of the cranium.
Heart-throbbing as well as thumping in the centre of the chest were
general, and great sleepiness and exhaustion prevailed among them. The
pupils of the eyes were abnormally contracted, almost to the size of
the point of a pin.
When we had rested sufficiently we found ourselves confronted with
rather a trying task. On the other side of the pass of rotten rock,
several hundred feet in height, not unlike what we had met on the
Savage Pass, was a precipitous wall, requiring somewhat of a steady
head and endless labour in getting over. Perhaps a glance at the
illustration depicting the scene will give a better idea of the
situation than a long description. My men can be seen conveying down
the baggage—a most tedious and long performance, each package being
passed down from one man to another stationed at intervals along the
vertical rock. As the distance was considerable and the men few, each
man had to undergo considerable exertion and a lot of climbing up and
down to collect from the man above and deliver each load to his
neighbour below. So that to go those few hundred yards took us several
hours. The sheep accompanying us, too, had to be carried down one by
one, and in some places let down by means of rope slings.
We had passed a small glacier on the east watershed of the pass, and
now we had below us to the south-west the great Lebung Glacier, feeding
the Dholi Ganga by two or three streamlets. We skirted it to the north
on a lot of débris. The main portion had a general direction from
north-east to south-west, then an arm extended due west. In the latter
portion of the glacier were big cracks in the ice, while to the
north-west was an immense dune of ice, mud, and débris, forming a line
from 30° to 231°. From this point of observation the Lebung Pass stood
at 210° b.m. There were fine terraces in this glacier, supported on a
high wall of ice and mud. To the south-east could be seen one of the
high snowy peaks towering over the Rama Glacier to the south of the
Lebung.
The Darma Valley, in which we now found ourselves, takes its name from
the Darma Yangti, a river which has its birth at the foot of the
Lumpiya Pass, and is further fed by the tributary streams from glaciers
on either side.
The Darma Parganah was of some interest to me, as one of the minor
routes into Tibet was along this river. Darma proper was divided into
two divisions: the Malla and the Talla, or “upper” and “lower,” Darma.
The Malla Darma is that portion which comprises the Lissar River and
the Dholi Ganga, whereas the Talla Darma, as its name suggests, lies
nearer to the point at which the Dholi Ganga meets the Kali River.
The Darma Shokas, a tribe somewhat differing from the Shokas of Bias
and Chaudas, carry on the entire trade with Tibet by the Darma route.
Gyanema is the main centre, and the commodities are chiefly borax,
salt, wool, skins, cloth, and utensils, in exchange for which the
Tibetans receive silver, wheat, rice, sattoo, ghur, candied sugar,
pepper, beads of all kinds, and a few articles of Indian manufacture.
It was getting towards the end of September when I was in this region,
and the weather was very cold and stormy. We had plenty of snow every
night and the winds were cutting. It was a great temptation, I must
confess, when we reached the Dholi River, to turn towards the south,
which would bring us to lower elevations and therefore to warmth and
comfort; but my work was not finished, and we had again to go towards
the north (N.N.W., to be strictly accurate), for I wished to solve
certain geographical problems and visit some passes into the Forbidden
Land which I had not yet ascended.
We camped that night at a dreary spot called Gankan (12,295 feet),
where we expected to find some traders, this being one of their
temporary stations, but did not. So we fared rather badly. We could
find no fuel, and the supply which they generally bring up with them
was quite exhausted. All the trading with Tibet was now over from this
side, and everybody had retired southward. Two stray sheep—one dead,
the other still alive but with broken legs—were lying near the wall
which marked the favourite spot for a camping-ground. We passed a very
chilly night, and the next day when we woke snow was falling heavily.
My men seemed to be sufferingly greatly, and I decided to ask for two
volunteers to accompany me and carry my instruments to the glaciers
northwards, the remainder of the expedition proceeding one march
southward, to a place where fuel could be obtained, and awaiting our
return there.
We three started off in a fierce wind at six o’clock in the morning,
and passed three small glaciers to the east—the Suiti, Pungrung, and
Mangti. To the west were five other smaller glaciers. We had gradually
risen to 15,000 feet, and farther on, at the foot of the Nui Glacier,
at the spot known as the Nui Encamping-ground, the altitude was 16,950
feet.
It was at this place that, in the mist and snow, we saw the immense
image of what seemed a conventional crouching lion sculptured in the
rock. On approaching it, however, the illusion was explained. The main
body—as I have already explained—was merely a gigantic boulder, while
the extended paws and tail were mani walls with end chokdens built away
from the rock. From a certain point of view it looked exactly like a
lion.
This being the last camp before traders attempt the high pass, many
chokdens of all sizes are to be seen all over the valley and on the
hill-side. One of the peculiarities of these chokdens is that they are
as much as possible built with white or light-coloured stones.
The wind had got much worse as we got higher, and the effort of walking
was considerable. We had gone some eleven miles, and my two men were so
exhausted they were unable to continue. They dragged along
uncomplainingly, but I could see that they were on the verge of
breaking down. At the foot of the Nui we had some food, and having
laden myself with all the necessary instruments and cameras—quite a
considerable weight—left my two men to await my return, while I went
alone to survey the Nui Glacier and climb the high pass.
Once alone, I proceeded at a greater speed, but the ground was much
broken by huge boulders, and to cover a short distance involved a lot
of labour. About one mile and a half from where I had left my men I
came in for an experience which I did not quite expect at that moment,
although, fortunately, I was prepared for any emergency.
The Tibetans had had time to prepare a great many snares for me, and to
send soldiers to all the passes, and what they could not do by facing
me direct they attempted as usual to accomplish by treachery. Much to
my astonishment in this desolate region, I came upon a Tibetan
comfortably seated upon the ground, upon which he had spread several
coats. I asked him if he were alone, and he said yes.
“What are you doing here?”
“I am going back to my country. My friends went ahead yesterday.”
“Surely you have some one with you; you cannot carry all those coats
and paraphernalia?”
“No, no no; I am quite alone.”
As I was standing talking to him I noticed that his eyes were looking
at something behind me, and on turning round found myself confronted
with three Tibetans, who had evidently crawled out from behind rocks
where they were hidden. They made a dash to seize my rifle as I unslung
it from my shoulders, but they were not quick enough. In a second the
fourth fellow—the one sitting down—had jumped up to help his
companions.
One fellow got somewhat of a dent in his skull with the butt of my
rifle, the others, unluckily, ran away, and I did not pursue them, as I
needed all the strength I possessed to go up the pass. As the Tibetans
disappeared in the direction I had come I became rather alarmed for my
men, lest they should be taken by treachery, but I knew they could take
care of themselves.
After taking a rest, for the violent exertion had caused me a deal of
panting and blowing, I continued. I soon got out of the débris and
boulders, where I proceeded with great caution, and got upon the snow
on the north side of the glacier. For real majestic beauty the Nui
Glacier cannot be surpassed. It has immense terraces of clear greenish
ice, quite regular and well padded with snow on the surface; gigantic
crevasses, down which one was almost afraid to look, and a background
of huge white sharp-edged peaks, like the teeth of a saw, so white
indeed that the stormy sky beyond looked as black as ink. It was truly
one of the most impressive scenes I have ever set eyes upon. I never
feel very big on any occasion, but I do not remember ever feeling quite
so small and humble and insignificant as I did on that particular
occasion—a mere speck, a mere black spot, disturbing the peaceful
harmony of the grandiose landscape.
I have attempted to depict the scene in one of the illustrations, but
no brush nor canvas can satisfactorily reproduce the immensity of those
white mountains towering around you, the incalculable masses of snow,
the almost terrifying appearance of the immense cracks in the ice
hundreds of feet deep. It gave you a certain feeling of loneliness and
helplessness in case of mishap, and it really made you think a good
deal of how small are human beings and how puerile all their works,
when compared to those accomplished by the hand of Nature.
I think it would be a good thing if a great many other authors—not to
speak of our critics, who need it even more—could have an opportunity
of experiencing the sensation of humility I had upon me that day.
But, humble or not, I went on and on, like a tiny little ant upon the
immaculate and endless white carpet of snow, and higher and higher I
gradually rose upon the mountain side towards the Nui Pass. Panting and
blowing, and with a feeling that I wanted to throw away the rifle and
cartridges and cameras and instruments that I was lugging up with
me—oh, they were such a weight! always in the way, and ever dangling
where you did not want them,—I got higher along a narrow furrow so
steep as to be almost vertical. I went up for a time on loose rocks
which gave way under me, and were most trying to the temper. One could
not help constant falling, and one’s poor fingers and toes got jammed
to a pitiable extent.
Overhead a storm was brewing which promised to be of the very worst
kind; but luckily in the last portion of the ascent I was screened
somewhat from the cutting wind. Getting up to the top was a terrible
effort, carrying all my paraphernalia, but at last, in a desperate
struggle, I managed to get there.
The Nui Pass itself, as can be seen by the drawing I give in these
pages, is a very narrow opening, in parts quite free from snow owing to
its steepness and to being so boxed in. Besides, on the south side, by
which I ascended, it is rather more covered, because the snow is
generally driven with much fury from the north. In fact, when I reached
the summit and proceeded for some distance on the Tibetan side (north
aspect), the mountain was thickly padded with uninterrupted snow. The
wind was so fierce up there that it knocked me clean off my feet twice.
Now came the tedious job of boiling water in the hypsometrical
apparatus to ascertain the altitude, and taking whatever photographs
and sketches I found possible. But I had no sooner begun to unpack my
instruments in a sheltered nook than the storm broke out in all its
violence, and the snow, driven with tremendous force by the wind into
my face, felt just like hundreds of needles and nails thrown at me. I
wasted two entire boxes of matches in setting the hypsometrical stove
alight, and to accomplish this I had to protect it with my coat, of
which I had divested myself. I have never envied the Chinese gods with
a hundred arms more than I did on this occasion, for one’s two hands
were required in twenty places at the same time, the wind blowing
everything about in a most reckless manner. The water seemed to take
ages to boil, and the storm was getting worse and worse every moment,
almost freezing my poor hands, nose and ears, and giving me intense
pain.
At last the welcome puff of steam began to escape from the apparatus;
the temperature of boiling water (178°·1) and the temperature of the
air (30°) were duly registered, and I repacked everything to make my
descent. The altitude—the correct one—of this pass in feet by
hypsometrical apparatus was 19,621 feet, and two excellent aneroids I
also carried registered 19,600 feet.
A great deal is to be said for and against aneroids. In a few words,
this is my experience of them as regards work at great elevations.
Unless you can get aneroids of tested excellence and the very best that
money can procure, you had better go without them. Very small aneroids
may be more portable, but they are never of any real use. Always carry
your aneroids yourself, and never let them go out of your sight if you
want to keep them in good order, and never rely on them too much except
when constantly checked by boiling-point thermometers. Personally, for
important elevations, I have relied entirely on boiling-point
thermometers, the only practical and less cumbersome way of accurately
ascertaining heights for an explorer, but I also always carry several
aneroids, two specially constructed for me to measure down to 12
inches—over 25,000 feet—and I have invariably found them accurate. I
use them only for differential altitudes, and for the less important
observations.
CHAPTER XIX
And now for the descent. I was quite numbed with cold—you see, a thin
shirt only is not much protection against snow being driven into you
with such force, and even when I put on my coat again my teeth were
chattering so that I thought they would break. Well, I suppose that if
I had been more muffled up and wearing heavy clothing I should have
never got up there. My legs and hands had nearly lost all feeling in
them.
I loaded my rifle and all my instruments on my back, also my straw hat
which it was impossible to wear in the right place, bade Tibet a hearty
“good-bye,” and down I strode, with somewhat disjointed steps, by the
way I had come. The descent was rapid—a great deal too rapid—but partly
to get away from the intense cold, and the wind and the snow, partly
owing to the anxiety which I still felt regarding the safety of my two
men I had left behind, I really did not try to control my speed. When I
got among the loose rocks again, which started a regular landslide at
each step one took, I came very near having an accident which might
have had disastrous consequences. A stone rolled under my foot—they
nearly all did—and in slipping I got my right foot badly jammed between
two large stones. Before I had time to get it off again, several big
stones came rolling with great force from above, and one hit me so
violently in the leg, and on falling upon the other rocks squeezed my
ankle with such pressure that I really thought my leg had been
fractured. Fortunately it was not.
The pain was excruciating, my feet being still half-frozen, and I sat
down, rubbing the one foot to restore some life to it, but it swelled
considerably and hung like dead, which caused me some little
apprehension. Violent friction with snow I tried next, and this seemed
to bring some warmth and circulation, but the pain was intense. One
fact was certain, that it was getting late in the afternoon, and that
the Nui Pass was not the kind of place where I should care to be
benighted, so down I struggled, limping badly, and suffering agony
every time the foot got jammed again, which was at an average about
every minute.
Thank heavens! I then got to the snow incline, where I could practise
some tobogganing, which saved much time and labour, and down I slid,
carefully regulating my speed upon the snow with my good leg. You see,
if one had gone too fast one might have been shot into one of the big
crevasses of the Nui Glacier down below, and that I particularly wished
to avoid.
Partly through the strain of carrying up such a heavy load, partly
through the very little sleep I had obtained of late, partly owing to
the great glare of the immense white mountains before me during the
day, and also in a measure to the biting wind and snow—not to speak of
the pain I was undergoing—the vision of the only good eye I possessed
became affected and caused me additional trouble. At moments my sight
became obscured altogether.
There is no doubt that it is well worth going up any high mountain for
the sake of the relief and satisfaction one experiences on coming down
again, and on no occasion did I feel this more strongly than upon that
day. When I got down to the glacier again—which spreads from east to
west—I felt much better, and although still quite lame could proceed at
a fair pace.
I hastened down to rejoin my two men, for the evening was drawing in. I
took special care not to fall into another snare—as surely the Tibetans
might attempt some of their games again—but nothing happened. Nothing
ever does when you are on your guard.
It was getting dark when I arrived at the spot where my two followers
had remained, and I shouted myself hoarse, but got no reply. I looked
for them in several places where they might possibly be, but I could
find no signs of them. Again I shouted and shouted, but no reply. Had
they been murdered or had they gone away? This was particularly
tantalising, because not only did I feel for their loss, but I also
wanted badly to get rid of the load I was carrying.
By a mere chance, possibly suggested by my close observation of Shoka
ways, I thought that, before departing to rejoin the main portion of my
expedition, I would inspect some huge boulders some way off, behind
which the men in their long hours of waiting might possibly have taken
shelter. Had they been there, with the howling wind they could not
possibly hear my voice. In fact, under the largest boulder, where the
melting snow had formed a hollow, I discovered my two Shokas wrapped
up, head and all, in their blankets, and snoring hard. They had given
me up for lost—although the idea did not disturb their sleep—and were
waiting till the next morning to proceed up the glacier to look for me.
The four Tibetans had tried to approach them, pretending friendship,
but they wisely had driven them away with stones. Then, for safety,
they had at sunset removed their quarters to a more secluded spot. The
distance from this spot to the Nui Pass and back was six miles.
The storm was still very bad, snow was again falling plentifully, and
we decided that our best plan was to make a night march—long as it
would be—and try to rejoin the others. Relieved of the weight of rifles
and all, I was able to get along pretty well, except that after we had
gone a couple of miles it got pitch dark, and we stumbled against
everything and got terribly jerked. It snowed hard, and the wind blew
in all its fury. We eventually came upon the faint trail, now white
with snow, but on this it was considerably easier to proceed. We
travelled now on long stretches of flat country, then upon an
undulating, even hilly, portion of the valley, occasionally resting for
breath under the lee of some big rock, and drawing freely on my supply
of chocolate, which one of my men carried.
Towards midnight we reached an open space—one of the
camping-grounds—called Bedang, where the Tibetans have erected three
extensive mani or sacred walls, one with a number of images. We got on
the lee side of it, and, taking bundles of matches, lighted them up to
inspect the long row of coloured Buddhas forming a cornice to the upper
part of the wall. There were dozens of these images, evidently all made
in the same mould, and painted in combinations of yellow, red, and
blue. Then there were large stones with the usual sacred inscription,
and flying prayers wherever they could be hung.
Half-way between Bedang and the Nui camping-ground we had come across a
number of chirams (pyramids, often tombs) and chokdens.
By the time we had reached this sacred spot we were pretty well tired
out and hungry, but we had not sufficient blankets to go round nor food
enough to make us feel really happy again. We rested a while, and
before our limbs got numbed with cold we again started off on our
dreary march to rejoin the main body of my party. As we got lower down
we came in for a violent shower of hail—the pellets being of such a
size that they thumped rather too vigorously on our skulls—then
torrents of rain. We were simply soaked. It cleared for a few moments,
and the moon shone for some seconds between two ugly black
clouds—almost, it seemed, only to laugh at us. Indeed, a moment later
another downpour froze us to the marrow of our bones, and it was all we
could do to proceed at all.
There was, fortunately, a narrow trail here, which we followed, and
which frequently overhung precipices of great height. In several places
the trail was actually resting on crowbars thrust into the face of the
cliff. We stumbled along, but we were all so tired out that we really
cared little what happened to us. The hours seemed interminable.
At 3.30 A.M. we at last approached Go village. All the houses were shut
up, everything was as still as death, until we got quite close. Then
dogs barked furiously from every house, and the noise was echoed from
mountain to mountain. The weather had somewhat cleared, but nowhere
could I discern my tents. We shouted and yelled to rouse the head
village man, and eventually the scared figure of a Shoka appeared,
lighted by a red blaze from a torch he carried in his hand. He was
jovial, and most anxious to be of assistance.
Although not absolutely, I am, practically, a teetotaller, as I seldom
require stimulants, but on that particular occasion I would have given
all the money I possessed to have a glass—or, better, a bottle—of
stout! But, alas! the nearest bottle of stout was a great many days’
journey from there. Chökti, the native liquor, was the only stuff
procurable, and I more than jumped at the offer when the chieftain
suggested that we must drink some to be revived.
Now, there is nothing a Shoka admires more in a foreigner than
appreciation of the national chökti—an appreciation they seldom get,
for chökti is, indeed, the vilest concoction a human mind can conceive
or a human throat swallow.
When the Shoka and his torch disappeared we listened from the door with
ever-increasing attention to noises of dangling keys being tried, one
after the other, into a lock. Then came the snapping sound of the
opening padlock, next the loosing of the iron chain which is ever used
in bolting Shoka doors. Reproachful noises from the household,
interrupted in their sleep, and remonstrative cries of female
relatives, could be heard at intervals; then a long silence, some
rattling about, and at last the chieftain reappeared, triumphantly
nursing a huge jug of the “reviver.”
“Will you drink it here or down in your tent?” he inquired, with a
twinkle in his eye.
“In the tent,” I replied; and we all went down to where my camp had
been pitched. My men sprang out from all sides on hearing my voice,
especially several of them who, not expecting me back that night, had
thought fit to occupy my tent.
In a few moments the camp was alight with several blazing fires, there
being plenty of fuel at this place, and from the village a string of
figures with torches were running down, bringing food, more fuel, milk,
and vegetables. The natives of Go were indeed most thoughtful and
polite.
I had marched continuously for twenty-two and a half hours, covering
over forty miles, the entire time over most difficult ground and at
such great elevation that when I sat down upon my blankets I felt quite
exhausted. Nor did devouring—the word eating is hardly expressive
enough—several pounds of rice and meat and potatoes and plum-pudding
and milk and chökti make me feel any better. My appetite was
insatiable, and no sooner was my head laid on the pillow than I was
fast asleep. Oh, what a lovely sensation to go to sleep when you are so
tired!
CHAPTER XX
We were already getting to lower elevations—the village of Go being
only 10,577 feet. We had to the west of us the great Nanda Devi, the
highest mountain in the British Empire, 25,660 feet; three pyramidal
peaks, with rock exposed in vertical streaks right up to the summit.
The central peak is Nanda Devi itself, the next highest peak being
24,379 feet, according to Trigonometrical Survey measurements.
There are several extensive glaciers to the east watershed of Nanda
Devi, mostly extending from west to east, with a slight tendency
northwards, but on the western side of the watershed Nanda Devi is
practically surrounded by an immense glacier with numerous
ramifications.
There are a great many legends regarding this imposing mountain, the
principal one stating that on the shores of a lake which is supposed to
exist on the very summit of Nanda is the abode and present residence of
Vishnu. The natives state that smoke is often seen rising from the
summit, which, they say, is caused by the god’s kitchen. Some
considerable distance below the summit, as high as one can possibly
climb, a festival is held every twelve years, but so difficult is the
ascent that many pilgrims perish, and only very few can reach the
elevated spot. Those few are held in great respect by their
fellow-countrymen.
Nearer us than Nanda Devi and also to our west were two other giants
(21,520 feet and 22,660 feet), showing characteristics very similar to
Nanda Devi. The former had an immense glacier, the Naulphu, on its
eastern side, with huge masses of clear ice of resplendent beauty when
the sun shone on them. The ice terraces were fairly regular, much more
so than in most other glaciers I had inspected. At the bottom of the
glacier, in the centre, was an immense wall of ice, horse-shoe-shaped,
a most impressive sight as it stood out in brilliant relief above the
dark-brown débris of the terminal moraine. The Neo-lak-chan River has
its birth from this glacier.
There were three or four picturesque little Shoka hamlets along the
river—especially near the spot where the Lissar River, fed by a number
of glaciers to the north-west, meets the Dholi River, which we have
followed from the Nui Glacier to the north. The village of Dukti was
quite attractive, with houses painted white, slate roofs, and strongly
built store-houses.
The trail mostly followed the course of the Dholi River, and was often
boxed in between high vertical cliffs of grey rock, along which the
road was constructed on crowbars. Between the villages of Bahling
(10,230 feet) and Nagling (9876 feet—h.a.) was another small but
interesting glacier of dirty grey ice mixed with mud and débris, and a
central and two side dunes. A stream rose from it and became a
tributary of the Dholi.
From Nagling to Shobla there is a fair road, and from Sela, about
half-way between the two above villages, it is possible to get over the
mountains to Kuti. The way, however, is extremely bad, and over a good
deal of snow. The journey occupies from three to four days.
From Nagling southward the road was almost an identical replica of the
Nerpani—the waterless trail—I had followed on the way out. In many
places it was supported on crowbars and we had a drop under us of
several hundred feet.
As far as Go from Nui the trail was on the east side of the Dholi
River; from Go it was on the west side. Some two miles from Shobla one
got a charming bird’s-eye view of this village, with the river like a
ribbon of silver winding its way between high mountains covered with
luxuriant vegetation. Perhaps the beautiful deep green of the trees
affected us all the more because we had been so long among barren,
desolate, dreary landscapes, and among snow and ice; so that it was a
regular feast for our eyes to see some signs of vegetation again.
The Darma Shokas, like those of Bias, only inhabit these villages
during the summer months, retiring to warmer regions farther south
(mainly to Dharchula) for the winter. Hence, a great many temporary
sheds can be seen in all their villages, wherein are stored their
articles of furniture, mats, and clothing, which they do not require
when busy trading in the summer months. In some spots the mountain side
was simply dotted with these temporary store-houses.
As we were going towards Khela, where we should complete the circle of
our journey and meet another contingent of my men who had proceeded
there direct from Nepal, we had no further adventures worth mentioning,
except one.
We came to a strange cave, only a few yards deep and some 30 feet high,
in the side of a hill. The natives had told me that no animal could
enter it without dying, and, in fact, when we peeped into it we saw a
number of skeletons of dogs, other small mammals, and birds. On
stooping down, one of my men and I were immediately seized with
giddiness and a fainting sensation, and had we not been quick enough in
jumping out into the open air we might have possibly collapsed, owing
to the noxious gases which emanated from the ground in the cave. A
peculiar sulphurous odour was noticeable, even some little distance
from the cave. It is in its effects very much like the “Grotta dei
Cani” of Naples, only this one seemed more deadly. The gases seem to
hang low upon the ground, not more than about 3 or 3½ feet, although on
entering the cave one felt at once a stifling sensation, even when
standing upright. We two who had stooped suffered from a severe
headache for some hours.
Before we leave the Darma district, a word on the history of the
natives may be of interest. The Darma Shokas are in many ways—and in
facial appearance—very different from the Shokas of Chaudas and Bias,
and, although their origin is undoubtedly Mongolian from Tibet, their
traditions vary very considerably from those of the other Shokas.
According to some authorities the Darma Shokas are the descendants of a
horde of Mughals who were endeavouring to take possession of Kumaon
during the time that Timur was occupying a portion of that country.
This horde, which is supposed to have entered Kumaon from the plains
and not over the mountains, was eventually reduced to very small
numbers, and driven to the mountains, where they finally settled,
practically undisturbed, in the Darma Valley. Darma, like the other
Shoka districts (Bias and Chaudas), formerly belonged to Tibet, and it
was not till the Gorkhali administration that Darma, with Bias and
Chaudas, was annexed to Kumaon.
Even now, as we have already seen, the Tibetans exercise a serious
influence upon those natives, the Shokas of all these districts,
however willing to be faithful and loyal to us, having never received
protection nor the meagrest justice from the British Government.
Personally, I do not quite share the opinion that the Darma Shokas came
from the plains or from Tibet by way of the plains. They resemble quite
closely the Kam-par or Tibetans from Kam, with whom they are to this
day in constant communication. In fact, it is chiefly with the Kam-par
tribe and Gyanema that the Darma Shokas do all their trading. The more
massive features and stronger facial characteristics of the Darma
Shokas have been acquired, I think, more through their frequent
intercourses with Jumlis and other tribes of Western Nepal, which gives
them a wilder appearance than the more purely Mongolian stolid types,
such as the Bias Shokas.
In many ways the Darma Shokas do not possess the refined and
gentlemanly feelings so strikingly common among Bias Shokas, nor are
they quite so honest and reliable. But they, too, possess good hearts,
are somewhat impetuous and excitable, and occasionally addicted to
murder.
CHAPTER XXI
From Khela on the Nepalese boundary, where I found my men and pony—the
latter had been safely taken back across the dangerous Nerpani road—I
proceeded in all haste to Almora. I varied my journey slightly,
travelling by way of Thal.
The roar of British officials had been very great while I was distant,
so I halted several days both in Almora and Naini-Tal, the summer seat
of the Provincial Government, in order to give them opportunity of
carrying out some of their threats. Nothing happened.
By way of Bombay I returned to England, and from there I sailed
directly to America, on my way to the Chinese War.
Perhaps the journey, requiring as it did more than ordinary endurance,
did more to strengthen my former theories about travelling attendants
than any journey I had taken before. I invariably found that thoughtful
and tactful kindness with my men and with strangers always paid better
than harsh treatment. It is all very well for the leader of an
expedition not to mind this, and not to feel that, and, if anything,
rather enjoy the fun of roughing it. The interest which he—if of even
moderate intelligence—must take in the study of the country, the
natives, recording his scientific observations, surveying,
photographing, writing up his notes, etc., leave him but little time to
worry over climatic conditions or the cooking. But not so with the
native followers, who after their day’s work is finished—and pretty
tedious their day’s work is—have nothing to employ their minds except
the thought that another day of hardship is to follow. The mind preys a
good deal upon the entire system, and when to mental depression you add
every possible bodily inconvenience you can think of, it is not
unnatural that the men are inclined to break down.
First of all, naturally, I took great care to have my men well fed and
clothed, then the next and most important was to prevent them getting
depressed when great difficulties were facing them. Many evenings, when
we did not make night marches, I used to collect my men round my tent
and entertained them with long descriptions of things in Europe they
had never seen, such as ocean steamers, “sky-scrapers,” railways,
electric light, etc.
I am rather sorry that, this publication being illustrated entirely by
drawings done by hand, I am not able to give an interesting photograph
of a group of my followers whom I snapshotted as I was describing to
them the wonders of civilisation. The expressions of wonderment and
keen interest were quite intense, and show clearly in the photograph.
The men always looked for these nightly lectures, and no matter how
tired they were they generally collected round for me to tell them
more. This, I think, helped more to keep my men in good spirits—in very
exasperating circumstances—than anything I could think of. Every topic
would lead to endless discussions among them, and most amusing
controversies, which enlivened their spirits, anyhow till the next
lecture.
Natives always take the keenest interest in firearms and anything
connected with them. Also in telescopes, which they love. I happened to
possess a little camera which was not unlike a spy-glass. I had given
it to one of my men to carry—by the way, to the fellow who saved my
life on the top of Lumpa Mountain. He could not get it out of his head
that it was a glass, and once or twice I caught him trying to survey
the landscape with it.
One evening, on my way down to Almora, we had reached camp, and as I
was sitting outside my tent I perceived the fellow walking away with my
camera towards a cluster of trees some way off on the top of a hillock.
I watched him with the corner of my eye. When he got there he climbed
right to the top of the highest tree, and as he clung with his folded
legs to the branch, swinging to and fro in the wind, he unslung the
camera and pulled it out of its case. Next, as I expected, he brought
it up to his eyes and proceeded to scan the landscape. Unhappily for
the camera, the branch, having swung rather too far beyond its limit of
elasticity, gave way, and down came the man and precious instrument,
bounding from branch to branch until they bumped with some might upon
the solid ground—the man, of course, on the top of the camera. The
camera he picked up in fragments, besides destroying eighteen excellent
negatives it contained.
“What on earth did you do that for?” I asked of the Shoka.
“Sahib,” he said, rubbing his aching side, “I have longed for many a
day to look through the durbin; we Shokas are to leave you to-morrow,
and I thought I would have no other opportunity. You can kill me,
sahib, because I deserve it!”
When I thought of the deep debt of gratitude I owed this man, I
preferred to spare him. I handed him a real and powerful telescope,
properly focussed, for him to have the treat he wished. When he gazed
through it and saw the distant snows and a village some miles off
appear quite close, his excitement had no bounds, and when he
recognised people coming out of the houses his amazement was very
curious to watch.
We had many, many amusing incidents of this kind, and they served to
pass away the time.
I cannot end this book without paying a tribute to the faithfulness,
endurance, and bravery of all my men. A more devoted lot of fellows
could nowhere have been procured. I never had the slightest trouble in
any way with them even, as we have seen, under most trying
circumstances. The work demanded of them was of the most severe nature,
and the constant strain and bodily sufferings so great, that I rather
doubt whether I know of any white man who could have stood it—not as
they did, but even half as well. As it was, after the strain was
over—but not before—the poor fellows all broke down, except one. Most
of them were pitiably footsore and exhausted, and only their strong
will carried them through. The only exception was the young boy, frail
and delicate, almost girlish-looking—but with a determined little
face—to whom I have referred at the beginning of the book. As
stipulated when I employed him, he always carried the heaviest load,
and when physically stronger men lay down tired at the end of a march,
he was ever ready to run about to collect fuel, took endless pleasure
in helping to pitch the tents, and assist in the cooking. The endurance
and courage of that little fellow were quite marvellous. He did more
work than two men taken together, and at the end of the journey he was
the only one who returned in excellent condition, and as fresh as
possible.
So that, remember, it is not always the big, bulky, muscular fellows
who can stand more hardships,—the strongest and most muscular fellow I
had was the only one who succumbed; on the contrary, down to a certain
limit, for very hard work, the smaller the men you employ the better.
Wiriness, suppleness, agility—and intelligence—are essential, and
always to be preferred to brutal, uncontrollable strength; but, above
all, use your judgment, and never take with you on expeditions of this
sort a man who does not possess a strong will.
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