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Title: Trans-Himalaya, Vol. 1 (of 2)
Discoveries and Adventurers in Tibet
Author: Sven Hedin
Release Date: August 18, 2013 [EBook #43497]
Language: English
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[Illustration]
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO
ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
[Illustration: 1. LORD MINTO, VICEROY OF INDIA. _Frontispiece_]
TRANS-HIMALAYA
DISCOVERIES AND ADVENTURES IN TIBET
BY
SVEN HEDIN
WITH 388 ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS, WATER-COLOUR
SKETCHES, AND DRAWINGS BY THE AUTHOR
AND 10 MAPS
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. I
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1909
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1909,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
* * * * *
Set up and electrotyped. Published December, 1909.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
TO
HIS EXCELLENCY
THE EARL OF MINTO
VICEROY OF INDIA
WITH GRATITUDE AND ADMIRATION
FROM THE AUTHOR
PREFACE
In the first place I desire to pay homage to the memory of my patron,
King Oskar of Sweden, by a few words of gratitude. The late King showed
as warm and intelligent an interest in my plan for a new expedition as
he had on former occasions, and assisted in the fulfilment of my project
with much increased liberality.
I estimated the cost of the journey at 80,000 kronor (about £4400), and
this sum was subscribed within a week by my old friend Emmanuel Nobel,
and my patrons, Frederik Löwenadler, Oscar Ekman, Robert Dickson,
William Olsson, and Henry Ruffer, banker in London. I cannot adequately
express my thanks to these gentlemen. In consequence of the political
difficulties I encountered in India, which forced me to make wide
detours, the expenses were increased by about 50,000 kronor (£2800), but
this sum I was able to draw from my own resources.
As on former occasions, I have this time also to thank Dr. Nils Ekholm
for his great kindness in working out the absolute heights. The three
lithographic maps have been compiled from my original sheets with
painstaking care by Lieutenant C. J. Otto Kjellström, who devoted all
his furlough to this troublesome work. The astronomical points, nearly
one hundred, have been calculated by the Assistant Roth of the Stockholm
Observatory; a few points, which appeared doubtful, were omitted in
drawing the route on the map, which is based on points previously
determined. The map illustrating my narrative in the _Geographical
Journal_, April 1909, I drew roughly from memory without consulting the
original sheets, for I had no time to spare; the errors which naturally
crept in have been corrected on the new maps, but I wish to state here
the cause of the discrepancy. The final maps, which I hope to publish in
a voluminous scientific work, will be distinguished by still greater
accuracy and detail.
I claim not the slightest artistic merit for my drawings, and my
water-colours are extremely defective both in drawing and colouring. One
of the pictures, the lama opening the door of the mausoleum, I left
unfinished in my haste; it has been thrown in with the others, with the
wall-paintings and shading incomplete. To criticize these slight
attempts as works of art would be like wasting gunpowder on dead crows.
For the sake of variety several illustrations have been drawn by the
British artists De Haenen and T. Macfarlane, but it must not be assumed
that these are fanciful productions. Every one of them is based on
outline drawings by myself, a number of photographs, and a full
description of the scene. De Haenen's illustrations appeared in the
London _Graphic_, and were ordered when I was still in India.
Macfarlane's drawings were executed this summer, and I was able to
inspect his designs and approve of them before they were worked up.
As to the text, I have endeavoured to depict the events of the journey
as far as the limited space permitted, but I have also imprudently
allowed myself to touch on subjects with which I am not at all
familiar--I allude in particular to Lamaism. It has been unfortunate
that I had to write the whole book in 107 days, during which many hours
were taken up with work connected with the maps and illustrations and by
an extensive correspondence with foreign publishers, especially Albert
Brockhaus of Leipzig, who never wearied in giving me excellent advice.
The whole work has been hurried, and the book from beginning to end is
like a vessel which ventures out into the ocean of the world's tumult
and of criticism with many leaks and cracks.
My thanks are also due to my father, who made a clean copy from my
illegible manuscript; and to my mother, who has saved me from many
mistakes. Dr. Carl Forstrand has revised both the manuscript and the
proof-sheets, and has compiled the Swedish index.
* * * * *
The seven and thirty Asiatics who followed me faithfully through Tibet,
and contributed in no small degree to the successful issue and results
of the expedition, have had the honour of receiving from His Majesty the
King of Sweden gold and silver medals bearing the portrait of the King,
a crown, and an inscription. I humbly beg His Majesty to accept my
warmest and most sincere thanks for his great generosity.
The book is dedicated to Lord Minto, as a slight testimony of my
gratitude for all his kindness and hospitality. It had been Lord Minto's
intention to further my plans as Lord Curzon would have done if he had
still been Viceroy of India, but political considerations prevented him.
When, however, I was actually in Tibet, the Viceroy was free to use his
influence with the Tashi Lama, and the consequence was that many doors
in the forbidden land, formerly tightly closed, were opened to me.
Dear reminiscences of India hovered about my lonesome years in dreary
Tibet like the pleasant rustling of palm leaves. It will suffice to
mention men like Lord Kitchener, in whose house I spent a week never to
be forgotten; Colonel Dunlop Smith, who took charge of my notes and
maps and sent them home, and also forwarded a whole caravan of
necessaries to Gartok; Younghusband, Patterson, Ryder, Rawling, and many
others. And, lastly, Colonel Longe, Surveyor-General, and Colonel
Burrard, of the Survey of India, who, with the greatest kindness, had my
900 map-sheets of Tibet photographed, and stored the negatives among
their records in case the originals should be lost, and who, after I had
placed my 200 map-sheets of Persia at the disposal of the Indian
Government, had them worked up in the North-Western Frontier Drawing
Office and combined into a fine map of eleven printed sheets--a map
which is to be treated as "confidential" until my scientific works have
appeared.
It is with the greatest pleasure that I avail myself of this opportunity
of expressing my sincere gratitude for all the innumerable tokens of
sympathy and appreciation which I received in all parts of the United
Kingdom, and for all the honours conferred on me by Societies, and the
warm welcome I met with from the audiences I had the pleasure of
addressing. I shall always cherish a proud and happy remembrance of the
two months which it was my good-fortune to spend in the British Isles;
and the kindness then showered upon me was the more delightful because
it was extended also to two of my sisters, who accompanied me.
Were I to mention all the ladies and gentlemen to whom I am especially
indebted, I could fill several pages. But I cannot let this book go
forth through the English-speaking world without expressing my sincere
gratitude to Lord Curzon for the great and encouraging interest he has
always taken in myself and my journeys; to Lord Morley for the brilliant
speech he delivered after my first lecture--the most graceful compliment
ever paid me, as well as for many other marks of kindness and sympathy
shown to me by the Secretary of State for India; to the Swedish
Minister in London, Count Herman Wrangel, for all the valuable services
he rendered me during and after my journey; to Major Leonard Darwin and
the Council and Members of the Royal Geographical Society, to whom I was
delighted to return, not as a strange guest, but as an old friend; to
the famous and illustrious Universities of Oxford and Cambridge, where I
was overwhelmed with exceptional honours and boundless hospitality; to
the Royal Scottish Geographical Society, where twice before I had
received a warm reception. Well, when I think of those charming days in
England and Scotland I am inclined to dwell too long upon them, and I
must hasten to a conclusion. But there is one more name, which I have
left to the last, because it has been very dear to me for many years,
that of Dr. J. Scott Keltie. The general public will never know what it
means to be the Secretary and mainspring of the Royal Geographical
Society, to work year after year in that important office in Savile Row,
to receive explorers from all corners of the world and satisfy all their
demands, without ever losing patience or ever hearing a word of thanks.
I can conceive from my own experience how much trouble I have caused Dr.
Keltie, but yet he has always met me with the same amiability and has
always been a constant friend, whether I have been at home or away for
years on long journeys.
Dr. M. A. Stein started and returned from his splendid journey in
Central Asia at the same times as myself. We crossed different parts of
the old continent, but we have several interests in common, and I am
glad to congratulate Dr. Stein most heartily on his important
discoveries and the brilliant results he has brought back.
It is my intention to collect in a third volume all the material for
which there is no room in _Trans-Himalaya_. For instance, I have been
obliged to omit a description of the march northwards from the source
of the Indus and of the journey over the Trans-Himalaya to Gartok, as
well as of the road from Gartok to Ladak, and the very interesting route
from the Nganglaring-tso to Simla. I have also had to postpone the
description of several monasteries to a later opportunity. In this
future book I will also record my recollections of beautiful, charming
Japan, where I gained so many friends, and of Korea, Manchuria, and Port
Arthur. The manuscript of this later volume is already finished, and I
long for the opportunity of publicly thanking the Japanese, as well as
our representative in Japan and China, the Minister Extraordinary,
Wallenberg, for all the delightful hospitality and all the honours
showered down on me in the Land of the Rising Sun.
Lastly, the appetite of young people for adventures will be satisfied in
an especial work.
I am glad to be able to announce at the eleventh hour that the Madrassi
Manuel, who in Chapter IX. was reported lost, has at length been found
again.
In conclusion, I must say a few words of thanks to my publishers, and
first of all to Herre K. O. Bonnier of Stockholm, for his valuable
co-operation and the elegant form in which he has produced my book, and
then to the firm of F. A. Brockhaus, Leipzig; the "Elsevier" Uitgevers
Maatschappij, Amsterdam; Hachette & C^ie, Paris; "Kansa," Suomalainen
Kustannus-O-Y, Helsingfors; the Robert Lampel Buchhandlung (F. Wodianer
& Söhne) Act.-Ges., Budapest; Macmillan & Co., Ltd., London and New
York; J. Otto, Prague; Fratelli Treves, Milan.
SVEN HEDIN.
STOCKHOLM, _September_, 1909.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I PAGE
SIMLA 1
CHAPTER II
DEPARTURE FROM SRINAGAR 21
CHAPTER III
THE ROAD TO LEH 35
CHAPTER IV
THE LAST PREPARATIONS 46
CHAPTER V
THE START FOR TIBET 60
CHAPTER VI
TO THE EDGE OF THE TIBETAN TABLELAND 72
CHAPTER VII
OVER THE CREST OF THE KARAKORUM 84
CHAPTER VIII
TO LAKE LIGHTEN 97
CHAPTER IX
ON THE LAKE IN A STORM 106
CHAPTER X
DEATH IN THE JAWS OF WOLVES--OR SHIPWRECK 119
CHAPTER XI
GREAT LOSSES 132
CHAPTER XII
IN UNKNOWN COUNTRY 146
CHAPTER XIII
UNFORTUNATE DAYS 158
CHAPTER XIV
IN THE LAND OF THE WILD YAK 171
CHAPTER XV
THE FIRST NOMADS 181
CHAPTER XVI
OUR FORTUNES ON THE WAY TO THE BOGTSANG-TSANGPO 196
CHAPTER XVII
CHRISTMAS IN THE WILDS 211
CHAPTER XVIII
TEN DAYS ON THE ICE OF NGANGTSE-TSO 223
CHAPTER XIX
DRIVEN BACK 236
CHAPTER XX
ONWARDS THROUGH THE FORBIDDEN LAND 249
CHAPTER XXI
OVER THE TRANS-HIMALAYA 264
CHAPTER XXII
TO THE BANK OF THE BRAHMAPUTRA 276
CHAPTER XXIII
DOWN THE TSANGPO BY BOAT--ENTRY INTO SHIGATSE 288
CHAPTER XXIV
THE NEW YEAR FESTIVAL 301
CHAPTER XXV
THE TASHI LAMA 317
CHAPTER XXVI
THE GRAVES OF THE PONTIFFS 329
CHAPTER XXVII
POPULAR AMUSEMENTS OF THE TIBETANS 340
CHAPTER XXVIII
MONKS AND PILGRIMS 347
CHAPTER XXIX
WALKS IN TASHI-LUNPO--THE DISPOSAL OF THE DEAD 361
CHAPTER XXX
OUR LIFE IN SHIGATSE 374
CHAPTER XXXI
POLITICAL COMPLICATIONS 388
CHAPTER XXXII
TARTING-GOMPA AND TASHI-GEMBE 402
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE RAGA-TSANGPO AND THE MY-CHU 415
CHAPTER XXXIV
TO LINGA-GOMPA 427
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
1. Lord Minto, Viceroy of India _Frontispiece_
2. Colonel Sir Francis Younghusband, Commander of the English
Expedition to Tibet, Resident in Kashmir 10
3. Colonel J. R. Dunlop Smith, Private Secretary to the Viceroy 10
4. Viceregal Lodge in Simla 12
5. Lady Minto and the Author on the Terrace of the Viceregal
Lodge 14
6. Herbert, Viscount Kitchener of Khartum, Late Commander-in-Chief
of the Indian Army 18
7. The Maharaja of Jammu and Kashmir 22
8. Palace of H.H. the Maharaja of Kashmir in Srinagar 26
9. The Jhelam in Srinagar 28
10. The Start from Ganderbal 30
11. My Escort 30
12. My Three Puppies 32
13. Robert, the Eurasian 32
14. Ganpat Sing, the Rajput 32
15. Manuel, the Cook 32
16. In Front of Nedou's Hotel in Srinagar 34
17. Some of our Mules 34
18. An Amateur Photographer photographed 34
19. The Road to Baltal 38
20. Kargil 40
21. Chhorten in Lamayuru 40
22. Church Music in Lamayuru 42
23. Portrait of a Lama 42
24. Portrait of a Lama 42
25. The Sumto Valley 44
26. Bridge of Alchi 44
27. Girl in Niemo 44
28, 29. Palace of the Kings of Ladak in Leh 44
30. Muhamed Isa 46
31. Guffaru 52
32. The Raja of Stok 56
33. Portal of the Palace in Leh 56
34. View over the Indus Valley from the Roof of the Palace in Leh 56
35. Lama of High Rank in Leh 56
36. Monuments to Stoliczka and Dalgleish, Leh 58
37. Religious Objects from Sanskar 60
38. Images of Gods. A miniature Chhorten on the right. Holy
Books, Temple Vessels. On either side of the small
Altar-table wooden blocks with which the Holy Books are
printed 60
39. Tikze-gompa, Monastery in Ladak 62
40. Masked Lamas in the Court of Ceremonies in Hemis-gompa
(Ladak) 64
41. Group of Masked Lamas in Hemis-gompa 64
42. From Singrul, looking towards the Pass, Chang-la 66
43. View from Sultak, August 17, 1906 66
44. Drugub 66
45. My old friend Hiraman from Ladak 70
46. Chiefs of Tankse and Pobrang; Muhamed Isa, the Caravan
Leader, in the Background 70
47. The Way to the Marsimik-la 74
48. Spanglung 74
49. Spanglung 78
50. Camp near Pamzal 78
51. The Chang-chenmo and the Way to Gogra 78
52. Muhamed Isa in the River Chang-chenmo near Pamzal 80
53. Rabsang, Adul, Tsering, and Muhamed Isa 82
54. Our Horses at the Karakorum 82
55. In the Snow, N.E. of Chang-lung-yogma 86
56. My Tent 86
57. Lake Lighten 86
58a, 58b. Pantholops Antelope 90
59, 60. Ovis Ammon 90
61. A Gully at Camp 8 (Aksai-chin) 94
62. The hired Ladakis and the Provision Sacks in North-West
Chang-tang 98
63. Namgyal with a Sack of Yak-dung 98
64. Shelter of Provision Sacks 100
65. Camp in a narrow Valley, Camp 41 100
66. Robert, Muhamed Isa, and two Servants by a Fire 100
67. The large piebald Yarkand Horse 104
68, 69. The Slain Yaks; Tundup Sonam, the Hunter on the left
in 68 104
70. Rehim Ali, one of my Ladakis on the First Crossing of
Tibet 108
71. Starting on a Voyage 110
72. In Peril on Lake Lighten 112
73. The Author and Rehim Ali pull the Boat out of the Waves up
on to the Shore 116
74. Camp at the Yeshil-kul 118
75. The Pul-tso, looking East 118
76. Horses and Mules in open Country 118
77. Death in the Jaws of Wolves--or Shipwreck 122
78. A Dangerous Situation on the Yeshil-kul. In Moonshine 126
79. At Deasy's Camp 132
80. Afternoon Tea in the open Air 132
81. Melting Snow for Drinking-Water 132
82. Preparations for Dinner at Camp 41 152
83. The Author, Robert, and Rehim Ali attacked by a wounded
Yak 170
84. Rehim Ali falls to the Ground and thus rescues us from the
furious Yak 174
85, 86. The First Tibetans 180
87. Smoking Camp-fires in the Heart of Chang-tang 186
88. Our Yaks, bought from the First Tibetans 186
89. "Where are you going?" they asked me 200
90. Near the Dangra-yum-tso 216
91, 92, 93. On the Ngangtse-tso 226
94. In a Snowstorm on the Ice of the Ngangtse-tso 234
95. Hlaje Tsering and his Travelling Companion, a Lama, at my
Tent on the Ngangtse-tso 242
96. Servants of Hlaje Tsering 252
97. Messenger with Letters from Home, and his Travelling
Companion 252
98. Hlaje Tsering setting out 252
99. Three Tibetans saluting 264
100. Pass of La-rock. _Mani_ Heap with Fluttering
Prayer-Streamers 274
101. On the Bank of the Tsangpo (Brahmaputra) 274
102. The Tsangpo with Floating Ice 282
103. The Valley of the Tsangpo above Shigatse 282
104. House in the Village of Rungma 286
105. Garden of the Tashi Lama in the Village of Tanak 286
106. Ferry-Boats 290
107. Pilgrims on the Way to Tashi-lunpo 290
108. Court of Religious Ceremonies in Tashi-lunpo 296
109. Religious Decorations on the Roofs of Tashi-lunpo to
exorcise Evil Spirits 296
110. The Upper Balcony of the Court of Ceremonies in
Tashi-lunpo 300
111, 112. The _Profanum Vulgus_ at the New Year Festival in
Shigatse 304
113. Lama with Shell-Trumpet 306
114. Lama with Flute used in Religious Services 306
115, 116, 117. Lamas in Dancing Masks 308
118. View of Tashi-lunpo 310
119. Street in Tashi-lunpo, with Lamas 312
120. Street in Tashi-lunpo 314
121. The Labrang, the Palace of the Tashi Lama 316
122. Interior of the Palace of the Tashi Lama 322
123. View of a Part of Tashi-lunpo, with the Façade of a
Mausoleum of a Grand Lama 324
124. Façade of the Mausoleum of the First Tashi Lama. The
Court of Ceremonies in the Foreground 326
125, 126. Interiors of two Mausoleums of Grand Lamas in
Tashi-lunpo 328
127. The Kanjur-lhakang in Tashi-lunpo 330
128. Portal of the Mausoleum of the Third Tashi Lama in
Tashi-lunpo 332
129. The Namgyal-lhakang with the Figure of Tsong Kapa, in
Tashi-lunpo _Coloured_ 334
130. Reading Lama with Dorche (Thunderbolt) and Drilbu
(Prayer-Bell) 336
131. Lama with Prayer-Drum 336
132. Entrance to the Tomb of the Fifth Tashi Lama in
Tashi-lunpo _Coloured_ 338
133. Staircase to the Mausoleum of the Fifth Tashi Lama in
Tashi-lunpo 340
134. Shigatse-dzong (the Fortress) 342
135. Shigatse, Capital of the Province of Chang (11,880 feet) 344
136. Chinese New Year Festival in my Garden 346
137. Some of the Members in the Shooting Competition at the New
Year Festival 346
138. Popular Diversion in Shigatse 348
139. Nepalese performing Symbolical Dances at the New Year
Festival 350
140. Dancing Nepalese at the New Year Festival, Tashi-lunpo 352
141. The Kitchen in Tashi-lunpo 354
142. Colonnade in Tashi-lunpo 354
143. Lamas drinking Tea in the Court of Ceremonies in
Tashi-lunpo 358
144. Part of Shigatse 362
145. The Tashi Lama returning to the Labrang after a Ceremony 362
146. The Panchen Rinpoche, or Tashi Lama 366
147. Portrait of the Tashi Lama 370
148. Lamas with Copper Tea-pots 374
149. Female Pilgrim from Nam-tso and Mendicant Lama 374
150. The Great Red Gallery of Tashi-lunpo 376
151. Chhorten in Tashi-lunpo 378
152. Portal in Tashi-lunpo 380
153. Group of Lamas in Tashi-lunpo 380
154. Lecture in Tashi-lunpo 382
155. Female Pilgrims from the Nam-tso 384
156. Tibetans in Shigatse 384
157, 158, 159. Tibetan Girl and Women in Shigatse 386
160. A Chinaman in Shigatse 388
161. A Tibetan in Shigatse 388
162. A Lama in Tashi-lunpo 388
163. Door-keeper in Tsong Kapa's Temple 388
164. Dancing Boys with Drums 390
165. Wandering Nun with a Tanka depicting a Religious Legend
and singing the Explanation. (In our Garden at Shigatse.) 394
166. Gandän-chöding-gompa, a Nunnery in Ye 394
167. Duke Kung Gushuk, Brother of the Tashi Lama 398
168. The little Brother of the Tashi Lama, the Wife of Kung
Gushuk, and her five Servants 402
169. The little Brother of His Holiness with a Servant 404
170. The Author drawing the Duchess Kung Gushuk 406
171. Major W. F. O'Connor, British Trade Agent in Gyangtse, now
Consul in Seistan 408
172. Captain C. G. Rawling 408
173, 174. Tarting-gompa 410
175. Linga-gompa 410
176. Lung-Ganden-gompa near Tong 410
177. Inscription and Figure of Buddha carved in Granite near
the Village of Lingö 410
178. Tarting-gompa 412
179. Sego-chummo Lhakang in Tarting-gompa 412
180. Bridge to the Monastery Pinzoling (on the right) 414
181. Group of Tibetans in the Village of Tong 418
182. Inhabitants of the Village of Govo 418
183. Lama in Tong 422
184. Old Tibetan 422
185. Strolling Musicians 424
186. The Handsome Woman, Putön 426
187. On the My-chu near Linga 430
188. Village and Monastery of Linga 430
MAPS
1. The Latest Map of Tibet.
2. Carte Générale du Thibet ou Bout-tan.
3. Map of Southern Tibet (Hodgson).
4. The Source-Region of the Brahmaputra (Nain Sing).
5. Sketch-Map of Webber's Route in 1866.
6. Saunders' Map of South Tibet.
7. The Source-Region of the Brahmaputra (Ryder).
(_At end of Volume._)
CHAPTER I
SIMLA
In the spring of the year 1905 my mind was much occupied with thoughts
of a new journey to Tibet. Three years had passed since my return to my
own country; my study began to be too small for me; at eventide, when
all around was quiet, I seemed to hear in the sough of the wind a voice
admonishing me to "come back again to the silence of the wilderness";
and when I awoke in the morning I involuntarily listened for caravan
bells outside. So the time passed till my plans were ripened and my fate
was soon decided; I must return to the freedom of the desert and hie
away to the broad plains between the snow-clad mountains of Tibet. Not
to listen to this secret voice when it speaks strongly and clearly means
deterioration and ruin; one must resign oneself to the guidance of this
invisible hand, have faith in its divine origin and in oneself, and
submit to the gnawing pain which another departure from home, for so
long a time and with the future uncertain, brings with it.
In the concluding lines of my scientific work on the results of my
former journey (_Scientific Results_) I spoke of the impossibility of
giving a complete description of the internal structure of Tibet, its
mountains and valleys, its rivers and lakes, while so large a part of
the country was still quite unknown. "Under these circumstances," I said
(vol. iv. p. 608), "I prefer to postpone the completion of such a
monograph till my return from the journey on which I am about to start."
Instead of losing myself in conjectures or arriving at confused results
owing to lack of material, I would rather see with my own eyes the
unknown districts in the midst of northern Tibet, and, above all, visit
the extensive areas of entirely unexplored country which stretches to
the north of the upper Brahmaputra and has not been traversed by
Europeans or Indian pundits. Thus much was _à priori_ certain, that this
region presented the grandest problems which remained still unsolved in
the physical geography of Asia. There must exist one or more mountain
systems running parallel with the Himalayas and the Karakorum range;
there must be found peaks and ridges on which the eye of the explorer
had never lighted; turquoise-blue salt lakes in valleys and hollows
reflect the restless passage of the monsoon clouds north-eastwards, and
from their southern margins voluminous rivers must flow down, sometimes
turbulent, sometimes smooth. There, no doubt, were nomad tribes, who
left their winter pastures in spring, and during the summer wandered
about on the higher plains when the new grass had sprung up from the
poor soil. But whether a settled population dwelt there, whether there
were monasteries, where a lama, punctual as the sun, gave the daily
summons to prayer from the roof by blowing through a shell,--that no one
knew. Tibetan literature, old and recent, was searched in vain for
information; nothing could be found but fanciful conjectures about the
existence of a mighty chain, which were of no value as they did not
accord with the reality and were not based on any actual facts. On the
other hand, a few travellers had skirted the unknown country on the
north and south, east and west, myself among the number. Looking at a
map, which shows the routes of travellers in Tibet, one might almost
suppose that we had purposely avoided the great white patch bearing on
the recently published English map only the word "Unexplored." Hence it
might be concluded that it would be no easy feat to cross this tract, or
otherwise some one would ere now have strayed into it. In my book
_Central Asia and Tibet_ I have fully described the desperate attempts I
made in the autumn and winter of 1901 to advance southwards from my
route between the Zilling-tso and the Pangong-tso. One of my aims was to
find an opportunity of visiting one or more of the great lakes in
Central Tibet which the Indian pundit, Nain Sing, discovered in 1874,
and which since then had never been seen except by the natives. During
my former journey I had dreamt of discovering the source of the Indus,
but it was not then my good fortune to reach it. This mysterious spot
had never been inserted in its proper place on the map of Asia--but it
must exist somewhere. Since the day when the great Macedonian Alexander
(in the year 326 B.C.) crossed the mighty stream with his victorious
host, the question of the situation of this spot has always stood in the
order of the day of geographical exploration.
It was both impossible and unnecessary to draw up beforehand a complete
plan of a journey of which the course and conclusion were more than
usually uncertain, and depended on circumstances quite beyond my
control. I did, indeed, draw on a map of Tibet the probable route of my
journey, that my parents and sisters might know roughly whereabouts I
should be. If this map be compared with my actual route it will be seen
that in both cases the districts visited are the same, but the course
and details are totally different.
In the meantime I wrote to Lord Curzon, then Viceroy of India, informed
him of my plan, and begged for all the assistance that seemed to me
necessary for a successful journey in disturbed Tibet, so lately in a
state of war.
Soon after I received the following letter, which I reproduce here with
the consent of the writer:
VICEREGAL LODGE, SIMLA,
_July 6, 1905_.
MY DEAR DR. HEDIN--I am very glad that you propose to act upon my
advice, and to make one more big Central Asian journey before you
desist from your wonderful travels.
I shall be proud to render you what assistance lies in my power while
I still remain in India, and only regret that long before your great
expedition is over I shall have left these shores. For it is my
intention to depart in April 1906.
Now as regards your plan. I gather that you will not be in India
before next spring, when perhaps I may still see you. I will arrange
to have a good native surveyor ready to accompany you, and I will
further have a man instructed in astronomical observations and in
meteorological recording--so as to be available for you at the same
time.
I cannot say what the attitude of the Tibetan Government will be at
the time that you reach India. But if they continue friendly, we will
of course endeavour to secure for you the requisite permits and
protections.
Assuring you that it will give me the greatest pleasure in any way to
further your plans,--I am yours sincerely,
CURZON.
It may easily be conceived how important this active protection and help
on the part of the Viceroy was to me. I was especially pleased that I
was allowed to take with me native topographers experienced in survey
work, for with their co-operation the maps to be compiled would be far
more valuable, while, released from this complicated work which takes up
so much time, I could devote myself entirely to researches in physical
geography.
With this kind letter at starting I commenced my fifth journey to Asia.
Lord Curzon had, indeed, when I reached India, already left his post,
and a new Government was shortly to take the helm in England with Sir
Henry Campbell-Bannerman as premier. But Lord Curzon's promises were the
words of a Cæsar, and I had not the slightest doubt that a Liberal
Government would respect them.
On October 16, 1905, the same day on which I had started twelve years
before on my journey through Asia, I again left my dear old home in
Stockholm. This time it seemed far more uncertain whether I should see
all my dear ones again; sometime or other the chain that binds us must
be broken. Would it be granted me to find once more my home unchanged?
I travelled viâ Constantinople and the Black Sea, through Turkish
Armenia, across Persia to Seistan, and through the deserts of
Baluchistan to Nushki, where I reached the most western offshoot of the
Indian railway system. After the dust and heat of Baluchistan, Quetta
seemed to me a fine fresh oasis. I left this town on May 20, 1906,
descended in four hours from a height of 5500 feet to a country lying
only 300 feet above sea-level, and found in Sibi a temperature of 100°
F. in the evening. Next day I passed along the Indus and Sutlej through
Samasata and Batinda to Ambala, and I was now, in the hottest part of
the year, the only European in the train. The temperature rose to 107°,
the height I had shortly before recorded in Baluchistan, but it was much
more endurable in the shady carriage, which was protected by a roof and
hanging screens from the direct heat of the sun; it was well, however,
to avoid touching the outside of the carriage, for it was burning hot.
Two window openings are covered with a tissue of root-fibres which are
automatically kept moist, and a wind-catcher sends a draught into the
carriage through the wet matting. At a window like this the temperature
even at noon was only 81½°, and therefore I had nothing to complain of.
At some stations there are excellent restaurants, and natives travelling
on the train sell on the way lemonade and ice as clear as glass.
Nevertheless in India's sultry dried-up plains one longs for the
mountains with their pure cool air. From Kalka a small narrow-gauge
railway carries one in 6½ hours to a height of 7080 feet, and one finds
oneself in Simla, the summer residence of the Viceroy and the
headquarters of the Indian Army. The road is one of the most charming
and magnificent in the world. The little railway climbs up the steep
flanks in the boldest curves, descends the slopes into deep and narrow
ravines, passes along steep mountain spurs, where the train seems as
though it would plunge into space from the extreme point; then the train
crosses bridges which groan and tremble under its weight, enters
pitch-dark tunnels, and again emerges into the blinding sunshine. Now we
run along a valley, catching a glimpse of the bottom far below us, then
mount upwards to a ridge affording an extensive view on both sides, then
again traverse a steep slope where several sections of the marvellously
winding line can be seen below. The scene changes every other minute,
new contours and landscapes present themselves, new points of view and
lights and shades follow one another, and keep the attention of the
traveller on the stretch. There are 102 tunnels on the route, most of
them quite short, but the longest has a length of three-quarters of a
mile.
We pass through one zone of vegetation after another. The flora of the
plain is left far behind; now the eye notices new forms in new
zones--forms characteristic of the various heights of the southern
slopes of the Himalayas--and at last appear the dark deodar forests, the
royal Himalayan cedars, with their luxuriant green foliage, amidst which
are embedded the houses of Simla like swallows' nests. How fascinating
is this sight, but how much more imposing as a symbol of the power of
the British Empire! Here the eagle has its eyry, and from its point of
vantage casts its keen eyes over the plains of India. Here converge
innumerable telegraph wires from all the corners and extremities of the
British Empire, and from this centre numerous orders and instructions
are daily despatched "On His Majesty's Service only"; here the
administration is carried on and the army controlled, and a host of
maharajas are entangled in the meshes like the prey in the nest of a
spider.
I approached Simla with some anxiety. Since Lord Curzon's letter I had
heard nothing more from the authorities in India. The singular town on
its crescent-shaped ridge appears larger and larger, details become
clearer and clearer, there remain only a couple of curves to pass, and
then the train rolls into the station at Simla. Two servants from the
Foreign Office, in scarlet liveries, took possession of my luggage, and
I was welcomed in the Grand Hotel by my old friend Colonel Sir Francis
Younghusband--we kept Christmas together in Kashgar in 1890, and he was
just as friendly and pleasant as then. I was his guest at dinner in the
United Service Club. During half the night we revelled in old
reminiscences of the heart of Asia, spoke of the powerful Russian
Consul-General, Petrovski, in Kashgar, of the English expedition to
Lhasa, which was led by Younghusband, of life in Simla and the coming
festivities in the summer season--but of my prospects my friend did not
utter a word! And I did not ask him; I could believe that if everything
had been plain and straightforward he would have told me at once. But he
was silent as the grave, and I would not question him, though I was
burning with impatience to learn something or other.
When I went out on to my balcony on the morning of May 23, I felt like a
prisoner awaiting his sentence. Below me the roofs of Simla glittered in
the sunshine, and I stood on a level with the tops of the cedars; how
delightful it was here far above the heavy sultry air of the plain. To
the north, through a gap in the luxuriant woods, appeared a scene of
incomparable beauty. There gleamed the nearest ranges of the Himalayas
covered with eternal snow. The crest shone white against the
turquoise-blue sky. The air was so clear that the distance seemed
insignificant; only a few days' journey separated me from these
mountains, and behind them lay mysterious Tibet, the forbidden land, the
land of my dreams. Later on, towards mid-day, the air became hazy and
the glorious view vanished, nor was it again visible during the few
weeks I spent in Simla. It seemed as though a curtain had fallen between
me and Tibet, and as though it had been vouchsafed to me to see only
once from a distance the mountains over which the road led into the land
of promise.
It was a sad day; at twelve o'clock I was to hear my sentence.
Younghusband came for me and we went together to the Foreign Secretary's
Office. Sir Louis Dane received me with great amiability, and we talked
of Persia and the trade route between India and Seistan. Suddenly he
became silent, and then said after a pause:
"It is better you should know at once; the Government in London refuses
you permission to pass into Tibet across the Indian frontier."
"Sad news! But why is this?"
"That I do not know; probably because the present Government wishes to
avoid everything which may give rise to friction on the frontier; the
granting of your request throws responsibility on us should anything
happen to you. Yes, it is a pity. What do you think of doing now?"
"If I had had any suspicion of this in Teheran, I would have taken my
way through Russian Asia, for I have never met with any difficulties
from the Russians."
"Well, we have done out here all we could to forward your plans. The
three native surveyors Lord Curzon promised you have been trained for
six months, and hold themselves in readiness at Dehra Dun. But probably
this too will be countermanded from London. Still, we have not yet given
up all hope, and we expect the final answer on June 3."
To have to wait eleven days for the final decision was unbearable.
Perhaps a personal application might have a favourable effect. I
therefore sent the following telegram to the English Prime Minister:
The friendly words, in which your Excellence referred two years ago in
Parliament to my journey and my book, encourage me to apply direct to
you, and to beg you in the interests of geographical science to grant
me the permission of your Government to pass into Tibet by way of
Simla and Gartok. I propose to explore the region, mostly uninhabited,
to the north of the Tsangpo, and the lakes lying in it, and then to
return to India. I am thoroughly acquainted with the present political
relations between India and Tibet, and as I have held peaceful
intercourse with Asiatics since my twenty-first year, I shall also
this time behave with circumspection, follow the instructions I am
given, and consider it a point of honour to avoid all disputes on the
frontier.
And now we waited again; the days passed, my three native assistants
held themselves ready in Dehra Dun for the journey, the
Commander-in-chief, Lord Kitchener, assured me that he should be pleased
to place at my disposal twenty armed Gurkhas--only the permission sought
from the Secretary of State for India, Mr. John Morley, must first
arrive; for it was he who held the keys of the frontier, and on him
everything depended. Lord Minto, the new Viceroy of India
(Frontispiece), did everything in his power. He wrote long complete
statements of affairs and sent one telegram after another. A refusal
could not discourage him; he always sent off another despatch beginning
with the words: "I beg His Majesty's Ministry to take once more into
consideration that," etc. When the assurance was given from London that
the refusal was not intended for me personally, but that the same answer
had been communicated to several British officers, Lord Minto in his
last telegram begged that I might be permitted to accompany the British
officer who was to travel to Gartok in summer to inspect the market
there. But the Secretary of State kept immovably to his resolution, and
I received the following reply to my telegram in a despatch of June 1,
1906, from the Secretary to the Viceroy:
The Prime Minister desires that the following message be communicated
to Sven Hedin: "I sincerely regret that I cannot, for reasons which
have doubtless been explained to you by the Indian Government, grant
you the desired assistance for your journey to and in Tibet. This
assistance has also been refused to the Royal Geographical Society in
London, and likewise to British officers in the service of the Indian
Government."
The contents of the last London telegram intimated, then, that nothing
was conceded to me. The Indian Government and the Viceroy could, of
course, do nothing but obey, as usual, the orders from London. They were
willing to do everything, and displayed the warmest interest in my
plans, but they durst not help me. They durst not procure me a permit or
passport from Lhasa, they durst not provide me with an escort,
indispensable in the insecure country of Tibet, and I lost the privilege
of taking with me three efficient topographers and assistants in my
scientific observations, from which both sides would have derived
advantage. But this was not all. Should I fall in with circumstances and
cross the frontier with a party of natives on my own responsibility, the
Indian Government had orders to stop me. Thus Tibet was barred to me
from the side of India, and the English, that is, Mr. John Morley,
closed the country as hermetically as ever the Tibetans had done. I
soon perceived that the greatest difficulties I had to overcome on this
journey proceeded not from Tibet, its rude climate, its rarefied air,
its huge mountains and its wild inhabitants, but--from England! Could I
circumvent Mr. John Morley, I should soon settle with Tibet.
Hope is the last thing one resigns, and so I still hoped that all would
turn out well in the end. Failure spurred my ambition and stretched my
powers to the uttermost tension. Try to hinder me if you can, I thought;
I will show you that I am more at home in Asia than you. Try to close
this immense Tibet, try to bar all the valleys which lead from the
frontier to the high plateaus, and you will find that it is quite
impossible. I felt quite relieved when the last peremptory and somewhat
curt refusal came and put an end to all further negotiations. I had a
feeling as though I was suddenly left in solitude and the future
depended on myself alone. My life and my honour for the next two years
were at stake--of course I never thought of giving in. I had commenced
this fifth journey with a heavy heart, not with trumpets and flourishes
as on the former expeditions. But now it was all at once become my pet
child. Though I should perish, this journey should be the grandest event
of my life. It was the object of all my dreams and hopes, it was the
subject of my prayers, and I longed with all my soul for the hour when
the first caravan should be ready--and then every day would be a full
chord in a song of victory.
[Illustration: 2. COLONEL SIR FRANCIS YOUNGHUSBAND, Commander of the
English Expedition to Tibet, Resident in Kashmir.]
[Illustration: 3. COLONEL J. R. DUNLOP SMITH, Private Secretary to the
Viceroy.]
I do not venture to pass an opinion on the policy which then piled up in
my way obstacles apparently insurmountable. It was at any rate prudent.
For the future it will be necessary. If I had gone under British
protection and accompanied by British subjects and then been killed,
probably a costly punitive expedition must have been sent out to make an
example; whether I were a Swede or an Englishman would have made no
difference in this case. The view the English Secretary of State took of
the matter is shown in his answer to Lord Percy's question a month after
I had received my answer: "Sven Hedin has been refused permission to
penetrate into Tibet for political reasons, in accordance with which
even British subjects are not allowed to visit that country. The Indian
Government favours the expeditions of experienced explorers, but the
Imperial Government has decided otherwise, and considers it advisable to
continue the isolation of Tibet which the late Government so carefully
maintained."
During this time I received many proofs of sympathy and friendship. I
had true friends in India, and they felt it hard that they could not
help me. They would have done it so gladly. I durst not ask them for
anything lest I should place them in an awkward, troublesome position.
Sir Louis Dane had informed me that if my petition were granted I should
have to sign a bond, but what this would have contained I have never
found out. Perhaps it dealt with some kind of responsibility for the men
who accompanied me, or a promise not to visit certain districts, and a
pledge to place the results of my journey at the disposal of the Indian
Government--I know not. But now I was absolved from all obligations;
freedom is after all the best, and he is the strongest who stands alone.
Still, it would be exaggeration to say that I had then any great
affection for the name of Mr. John Morley. How could I foresee that I
should one day reckon him among my best friends, and think of him with
warm respect and admiration?
After my first visit to the Foreign Office, Younghusband (Illustration
2) conducted me to the Viceregal Palace, to enter my name in the
visiting list of Lord and Lady Minto. Younghusband is a gallant man, a
type of the noblest that a people can produce. He was more annoyed than
myself at the refusal of the Government; but he had in this connection a
far more bitter experience--his expedition to Lhasa, which ought to have
thrown open Tibet to scientific exploration, had been in vain. He took
me on the way to Lord Minto's private secretary, Colonel J. R. Dunlop
Smith (Illustration 3), in whom I found a friend for life. He is one of
the finest, noblest, most generous, and learned men that I have ever
met. He is well educated in many subjects, and has a thorough knowledge
of India, for he has lived there four-and-twenty years. When we see
such men in the most responsible posts, we can well conceive that the
ruling race will weather many a violent storm, should they arise, among
the three hundred millions of India.
My life at this time abounded in contrasts. How little did my sojourn at
Simla resemble the years of solitude and silence that awaited me beyond
the mountains veiled in dark masses of cloud! I cannot resist recalling
some reminiscences of these extraordinarily delightful days.
Go with me to the first State dinner on May 24, 1906. Along the walls of
the great drawing-room in the Viceregal Palace are assembled some
hundred guests--all in full dress, in grand uniforms of various colours,
and glittering with orders. One of them is taller than the rest by a
whole head; he holds himself very upright, and seems cool-headed,
energetic, and calm; he speaks to no one, but examines those about him
with penetrating, bright bluish-grey eyes. His features are heavy, but
interesting, serious, impassive, and tanned; one sees that he has had
much experience and is a soldier who has stood fire. His uniform is
scarlet, and a whole fortune in diamonds sparkles on his left breast. He
bears a world-renowned, an imperishable name: Lord Kitchener of Khartum,
the conqueror of Africa and Commander-in-chief of the Indian Army.
[Illustration: 4. VICEREGAL LODGE IN SIMLA.]
A gentleman comes up to me and asks if I remember our having sat
together at a banquet of Lord Curzon's. The Lieutenant-Governor of the
Punjab is also one of my old acquaintances, and Sir Louis Dane
introduces me right and left. A herald enters the room and announces the
approach of the Viceroy, and Lord Minto, accompanied by his staff, makes
the round of the room, greeting each one of his guests, myself only with
the words, "Welcome to Simla." The melancholy tone of the words did not
escape me; he knew well that I did not feel as welcome as he and I
should have wished. To the sound of music we move to the dining-room,
are regaled with choice French dishes, eat off silver plate, and then
rise again to take part in the levée, at which five hundred gentlemen
are presented to the Viceroy, who stands at the steps of the throne.
Their names are called out one by one as they pass rapidly in front
of the throne. Each one halts and turns to the Viceroy, who returns his
deep reverence: he bowed this evening nine hundred times! When Indian
princes or Afghan ambassadors pass before him, he does not bow, but lays
his hand on the hilt of his guest's sword as a sign of friendship and
peace.
Next day I was invited to transfer my quarters to the palace
(Illustration 4), and henceforth I was the guest of Lord and Lady Minto.
The time I spent with them I shall never forget, and these weeks seem to
me now like a dream or a fairy tale. Lord Minto is an ideal British
gentleman, an aristocrat of the noblest race, and yet simple and modest.
In India he soon became popular owing to his affability and kindness,
and he does not think he occupies so high a position that he cannot
speak a friendly word to any man out of the numerous tribes of the
immense Empire committed to his rule. Lord Minto formerly served in
India, and took part in the campaign against Afghanistan; after various
experiences in three continents he was appointed Governor-General of
Canada. In 1904 he returned to his estate of Minto in Scotland,
intending to spend the remainder of his life there; then the King of
England and Emperor of India invested him with the office of Viceroy and
Governor-General of India. He is not the first Earl of Minto who has
held this post, for his great-grandfather was Governor-General of the
British possessions in the Indian peninsula a hundred years ago. Then
one had to sail round the Cape of Good Hope in order to reach the
country of the Hindus, a long, troublesome voyage. Therefore the first
Lord Minto left his family at home. The letters exchanged between
himself and his wife are still extant, and display an affection and
faithfulness quite ideal. When his period of service in India had at
length expired, he embarked on a vessel which carried him over the long
way to his native land, and he hurried with the first coach straight to
Minto. There his wife expected him; she looked along the road with
longing eyes; the appointed time had long passed, and no carriage could
be seen. At length a rider appeared in a cloud of dust, and brought the
news that Lord Minto had died only one post stage from his house. A
small label on the packet of letters bears the words "Poor fools." They
were written by the first Lady Minto.
But now a new Minto family has blossomed into life. Comfort, simplicity,
and happiness prevail in this charming home, where every member
contributes to the beauty of the whole. A viceroy is always overwhelmed
with work for the welfare of India, but Lord Minto preserved an
unalterable composure, and devoted several hours daily to his family. We
met at meals; some guests were usually invited to lunch, but at dinner
we were frequently alone, and then the time passed most agreeably. Then
Lady Minto told of her sojourn in Canada, where she travelled 116,000
miles by rail and steamer, accompanied her husband on his official tours
and on sporting expeditions, shot foaming rapids in a canoe, and took
part in dangerous excursions in Klondike. We looked over her diaries of
that time; they consisted of thick volumes full of photographs, maps,
cuttings, and autographs, and were interspersed with views and
descriptions of singular interest. And yet the diary that Lady Minto had
kept since her arrival in India was still more remarkable and
attractive, for it was set in Oriental splendour and the pomp and
gorgeousness of Eastern lands, was filled with maharajas bedecked with
jewels, receptions in various states, processions and parades, elephants
in red and gold, and all the grandeur and brilliancy inseparable from
the court of an Indian viceroy. Three charming young daughters--the
Ladies Eileen, Ruby, and Violet--fill this home with sunshine and
cheerfulness, and, with their mother, are the queens of the balls and
brilliant fêtes. Like their father, they are fond of sport, and ride
like Valkyries.
[Illustration: 5. LADY MINTO AND THE AUTHOR ON THE TERRACE OF THE
VICEREGAL LODGE.]
Is it to be wondered at that a stranger feels happy in this house, where
he is surrounded daily with kindness and hospitality? My room was over
the private apartments of the Viceroy. On the ground-floor are State
rooms, the large and elegant drawing-rooms, the dining-room, and the
great ball-room decorated in white and gold. The various rooms and
saloons are reached from a large antechamber adorned with arms and heavy
hangings; here there is a very lively scene during entertainments. An
open gallery, a stone verandah, runs round most of the ground-floor,
where visitors, couriers, _chaprassis_, and _jamadars_, wearing red
viceregal uniforms and white turbans, move to and fro. Behind is the
courtyard where carriages, rickshaws, and riders come and go, while
well-kept paths lead to quiet terraces laid out from Lady Minto's
designs. Behind these terraces begins the forest with promenades in the
shadow of the trees (Illustration 5).
From the great hall in the middle of the house a staircase leads to the
first storey, where the family of the Viceroy occupy rooms which surpass
all the rest in the tastefulness of their decoration. Two flights up are
the guest-rooms. From an inner gallery you can look down into the great
hall, where the scarlet footmen glide noiselessly up and down the
stairs. Outside my window was a balcony, where every morning I looked in
vain for a glimpse of the mountains on the borders of Tibet. The highest
official of Peshawar, Sir Harold Deane, with his wife, and the Maharaja
of Idar, were guests in the palace of the Viceroy for a couple of days.
Sir Harold was a man one never forgets after once meeting him; strong,
tall, manly, and amiable. The half-savage tribes and princes on the
frontier of Afghanistan fear and admire him, and he is said to manage
them with masterly tact. This meeting was very important to me, for Sir
Harold gave me letters of introduction to the Maharaja of Kashmir and
his private secretary, Daya Kishen Kaul. At my return to India, Sir
Harold was, alas! dead. In him India has lost one of its best guardians.
The Maharaja of Idar was a striking type of an Indian Prince: he had a
very dark complexion, handsome features, and an energetic bearing; he
dressed for entertainments in silk, gold, and jewels, and altogether
made an appearance which threw all Europeans quite into the shade. Yet
he was exceedingly popular with them, and always a welcome guest. He is
a great sportsman, a first-rate rider, and an exceedingly cool-headed
hunter. He owes his great popularity to the following incident: Once
when an English officer died in the hot season near his palace, there
was difficulty in finding a man to bury the corpse. As every one else
refused, the Maharaja undertook the odious task himself. Scarcely had he
returned to his palace when the steps were stormed by raving Brahmins,
who cried out to him, with threats, that he had forfeited his rank, must
be ejected from his caste, and was unworthy to have rule over the state.
But he went calmly up to them and said that he knew only of one caste,
that of warriors; then he ordered them to go away, and they obeyed.
I met many men in Simla whom I shall always count among my best
friends--Generals Sir Beauchamp Duff and Hawkes, with their amiable
consorts, and Colonel Adam and his wife, who spoke Russian; he was Lord
Minto's military secretary, and died during my absence; also Colonel
M'Swiney and his wife. I was their guest at Bolaram, near Haidarabad, in
1902, and I had met the Colonel in the Pamirs in 1895; he, too, has been
called away by death, only a month before he would have received his
expected promotion to the command of the Ambala brigade. He was an
exceptionally excellent and amiable man. I also made acquaintance with
many members of Younghusband's Lhasa expedition, one of whom, Captain
Cecil Rawling, ardently wished he could get back to Tibet. We often met
and concocted grand plans for a journey together to Gartok--hopes which
all ended in smoke. The German Consul-General, Count Quadt, and his
charming wife were also especial friends of mine. Her mother belonged to
the Swedish family of Wirsén, and we conversed in Swedish. I shall never
forget a dinner at their house. Dunlop Smith and I rode each in a
rickshaw along the long road to Simla, through the town and as far again
on the other side, to Count Quadt's house, which was the Viceregal
residence before Lord Dufferin built the new palace, the "Viceregal
Lodge," in the years 1884-1888. The road was dark, but we had lamps on
the shafts; our runners strained at the carriage like straps, and their
naked soles pattered like wood on the hard earth. We were late; Lord
Kitchener was there already, and every one was waiting. After dinner
the guests were invited to go out into the compound forming the summit
of the hill on which the old palace is built. The light of the full moon
quivered through the mild intoxicating air, the hills around were veiled
in mist and haze, and from the depths of the valleys rose the shrill
penetrating rattle of grasshoppers. But this hill, where lively laughter
resounded and conversation was stimulated by the effects of the dinner,
seemed to be far above the rest of the world. Here and there dark firs
or deodars peeped out of the mist with long outstretched arms like
threatening ghosts. The night was quiet, everything but ourselves and
the grasshoppers seemed to have gone to rest. Such an impression is
never effaced. Etiquette forbade that any one should leave before Lord
Kitchener--he had to give the signal for breaking up the party; but he
found himself very comfortable here, and we talked in French with the
wife of Colonel Townsend, drawing comparisons between the matrimonial
state and the advantages of uncontrolled freedom. It was after midnight
when the dictator of the feast rose, and then ladies and their cavaliers
could make for their rickshaws. Silence reigned on the moonlit hill;
only the shrill song of the grasshoppers still rose to heaven.
A couple of State balls also took place during my stay in the Viceregal
Lodge. Then an endless succession of rickshaws streams up to the
courtyard, winding like a file of glow-worms up Observatory Hill. One is
almost astonished that there are so many of these small two-wheeled
vehicles in Simla, but only the Viceroy, the Commander-in-chief, and the
Governor of the Punjab are allowed to use horse carriages, because of
the narrowness of the roads. Then elegant ladies rustle in low dresses
of silk, with agrafes of diamonds in their hair, and pass through the
entrance and hall escorted by cavaliers in full-dress uniforms. One is
frightfully crushed in this flood of people who have spent hours in
adorning themselves so brilliantly, but the scene is grand and imposing,
a _non plus ultra_ of gala toilets, a kaleidoscope of many colours, of
gold and silver; the red uniforms of the officers stand out sharply
against the light silk dresses of the ladies in white, pink, or blue.
Here and there the jewelled turban of a maharaja hovers over a sea of
European coiffures. Then there is a sudden silence, a passage is opened
through the crowd; the herald has announced the advent of the Viceroy
and his party, and the band plays "God save the King." The Viceroy and
his lady walk slowly through the ranks, saluting on both sides, and take
their seats on the thrones in the great ball-room; then the first waltz
is played. The illustrious hosts summon first one and then another of
their guests to converse with them; there is a rustling of silk, a
humming and buzzing, shoe-soles glide with a scraping noise over the
floor, and the dance-music hurries on its victims with irresistible
force. The guests flock in small parties or large groups into the
adjoining dining-room, and there sup at small tables. At length the
ranks grow thin, the hosts retire, the wheels of the last rickshaw
rattle over the sand of the courtyard, the electric lights are
extinguished, and the palace is quiet again.
[Illustration: 6. HERBERT, VISCOUNT KITCHENER OF KHARTUM, LATE
COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE INDIAN ARMY.]
Lord Kitchener's residence stands at the end of the town of Simla, and
is called Snowdon. The visitor enters first a large ante-room, which,
with its tasteful arrangement and decoration, makes rather the
impression of a reception room or a hall of honour bedecked with
trophies. A fine portrait of Gordon Pasha is placed on an easel;
opposite stand busts of Alexander and Cæsar. In the wainscot of the
staircase is inserted the arm of the presidential chair which Uncle
Kruger used in Pretoria, and on the tables, shelves, and friezes are
valuable Chinese vases of the Kang-hi (1662-1722) and Kien-lung
(1736-1795) periods; for Lord Kitchener is an enthusiastic collector of
old Chinese porcelain, but only the very finest finds favour in his
eyes. But what strikes the stranger most in this unique hall, and above
all attracts his attention, are the trophies and flags from Lord
Kitchener's victories in the Sudan and South Africa. They hang down from
their staves from an upper gallery, among them the standards of the
Mahdi and the dervishes of Omdurman and Om Debraket, besides several
Boer flags from the Transvaal and the Orange Free State. In the inner
drawing-room we find the same luxurious decoration with Chinese
porcelain vases and rare ethnographical objects, among which certain
Tibetan temple friezes carved in wood are of great value; they were
brought by Younghusband's Lhasa expedition. On the tables lie albums of
photographs of Lord Kitchener's numerous tours of inspection in India,
and of his journey through the cold Pamir. At receptions the table is
adorned with costly services in solid gold, gifts of the English nation
to the victor of Africa (Illustration 6).
My time in Simla came to an end; it was useless to stay any longer after
I had received the last decisive answer from London. On June 9 I took
leave of the Viceroy and his youngest daughter, who were going to ride
to Mashroba and pass the Sunday there. I cannot describe the
leave-taking; it was so warm and hearty. Lord Minto wished that I might
still carry out my intentions, and he hoped sincerely that we should
again meet in India. I could not on the point of departure express all
the gratitude I felt. He had done all that was in his power to help me,
and had exposed himself to unpleasantnesses on my account. He had played
an important part in my life's course, and I knew that I had gained in
him a lasting friend. It was a trial to have to say good-bye to him. He
was more grieved than myself that our plans had miscarried, and for my
part I felt that my honour now demanded that I should do my best.
On Sunday morning Lady Minto and her two eldest daughters also drove off
to Mashroba. I bade them a last farewell, and thanked them for the
boundless hospitality I had enjoyed in the Viceregal Lodge. The moment
of parting was fortunately short; bitter it certainly was. Two fine
carriages drove up with outriders, and escorted by native cavalry
soldiers in red and gold, carrying lances in their hands. The ladies, in
light bright summer toilets and hats trimmed with flowers, took their
seats--the group of ladies of bluest blood, which through centuries and
generations had been ennobled and refined, seemed to me like a bouquet
of flowers themselves. I remained on the lowest step as long as I could
catch a glimpse of the waving sunshades, but soon the red uniforms of
the soldiers disappeared among the leafy trees of the avenue which
leads down to the main guard, and the romance was at an end.
When I again entered my room the royal palace seemed lifeless and
desolate, and I had no heart to remain any longer. I packed my things,
hurried into the town and paid a couple of short farewell calls, made
arrangements for my heavy luggage, and was soon ready to start. On the
13th I went off. The number thirteen plays a rôle of some importance in
this journey: on November 13 I left Trebizond on the Black Sea; on
December 13 I reached Teheran, the capital of Persia; and on June 13 I
left Simla; but I was not superstitious. Younghusband was the first to
welcome me and the last to say good-bye; I was soon to see him again in
Srinagar. Then the train sped downwards through the 102 tunnels. From a
bend in the road I caught sight of the Viceregal Lodge with its proud
towers and lofty walls, the scene of so many joyful reminiscences and
disappointed hopes.
CHAPTER II
DEPARTURE FROM SRINAGAR
Manuel was a singular fellow. He was a Hindu from Madras, small, thin,
and black, spoke good English, and with his parents had joined the Roman
Catholic Church. He had presented himself at the last moment with a huge
packet of testimonials and declared confidently: "If the gentleman
thinks of making a long journey, the gentleman will want a cook, and I
can cook." I took him into my service without looking at his
testimonials (Illustration 15). He behaved well, was honest, and gave me
more satisfaction than annoyance. The worst he did was to get lost in
Ladak in some mysterious way, and to this hour I have heard nothing more
about him.
In my compartment we sat as close as herrings in a barrel. The air
became hotter and hotter; from the pleasant coolness of the heights we
came again into the oppressive heat of the Indian plains. Passing Kalka,
Ambala, and Lahore I came to Rawalpindi, where I put up at a passable
hotel. But the room was hot and stuffy, and the punkah, the great fan
hanging down from the ceiling, was in motion all through the night, but
did not prevent the gnats from paying me importunate visits.
On June 15 a _tonga_ and three _ekkas_ stood before the hotel; I took my
seat in the former, and the baggage was securely packed on the
latter--and Manuel. The road runs between fine avenues of trees straight
to the foot of the mountains. The traffic is lively: carts, caravans,
riders, tramps, and beggars. Before us lie slopes of no great height,
and beyond the higher mountains of the Himalayas. Are they walls
erected across my path by hostile spirits, or do they await my coming?
Beyond Malepur the _tonga_, drawn by two spirited horses, passes through
the first hills with dark and light tints of luxuriant green. The road
winds up among them, and I am glad to leave the fiery glow of the plains
behind; certainly the sun is still burning, for the air is clear and the
first forerunners of the cloud masses of the south-west monsoon have not
yet appeared. Thus we pass one stage after another. We have often to
drive slowly, for we meet long trains of native soldiers in khaki
uniforms with forage and munition waggons, each drawn by two mules--how
glad I should have been to possess a couple of dozen of these fine
animals! Cool winds blow in our faces and conifers begin to appear among
the foliage trees. We leave the summer station Murree behind us, and now
the snow-clad mountains at Gulmarg are visible. After crossing a pass
near Murree we ascend again. Beyond Bandi we reach the right bank of the
Jhelam, but the river lies far below us; the scenery is beautiful, and
its grandeur and magnificence defy description. Lower and lower we go,
drive close along the river's bank, and pass the night in the _dak
bungalow_ of Kohala.
Next day we cross a bridge and slowly mount the slopes of the left bank.
The morning is beautifully fine, and the not over-abundant vegetation of
the hills exhales an agreeable summer perfume. On our left rushes the
stream, often white with foam, but its roar strikes our ears only when
we make a halt; at other times it is drowned by the rattle of the
_tonga_. I follow with the closest attention the changes of scenery in
this wonderful country. The road is carried through some of the mountain
spurs in broad vaulted tunnels. The last of these is the longest, and
opens its gaping jaws before us like a black cavern. Within it is
delightfully cool; the short warning blasts of the signal horn
reverberate melodiously in the entrails of the mountain.
[Illustration: 7. THE MAHARAJA OF JAMMU AND KASHMIR.]
In Gurie we breakfast, and rest a quarter of an hour on a comfortable
couch in the verandah. Here, four years previously, I spent a memorable
hour with Sir Robert and Lady Harvey. The wind whistles through the
same poplars, elms, and willows to-day; I feel extraordinarily forlorn
and melancholy. Then I had come from a great journey, now the future
seems to me hopelessly dark. Before me rise the softly rounded but steep
slopes of the wooded mountains on the right side of the valley; down
yonder the village of Gurie lies on both sides of the river. The air is
mild. I dream of eternal spring and forget my cares. Beyond Chinawari
tall conifers are again seen on the cliffs. My driver, who speaks
Persian, points to a huge block of stone embedded in the margin of the
road; ten days ago it fell and killed a man and two horses. At dangerous
spots, where landslips may be expected, small white flags are stuck up.
The mountain landscape becomes wilder, and its sharp outlines become
more distinct in the shades of evening. We come to Urie and Rampur and
often drive through dense forest. When we arrive at Baramula we have
covered 106 miles in fourteen hours.
On June 17 it rained in torrents, but we determined in spite of it to
travel the last six stages to Srinagar. We canter along the straight
road between endless rows of poplars. The mud splashes up, the rain
beats on the roof of the _tonga_, heavy clouds involve us in
semi-darkness, and there is not a trace of the mountains to be seen. The
weather suits the mood in which I arrive at Srinagar, the capital of
Kashmir on the bank of the Jhelam. Here I had to make several
preparations for my journey--to Turkestan, it was stated officially;
there was no more talk of Tibet. The persons whom I called upon on the
first day of my sojourn in the capital of the Maharaja were away, but at
last I found the superintendent of the Mission Hospital in Srinagar, Dr.
Arthur Neve. In 1902 he had treated my sick cossack, Shagdur, and
rendered me many other services, for which I owe him an eternal debt of
gratitude. One of my best friends in India had advised me to try to
persuade Dr. Arthur's brother, Dr. Ernest Neve, to accompany me, but now
I learned that he too had applied for permission to visit western Tibet,
chiefly in connection with missionary work round about Rudok, and had
likewise met with a refusal; he was now on his way back from the
Tibetan frontier above Leh. Dr. Arthur Neve is one of the men I most
admire. He has devoted his life to the Christian Mission in Kashmir, and
his hospital is one of the best and most completely equipped in India.
There he works indefatigably day and night, and his only reward is the
satisfaction of relieving the sufferings of others.
This day everything seemed to go wrong, and out of spirits I returned to
Nedou's Hotel just as the gong announced eight o'clock. I sat down at
the long table among some thirty ladies and gentlemen, all as strange to
me as I to them. But in some of the parties the conversation turned on
me.
"Have you heard that Hedin is in Srinagar?"
"No, really? When did he come?"
"To-day. Of course he wants to go to Tibet."
"Yes, but he has been forbidden, and the Government has orders to
prevent him crossing the frontier."
"Well, then, he can pass round Tibet and enter it from the north."
"Yes, he has done it before, and can of course find the way again."
It was exceedingly unpleasant to have to listen to this conversation,
and I almost drowned myself in my soup-plate. I could scarcely
understand how I could be thus spoken of. It seemed as though the dreams
and illusions of my soul were sorted out, named, and ticketed, while my
corporeal part sat at the _table d'hôte_ and swallowed soup. When we had
happily arrived at the coffee I quietly withdrew, and thereafter always
ate in my own room. My position was such that I had to avoid all contact
with Englishmen; they could do me no service, and I would on no account
reveal my real designs. What a difference from any former journeys,
which I had always commenced from Russian soil, where every one, from
the Czar to the lowest _chinovnik_, had done everything to facilitate my
progress!
Next day I called on the private secretary of the Maharaja, the Pundit
Daya Kishen Kaul, a stately, distinguished man who speaks and writes
English perfectly. He carefully read through my letter of introduction,
and kindly promised to get everything ready for me as quickly as
possible. During the conversation he took notes. His agents were to
receive his orders on that same day, mules would be procured, four
soldiers be told off to accompany me during my whole journey,
provisions, tents, and pack-saddles be bought, and he would find a
pleasure in fulfilling all my wishes. No one would have an inkling that
all this was done for me; every outlay would be lost among the heavy
items entered under the heading "Maintenance of the Maharaja's Court."
And Daya Kishen Kaul kept his word and became my friend. The business
proceeded slowly, but still it did go forward. Not a word was spoken of
Tibet. I was ostensibly getting ready for a journey to Eastern
Turkestan, but his meaning smile told me that he divined my intention.
Even at a base of operation where one has full liberty it is not quite
easy to get a caravan ready for the march; how much more difficult here
where I was in the midst of intrigues and political vexations. But my
self-respect and energy were stimulated, and I felt certain of
succeeding in the end. The whole affair reminded me of a drama with an
interminable list of rôles; the complications were great and I longed
only for action. One act of the play was performed at Srinagar, and I
cannot pass it over, as it had a sequel later on. When everything else
had been denied me from London the road to Eastern Turkestan still lay
open.
On June 22 I received from the Resident, Colonel Pears, the following
letter:
The Indian Government has ordered me by telegraph not to permit you to
cross the frontier between Kashmir and Tibet. They have no objections
to your travelling to Chinese Turkestan, taking it for granted that
you have a Chinese passport. But as you have lately informed me that
you do not possess such a document, I have telegraphed to the Indian
Government for further instructions.
Now I telegraphed to the Swedish Minister in London, Count Wrangel, and
begged him to procure me a passport for Eastern Turkestan, a country I
never thought of visiting, and then informed the Government in Simla of
this step and of the satisfactory reply. Nineteen days later I received
the following letter from Sir Francis Younghusband, who meanwhile had
arrived in Kashmir as the new Resident:
I have received a telegram from the Government informing me that you
may set out before the arrival of the Chinese passport, but on the
condition that you do not travel beyond Leh. As soon, however, as the
Chinese Government, or the Swedish Minister (in London), telegraphs
that your passport is drawn out, you may cross the Chinese frontier at
your own risk; your passport will then be sent after you.
Then I telegraphed to Count Wrangel again, asking him to assure the
Indian Government that the passport had really been granted me and was
already on the way. It was already awaiting me in Leh when I arrived
there. It was a pure formality, for I did not need it, and it would have
to be decided first where the boundary lay between Eastern Turkestan and
Tibet. The representative of China in London subsequently expressed his
astonishment to Count Wrangel that I was travelling about in Tibet with
a passport made out for Eastern Turkestan, but Count Wrangel replied
very justly that he could not possibly control me and the roads I
followed in Asia. The English Government had done its best to prevent my
travelling through Tibet, and so there was no resource left but to
outwit my opponents. How I succeeded will appear in the pages of this
book.
On one of the first days, accompanied by Daya Kishen Kaul, I called on
the Maharaja of Jammu and Kashmir, Sir Pratab Sing, whose brother, Emir
Sing, was also present. His Highness is a little middle-aged man of
dreamy, melancholy aspect (Illustration 7). He received me with great
friendliness, and promised to meet my wishes in every respect. He had
heard of my journey through the desert in 1895, and when I had narrated
its incidents I had won him over to my side; he would be pleased, he
assured me, to see my new expedition start from his territory.
[Illustration: 8. PALACE OF H.H. THE MAHARAJA OF KASHMIR IN SRINAGAR.]
On June 29 I was invited to a great fête at the Maharaja's palace in
honour of the Emperor's birthday. The birthday of the King of England
falls on November 9, but the Emperor of India was born on June 29. How
that happens I do not know. At the appointed time I went to
Younghusband, and at the quay of the Residence we were taken on board
a _shikara_ of the Maharaja--a long, elegantly decorated boat, with soft
cushions and an awning with hanging fringes and tassels, and manned by
about twenty rowers in bright red clothing. We glide swiftly and
noiselessly down the Jhelam, see palaces, houses, and thick groves
reflected picturesquely in the swirling ripples, sweep past numerous
house-boats and canoes, and come to a halt a little below the bridge at
the staircase to the palace, where Emir Sing received us on the lowest
step in the red uniform of a major-general. On the platform above the
steps the Maharaja awaited us. And then we mingled with the varied crowd
of Englishmen and natives, all decked out in their best. Then a court
was held; all the guests filed past in slow single-file, and His
Highness distributed friendly shakes of the hand and nods. Then in the
same order all sat down in rows of chairs, just as in a theatre. But we
did not rest long, for soon dinner was announced, and we made free with
what kitchen and cellar provided. After the feast was over, the
Maharaja, his brother, and his little nephew, the heir to the throne,
entered the hall and took their places at the middle of the table at
which we sat. The Maharaja called for a cheer for the King-Emperor,
another toasted Younghusband, who returned thanks in a neat and partly
humorous speech. Then the guests were invited to go out into an open
gallery with thick pillars, where they witnessed a display of fireworks.
Between suns and Bengal fires, rockets and serpents flew into the air
from boats lying on the river, and on the further bank "God save the
King-Emperor" was spelled out in red lamps. Taste and elegance had been
less studied than noise; there were detonations and sprays of fire in
every nook and corner, and the whole gave an impression of unswerving
loyalty. When we went down to our boat again all around was veiled in
darkness; brilliant light streamed only through the colonnade of the
palace façade. We rowed upstream and enjoyed a more beautiful and
quieter illumination; the moon threw sinuous lines of gold across the
ripples of the river, and flashes of blue lightning darted over the
mountains on the horizon.
The Pundit Daya Kishen Kaul Divan Sahib was unwearied in his kind
efforts. He procured me forty mules, which he bought from the Raja of
Poonch. I rejected four; the rest were in good condition, but they were
of a less sturdy breed than the Tibetan, and all foundered in Tibet. He
also furnished me with an escort of four soldiers who had been in the
service of the Maharaja. Two of them, Ganpat Sing and Bikom Sing, were
Rajputs, and spoke Hindustani; they had certificates of good conduct,
and the former wore a service medal. Like the cook Manuel, they declared
themselves prepared to sacrifice their lives for me, but I calmed them
with the assurance that our campaign would not be so bloody. Fortunately
both belonged to the same caste, so that they could mess together; but,
of course, they could not eat with other mortals. In camp I always saw
them seated at their own fire a good distance from the others. The two
others were Pathans, Bas Ghul from Cabul, and Khairulla Khan from
Peshawar. Daya Kishen Kaul provided all with guns and ammunition at my
expense, and their pay was fixed. They also received money for their
outfit, and I prepared them to expect cold. My amiable benefactor looked
after tents for me, saddles, pack-saddles, and a number of other
necessary articles. Meanwhile I made purchases myself in the bazaars. I
got about twenty _yakdans_, small leather-covered wooden boxes such as
are used in Turkestan; kitchen utensils and saucepans; furs, ordinary
blankets and frieze blankets; a tent-bed with mattress and a
gutta-percha undersheet; warm material and _bashliks_; caps, Kashmir
boots, cigars, cigarettes and tobacco for a year; tea, and several
hundred boxes of preserved meat; also woven stuffs, knives, daggers,
etc., for presents, and no end of other things (Illustrations 10, 14).
[Illustration: 9. THE JHELAM IN SRINAGAR.]
In all my purchases and transport arrangements I received invaluable
help from Cockburn's Agency. It provided me with stores of rice, maize,
meal and barley; for it was impossible to get together sufficient
quantities in Leh. It also looked after the transport of this heavy
baggage, and I had every reason to be satisfied with its arrangements. I
had myself brought a boat with oars, rudder, mast, sails, life-buoys and
centre-board, in the large chests I had sent out to India. Then I had
the same scientific instruments as before: an alt-azimuth, two
chronometers, meteorological instruments, compasses, photographic
apparatus and plates, writing-blocks, sketch-and note-books, writing
materials, field-glasses, hunting-rifles, revolvers, etc.
Burroughs and Wellcome of London had been so kind as to present me with
an unusually complete medicine-chest, which was in itself a tasteful and
elegant work of art, and contained drugs specially selected for a high,
cold, and dry climate. All the remedies were in tabloids, well and
orderly packed, and could easily be found with the aid of a printed
catalogue. The whole was carefully stowed in a pretty aluminium chest
which shone like silver. The medicine-chest was from the first
exceedingly popular in the caravan; every one had a blind confidence in
it. I had a suspicion that many ailments were feigned just to get
another look at the chest. At any rate it contained the best portable
medical outfit I have ever seen.
I had some difficulty in finding an assistant for meteorological
observations. There was none at the Central Institute in Simla, and
therefore I applied to the Meteorological Station in Srinagar. The chief
recommended a youngster to me who had been assistant at the station and
had been baptized under the name of Rufus, but he was a fat Bengali, who
always walked about with an umbrella even when it did not rain. I was
not troubled about his corpulence; he would soon be cured of that on the
mountains; but, what was worse, he had certainly never seen an aneroid
barometer, and I could not, try as I would, teach him to read it. I
therefore dismissed him, for at the worst I could read the instruments,
though I had a superabundance of other things to do.
Then just at the right moment a Eurasian, three-and-twenty years old,
presented himself, named Alexander Robert. In his first letter to me he
gave himself no other title than the very correct one of a "stranger in
Srinagar"; this indicated modesty. He came to my hotel, showed me his
testimonials, which were all excellent, and he struck me as a pleasant,
strong, and healthy man. Among other employments he had worked on the
railway at Peshawar and had been an assistant in Dr. Neve's hospital.
Dr. Neve recommended him most warmly, and as, besides, he acquired a
good knowledge of the instruments after a single lesson and needed only
a few days' practice in Srinagar in handling and reading them, I was
very glad to engage him. He left his mother and young wife at home, but
they were in no straits, and a part of his wages was paid to him in
advance. I did not regret taking him, for he had a knowledge of many
things, was capable, cheerful, and ready for work of any kind. When I
knew him better I entrusted all my cash to his care, and could do it
without hesitation, for his honesty was beyond suspicion. He was a
companion to me during the long winter evenings, was a favourite in the
caravan and among the Tibetans, and carefully watched that every one did
his duty. Robert was only once a cause of grief to me, when he left me
in December 1907, in consequence of sad news he received of his family
through Gartok (Illustration 13).
After Robert joined me matters went on more easily. He superintended the
packing of the baggage and the weighing of it out into equal loads, and
helped me in stowing and distributing the heavy money-bags which held
22,000 silver and 9000 gold rupees. Thus the days passed, and at last
the hour of release struck. I had longed for it as for a wedding feast,
and counted the intervening hours. I took leave of my old friend
Younghusband, who at the last moment recommended to me a caravan leader,
Muhamed Isa of Leh, and bade farewell to the Maharaja, Emir Sing, and
Daya Kishen Kaul; and Mrs. Annie Besant, who on several occasions had
shown me great kindness, expressed the best and most sincere wishes for
the success of my journey.
[Illustration: 10. THE START FROM GANDERBAL.]
[Illustration: 11. MY ESCORT.]
My people were ordered to be ready on the morning of July 16, 1906, in
the courtyard of the hotel (Illustration 16). The start should be
delayed not a day longer; I had now waited long enough. It was evident
that some hours would be required to get all in marching order for the
first time. At eight o'clock the men from Poonch came with their mules,
but only to tell me that they must have 5 rupees each for new
clothes. The purchase of these articles of clothing took up four more
hours, and in the afternoon the preparations had progressed so far that
there was only the loading-up to see after. Some hours elapsed before
the pack-saddles and loads had been adjusted. The mules were very
excited, danced round in circles, and kicked so that the boxes flew
about, and at last each animal had to be led by a man (Illustration 17).
The hired horses were more sensible. Manuel on his steed presented
rather a comical appearance: he had never mounted a horse in his life,
and he looked frightened; his black face shone in the sun like polished
iron. The whole company was taken by at least half-a-dozen amateur
photographers (Illustration 18). At length we moved off in detachments,
exactly twelve hours behind time; but the long train was at any rate on
the way to Gandarbal and Tibet--and that was the main thing. What did it
matter what time it was? Feeling as though my prison doors were opened,
I watched my men pass along the road (Illustration 10), and the whole
world lay open before me.
Of all these men none knew of the glow of delight within me; they knew
me not, and I did not know them; they came from Madras, Lahore, Cabul,
Rajputana, Poonch, and Kashmir, a whole Oriental congress, whom chance
had thrown together. They might as well be robbers and bandits as
anything else, and they might think that I was an ordinary _shikari
sahib_ whose brain was filled with no other ideal but a record in Ovis
Ammon's horns. I watched the start almost pitifully, and asked myself
whether it would be vouchsafed to them all to return home to wife and
child. But none was obliged to follow me, and I had prepared them all
for a trying campaign of eighteen months. What would it have profited me
to have made them anxious by anticipating troubles? Trying days would
come soon enough.
I was most sorry for the animals, for I knew that famine awaited them.
As long as there were opportunities they should satiate themselves with
maize and barley that they might subsist as long as possible afterwards
on their own fat.
At length I stood alone in the yard, and then I drove to Dal-dervaseh,
where a long, narrow, five-oared boat awaited me at the stone steps, and
placed myself at the tiller, when the boat put off and I was at last on
the way to the forbidden land. All the long journey through Persia and
Baluchistan had been only a prologue, which had really no result except
to land me in the spider's nest in which I found myself caught in India.
Now, however, I was free, out of the reach of all that is called
Government; now I could rule, myself.
The canal, on the bright mirror of which we now glided along, was varied
by water plants, ducks, and boats, almost sinking under their loads of
country produce. On the banks washerwomen crouched, and here and there a
group of merry children were bathing; they scrambled up projecting
points and mooring places, let themselves tumble into the canal,
splashed and threw up the water like small whales. The canal becomes
narrower, only a few yards broad, our boat takes the ground, and the
oarsmen get out and draw it over the shallows. The waterway is very
winding, but runs on the whole to the north; the water is shallow, but
the current is with us. On either side stand picturesque houses of wood
and stone as in a street of Venice. At every corner the eye encounters a
new charming subject for the brush, which gains additional effect from
the motley figures, the vegetation, and the light lancet-shaped boats.
The lighting up of the picture is also fine now that the sun is setting,
bathing everything in its warm glowing beams, and causing the outlines
to stand out clearly against the deep shadows. Between the houses the
water is as black as ink. We draw near to a small projecting height,
behind which the road runs to Kangan and Leh. Side branches debouch into
the canal, but we make for a lake called Anchar; its water is greyish
blue, and comes from the Sind, or Send as they here pronounce the name
of the river.
After a while eddies and sandbanks show that we are in the river. The
sun has set; the summer evening is quiet and peaceful, only the gnats
buzz over the water.
[Illustration: 12. My Three Puppies.
13. Robert, the Eurasian.
14. Ganpat Sing, the Rajput.
15. Manuel, the Cook.
PROMINENT MEMBERS OF THE FIRST EXPEDITION.]
Though the rowers work steadily, putting forth all their strength, we
make slow progress, for the current is strong against us. I have
therefore opportunity to peep into the domestic affairs of a whole
series of English families in the house-boats. It is just upon nine
o'clock and the inmates are gathered round the table in dress coats and
elegant toilets. At one table sat three young ladies; I thought that
they had spent too much trouble over their toilet, for there was nowhere
any sign of a cavalier to be charmed with their appearance. Through the
open windows the glaring lamplight fell on the water; they saw us pass,
and perhaps puzzled their heads over the reason of so late a visit. Now
the century-old planes of Gandarbal appear, we row into a creek of
stagnant water and go on shore.
This was my first day's journey, but the day was far from being over.
Scouts were sent out, but not a soul was to be found at the appointed
halting-place. We settled down between mighty tree-trunks and lighted a
blazing signal fire. After a time Bas Ghul comes like a highway pad into
the light of the flames; he leads a couple of mules, and at ten o'clock
Robert and Manuel also lie beside our fire. But the tents and provisions
are not yet here. At eleven scouts are sent out again, and we do not see
or hear of them again before midnight; they report that all is well with
the caravan and that it will soon be here. But when one o'clock came
another scout vanished in the darkness and it was not till a quarter to
three that my people arrived, after I had waited quite five hours for
them. But I was not at all angry, only happy to be _en route_. New fires
and resinous torches were lighted, and illuminated brightly the lower
branches of the plane trees, while through the crowns the stars twinkled
above our first bivouac on the way to Tibet.
What noise and confusion in this throng of men and baggage animals! The
place was like a fair where all scold and scream and no one listens. The
escort tried in vain to get a hearing, the Rajputs were quieter, but the
Pathans abused the disobedient Kashmiris and the saucy men from Poonch
as robbers and murderers. The animals were tethered with long cords to
the foot of the trees, and on a small open space my tent pegs were for
the first time driven into the ground. The tent was a present from my
friend Daya Kishen Kaul, and was my home for a long time. The baggage
was piled up in walls of provision sacks and boxes, and Manuel got hold
at length of his kitchen utensils and unpacked his enamelled ware. The
animals neighed and stamped and occasionally gave their neighbours a
friendly kick, but when the barley nose-bags were carried round and hung
on their necks only a whinnying was heard, which signified impatience
and a good appetite. And then these children of the East, this gathering
of dark-skinned men who strode about in the red firelight with tall
white turbans--what a fine striking picture on the background of a
pitch-dark night! I smiled to myself as I saw them hurrying hither and
thither about their numerous affairs.
But now dinner is ready in the lighted tent, and a box lid serves as a
table. A carpet, a bed, two boxes for daily use, and the young dogs are
the only furniture. There are three of the last, of which two are
bitches. They are pariahs; they were enticed away from the street in
Srinagar and have no trace of religion (Illustration 12). Robert and I,
who always speak English, call the white and the yellow ones simply
"Puppy"; the third soon received the name of "Manuel's Friend," for
Manuel and he always kept together.
And all this company which the sport of fortune had collected around me
was to be scattered again, one after the other, like chaff before the
wind. I was the only one who, six-and-twenty months later, reached Simla
again, and the last of all the men and animals who now lay in deep sleep
under the planes of Gandarbal.
But I was not the last to lay myself down to rest on this first night,
for when I put out my light at three o'clock the firelight still played
on the side of the tent, and I seemed to feel the brisk life out in Asia
like a cooling breath of pine forests and mountains, snowfields and
glaciers, and of broad open plains where my plans would be realized.
Should I be tired of it? Nay, should I ever have enough of it?
[Illustration: 16. IN FRONT OF NEDOU'S HOTEL IN SRINAGAR.
17. SOME OF OUR MULES.
18. AN AMATEUR PHOTOGRAPHER PHOTOGRAPHED.]
CHAPTER III
THE ROAD TO LEH
The day ended late. Next morning I was awaked late, and the sun stood
high in the heavens before we were ready to start. It took four hours to
get the whole camp under weigh, to pack up and load the animals; but the
work would be done more expeditiously when all knew their parts.
The long train begins to move, troop after troop disappears among the
trees. On both sides of the road country houses and villages peep out
between willows, walnut and apricot trees, and small channels of water
murmur through the rice-fields, where men are hoeing, moving in regular
order, and singing a rhythmical encouraging song; the singing lightens
the work, for the weeds are torn up in time with the air, and no one
likes to be behind another.
A bridge crosses the Sind, which rolls its greyish blue water, rushing
and roaring, through several large arms. Now the road ascends the valley
of the river, then we turn eastwards, and soon the broad valley of
Kashmir with its level country disappears behind us. The rise is already
noticeable, and we are glad of it, for the day is warm. Trees become
fewer, and we ride for greater and greater stretches in the blazing sun;
but all around us is green and abundantly watered, the mild air is full
of life and productive energy, and the whole valley resounds with the
roar of the river and the echo it calls forth. I have passed this way
twice before, but on both occasions the Sind valley was covered with
snow; now summer reigns in the deep hollows and on the heights.
At Kangan we pitched our tents in a thick copse. This time the camp was
marked out and the tents set up fairly expeditiously. The _Numberdar_ of
the village procured us everything we wanted--we did not wish to touch
our own stores until it became impossible to obtain local supplies. The
four coolies who had carried the boat were here relieved by four others,
who were to carry it up to Gunt.
So we had accomplished another day's journey. We all delighted in the
free, active life. But the day was declining, the shadows grew longer,
the sun disappeared an hour sooner than usual, for it was concealed by
the mountains, and after we had listened for a while to the plaintive
bark of the jackals we also went early to rest. In the stillness of the
night the roar of the stream sounded still louder; its water came from
the heights which were the goal of our hopes; but with still greater
longing would my eyes one day watch these eddies on their way to the
sea.
When I came out of my tent in the cool of the morning the rest of the
caravan had already set out, and the camp looked empty and deserted. The
new day was not promising, for it rained hard, and thunder growled among
the mountains; but the summer morning gave forth an odour of forest and
fresh green vegetation, and after a good breakfast my detachment, to
which Robert and Manuel belonged, started on its march.
The sun soon came out, and with the warmth great swarms of flies, which
tortured our animals and made them restive. The road ran down to the
river and through the trees on its right bank. On the crest of the left
flank of the valley some patches of snow still defied the summer sun,
and the wood opposite was much thicker than on our side. Here and there
a conifer raised its dark crown above the lighter foliage. At the
village Mamer, where a mill-wheel swished through the waterfall, and an
open booth invited the traveller to refresh himself, Khairullah remained
awhile behind in company with a smoking narghilé. At Ganjevan we crossed
the river by three shaking bridges. In the background of the narrowing
valley rose a mountain covered with snow. The scenery was fine, and we
enjoyed a ride really elevating in a double sense. Our caravan had to
halt several times when a mule threw off its load; but the animals were
already quieter, and I looked forward with anxiety to the time when they
would become meek as lambs, and when no objurgations would induce them
to move on.
The camp at Gunt was already in order when we arrived. My first thought
is always for the puppies; in the morning, during the first hours of the
march, they whine, finding the movement of the mule very uncomfortable,
but the rocking soon sends them to sleep. But as soon as they are taken
out of the basket they fall foul of one another, and then they wander
all the evening among the tents, gnawing and tearing at everything.
Even with a temperature of 52.2° F. I felt so cold in the night, after
the heat of the plains, that I woke and covered myself with a fur rug.
The river in the morning marked only 46.2°. Upstream the view became
ever finer. Sometimes we rode through narrow defiles, sometimes up steep
dangerous slopes, sometimes over broad expansions of the valley with
cultivated fields. Then the precipitous rocks drew together again, and
cool dense shadows lay among willows and alders. The roar of the stream
drowned all other sounds. The river had now become smaller, so many
tributaries having been left behind us, but its wild impetuosity and its
huge volumes of dashing water were the more imposing; the water,
greenish blue and white, foaming and tossing, boiled and splashed among
huge blocks of dark green schist. In a gully, close to the bank, a
conical avalanche still lay thawing, and up above small waterfalls
appeared on the slopes like streaks of bright white paint. When we came
nearer we could perceive the movement, and the cascades that resolved
themselves into the finest spray.
Then the valley spread out again, and conifers alone clothed its flanks.
We bivouacked at Sonamarg, where I set out some years before from the
_dak bungalow_ on a winter's night, with lanterns and torches, for a
venturesome excursion over the avalanches of the Zoji-la Pass.
The Governor of Kashmir had sent a _chaprassi_ with me, and at a word
from him all the local authorities were at our service. But it was not
easy to keep some of the members of the caravan in order. Bas Ghul and
Khairullah proved to be great brawlers, who began to quarrel with the
others on every possible occasion. Bas Ghul evidently considered it his
chief duty to appropriate a coolie for his own service, and Khairullah
thought himself much too important to help in unloading. The others
complained daily of annoyance from the Afghans, and I soon saw that this
escort would give us more trouble than help. Among the rest, also, the
Kashmiris and the men from Poonch, there were petty pilferers, and the
Rajputs were ordered to watch that none of our belongings went astray.
In Baltal there was a great commotion, for people from Sonamarg appeared
and declared that my servants had stolen a saucepan as they passed
through. And it was actually found among the Poonch men. The
complainants received their pan back again as well as compensation for
their trouble (Illustration 19).
The state of the road from Baltal over the Zoji-la Pass was very
different now from what it was in the year 1902. Then the whole country
was covered with snow, and we slided almost the whole way down over
glaciated slopes. Now some five hundred workmen were engaged in mending
the road up to the pass. Their industry was indicated by thundering
blasts, and now and then great blocks of stone fell down uncomfortably
near to us.
Now our heavily-laden caravan had to cross the pass. Slowly and
carefully we march up over hard and dirty but smooth avalanche cones, in
which a small winding path has been worn out by the traffic. Water
trickles and drops in the porous mass, and here and there small rivulets
issue from openings in the snow. After a stretch of good road comes a
steep slope along a wall of rock--a regular staircase, with steps of
timber laid across the way. It was a hard task for laden animals to
struggle up. Now and then one of them slipped, and a mule narrowly
escaped falling over--a fall from the steep acclivity into the deep
trough of the roaring Sind would have been almost certain destruction,
not a trace of the unfortunate beast would have been found again. From
our lofty station the river looked like a thread. After some sacks of
maize had fallen overboard, each of the animals was led by two men.
[Illustration: 19. THE ROAD TO BALTAL.]
The train advanced slowly up. Piercing cries were constantly heard when
one of the animals was almost lost. But at last we got over the
difficulties, and travelled over firm snow and level ground. The thawed
water from a huge cone of snow on the south side flowed partly to the
Sind, partly to the Dras. The latter increased with astonishing
quickness to a considerable river, and our small and slippery path
followed its bank. A treacherous bridge crossed a wild tributary, with
agitated waters of a muddy grey colour. One of the mules broke through
it, and it was only at the last moment that his load could be saved.
Then the bridge was mended with flat stones for the benefit of future
passengers.
The Dras is an imposing river; its waters pour over numerous blocks that
have fallen into its bed, and produce a dull grinding sound. And this
mighty river is but one of the thousand tributaries of the Indus.
We reached Matayun in drizzling rain, and had scarcely set up our camp
when the caravan-men came to loggerheads. We here overtook a hired
contingent of 30 horses with forage. Their drivers had received orders
to travel as quickly as possible to Leh; but now it appeared that they
had remained stationary for several days, and wanted to be paid extra in
consequence. The authorities in Srinagar had done their best to make my
journey to Leh easy, but there is no order in Kashmir. In Robert I had
an excellent assistant; he did everything to appease the refractory men.
I now saw myself that stringent measures must be resorted to, and I
waited impatiently for a suitable occasion for interference. About
three-fourths of the Poonch men reported themselves ill; they wished to
ride, and that was the whole cause of their illness. The mules, when not
wanted, were to go unloaded, in order to economize their strength, and
on that account we had hired horses in Srinagar. Some men had been
kicked by our hot-tempered mules, and now came for treatment.
Then we go on to Dras and Karbu. On the heights above the Dras we pass
the famous stone figures of Buddha, and then we descend a narrow
picturesque valley to Karbu. The river constantly increases in volume,
and presents a grand spectacle; small affluents fall between the rocks
like silver ribands, and spread out over the dejection fans. The pink
blossoms of the hawthorn wave gracefully in the wind, which cools us
during the hot hours of the day. Fine dark juniper bushes, tall as
cypresses, adorn the right bank.
In front of the station-house in Karbu an elderly man in a white turban
came up to me. "Good day, Abdullah," I said to him, for I immediately
recognized the honest fellow who had helped me up over the snowfields of
the Zoji-la on the former occasion.
"Salaam, Sahib," he answered, sobbing, fell on his knees and embraced my
foot in the stirrup, after the Oriental custom.
"Will you go on a long journey with me?" I asked.
"Yes, I will follow you to the end of the world, if the Commissioner
Sahib in Leh will allow me."
"We will soon settle that. But, tell me, how have you got on since we
last saw one another?"
"Oh, I am the _Tekkedar_ of Karbu, and provide passing caravans with all
they want."
"Well, then, think over the matter till to-morrow, and if you wish to
accompany me, I have a post free for you among my people."
"There is no need of consideration; I will go with you, though I only
get a rupee a month."
But Abdullah was too old and infirm for Tibet, and the conditions which
he afterwards put before Robert were much more substantial than he had
represented them in the first joy of meeting me again: 60 rupees
monthly, everything found, his own horse, and exemption from all heavy
work were now his demands. Consequently next morning we bade each other
an eternal farewell.
Now a traveller turned up from the preceding station, and complained
that the Poonch men had stolen a sheep from him. As they denied it, I
made the plaintiff accompany us to Kargil, where the case could be tried
before the magistrate.
[Illustration: 20. KARGIL.]
[Illustration: 21. CHHORTEN IN LAMAYURU.
Sketches by the Author.]
We approached the striking spot, where two valleys converge and the Dras
joins the Wakkha, passed the sharp rocky angle, and rode up close by
the bank of the Wakkha. The valley has a very great fall, and the
powerful stream rushes down in wild commotion, swells up and leaps over
the blocks in its way, or breaks into foaming, tumultuous surge. Several
old acquaintances and the Vezir Vezarat himself came to meet us, and
before we reached Kargil we were accompanied by a whole cavalcade. We
bivouacked in a cool grove of poplars and willows, and intended to rest
the following day (Illustration 20).
This day brought some picturesque scenes. Surrounded by the authorities
of Kargil with the pundit Lashman Das and the Vezir Vezarat at their
head, I held judgment over the heterogeneous rabble which had caused so
much embarrassment in the first week of my journey. Firstly, all the
Kashmiris, with their leader Aziza, were dismissed. Then came the turn
of their fellow-countrymen, who had transported hither on hired horses
the maize and barley for our animals, and lastly we came to the Poonch
men. As regards the sheep-stealing the following procedure was adopted.
The suspected men were tied to a couple of trees, and though there was a
cool shade, they grew weary, and after waiting three hours for a
rescuing angel, confessed all, and were thereupon sentenced to pay
double the value of the sheep. Then Khairullah stepped forward and
interceded for his friend Aziza; as his request was not granted he was
annoyed, and positively refused to undertake the night watch. So he,
too, was dismissed, and was allowed to take with him the other Afghan,
Bas Ghul, who suffered from periodical fits of insanity, and was
moreover a rogue. It was quite a relief to me to get rid of these
esquires of our bodyguard. Of the original "Congress of Orientalists" in
Srinagar only four men now remained, namely, Robert, Manuel, Ganpat
Sing, and Bikom Sing.
When we left Kargil on July 26 we took with us 77 hired horses with
their leaders, and the forage of the animals formed 161 small heaps. A
native veterinary surgeon was to accompany us to see that the mules were
well tended. After we had bought all the barley we could get hold of,
our caravan had much increased, and the weeding-out effected in Kargil
made the succeeding days of our journey to Leh much more agreeable than
the previous.
At Shargul we passed the first lama temple on this route; beyond Mullbe
they gradually became more numerous. At every step one finds evidence
that one is in the country of the lamas; the small white temples in
Tibetan style crown the rocky points and projections like storks' nests,
and dominate the valleys and villages below them. But a monk in his red
toga is seldom seen; the temples seem silent and abandoned among the
picturesque _chhorten_ monuments and _manis_. The whole relief of the
country is now much more prominent than in winter, when the universal
snow-mantle makes all alike and obliterates all the forms. The fantastic
contours of the mountains stand out sharply with their wild pinnacles of
rock and embattled crests, which above Bod-Karbu mingle with the old
walls and towers, of which only ruins are now left.
On July 28 we crossed the river by a tolerably firm bridge, and
continued to ascend the valley which leads to the Potu-la. Just beyond
the pass the authorities of Lamayuru came to meet us with flowers and
fruits, and each one, according to the custom of the country, offered a
rupee, which, however, we needed only to touch with the hand. A little
further the first _chhorten_ appeared, followed by a long row of others;
the stone heaps pointed towards the famous monastery of Lamayuru.
Passing round a projecting corner a little farther on, we had a clear
view of a small valley between lofty mountains, and here rose a
precipitous terrace of detritus, on which the monastery is built. Some
white buildings up there stood out sharply against a grey background,
and in the depths of the valley cultivated fields spread out among a few
groups of trees (Illustration 21).
[Illustration: 22. CHURCH MUSIC IN LAMAYURU.
23. PORTRAIT OF A LAMA.
24. PORTRAIT OF A LAMA.
Sketches by the Author.]
As soon as our party was visible from the valley, music was heard, and
long brass drums boomed from the temple roofs with a deep, solemn, organ
tone, which was joyously echoed among the mountains. Would the lama
monasteries of Tibet give us such a friendly welcome? As we entered the
village, there stood there about thirty women in their best clothes,
in fur-trimmed coloured mantles, with blinkers firmly plaited into the
hair, and with turquoises on the top. All the inhabitants had turned
out, and formed a picturesque group round the band, which started a
deafening tune with its flutes and drums (Illustration 22).
In the afternoon we went up to the monastery, where the prior and the
monks received us at the main entrance. They led us into the open court
of the monastery, surrounded by old buildings, _chhorten_, and
flagstaffs. From here one has a grand view of the valley which slopes
down to the Indus. Under dark masses of cloud, and in fine rain, seven
monks executed an incantation dance; they had tied on masks of wild
animals, evil spirits, and monsters with laughing mouths, tusks for
teeth, and uncanny staring eyes. Their motley coats stood out like bells
as they danced, and all the time weird music was played. How the monks
must be wearied in their voluntary imprisonment! Evidently their only
relaxation is to display their religious fanaticism before the
inquisitive eyes of passing strangers.
Immediately beyond the village we descend a dangerously steep road in
the small, narrow, and wild ravine which leads to the Indus. The deep
trough of the Dras is crossed by small, neat wooden bridges, and after a
couple of hours' journey one rides as through a portal into the great,
bright valley of the Indus, and has the famous river before one. It is a
grand sight, and I halt for some time on a swinging wooden bridge to
gaze at the vast volume of water which, with its great load and its
rapid current, must excavate its channel ever deeper and deeper. The
station-house, Nurla, stands just above the river, which tosses and
roars under its windows.
The day had been broiling hot; the rocks and soil of this grey,
unfruitful valley seem to radiate out a double quantity of heat, and
even in the night the thermometer marked 61°. Even the river water had a
temperature of 54° in the daytime, but still, though dirty-grey like
porridge, it was a delicious drink in the heat.
As far as Saspul we rode along the right bank close to the river. Here
the road is often dangerous, for it is cut like a shelf in the steep
wall of rock, and one feels at ease only when the valuable baggage has
passed safely. The danger is that a pack-horse on the mountain-side may
thrust itself past another, and force this one over the edge of the
rock, so that one may in a moment lose one's instruments, photographic
apparatus, or sacks of rupees.
At Jera a small emerald-green foaming torrent dashes headlong into the
Indus, and is lost in its bosom--the clear green water is swallowed up
instantaneously by the muddy water of the Indus. One is delighted by the
constantly changing bold scenery and the surprises encountered at every
turn of the road. The eyes follow the spiral of a constantly moving
vortex, or the hissing spray which the wind whips off the crests of the
waves. One almost envies the turbid eddies of this water which comes
from the forbidden land, from Gartok, from the regions north of the
Kailas mountain, from the unknown source of the Indus itself, whither no
traveller has yet penetrated, and which has never been marked down on a
map.
The bridge of Alchi, with its crooked, yielding beams, seemed just as
dangerous as on my last visit, but its swaying arch boldly spans the
interval between the banks, and during a pleasant rest in the shade the
bridge was reproduced in my sketch-book. The waves dashed melodiously
against the stone embankment of the road, and I missed the sound when
the route left the bank and ascended to Saspul, where we were received
with the usual music and dancing-women (Illustration 26).
Basgho-gompa has a fine situation in a side valley of the Indus. The
monastery is built on the left side of the valley, the white walls of
three storeys, with balconies, effective cornices and pennants, standing
on a long cliff. A quantity of _chhortens_ and _manis_ surround Basgho.
The sacred formula "Om mani padme hum" is carved on a slab of green
slate, and lizards, as green as the stone, dart about over the words of
eternal truth.
[Illustrations: 25. THE SUMTO VALLEY.
26. BRIDGE OF ALCHI.
27. GIRL IN NIEMO.
28 & 29. PALACE OF THE KINGS OF LADAK IN LEH.
Sketches by the Author.]
The first of August was the last day of our journey to Leh. A bright,
peaceful morning; the rays of the sun crept warm and agreeably through
the foliage of the apricot trees, and threw green reflexions into the
station-room. We rode near the Indus as far as where the monastery,
Spittol, stands on its hill, beyond which the road turns aside from the
river and runs straight up to Leh, which is visible from a distance,
surrounded by verdant gardens. Mohanlal, a merchant of Leh, who had
undertaken a large part of the final equipment of the expedition, came
to meet us, and, as we rode past an enclosed field of fine clover, told
me that he had bought it for my mules.
We dismounted at the gate of a large garden, and went in. In the midst
of the garden stands a stone house among poplars and willows. It is
usually the residence of the Vezir Vezarat, the representative of
Kashmir in Ladak, but now it was to be my headquarters for twelve days.
Here I had a roof over my head for the last time for two long years, and
I found myself very comfortable in my study up one flight of stairs.
Robert occupied another room, and an open, shady balcony was fitted up
as a meteorological observatory. Manuel and the two Rajputs had the
control of the ground-floor; in the courtyard purveyors and new servants
were continually coming and going, and adjoining the garden was our
stable, where the newly obtained horses were posted in the open air.
Leh is the last place of any importance on the way to Tibet. Here our
equipment must be finally completed. Nothing could be omitted; if we
forgot anything we could not obtain it afterwards. Here the silver
stream of rupees flowed away without intermission, but I consoled myself
with the thought that we should soon be in a country where, with the
best will in the world, we could not spend a farthing. A large caravan
sucks up money, as a vampire blood, as long as it remains in inhabited
cultivated lands; but when all contact with human civilization is cut
off, it must live on its own resources; consequently, it gradually
dwindles and approaches its dissolution. As long as it is at all
possible we let the animals eat all they can; the best clover to be had
must be procured, and both horses and mules must be so well tended that
they can afterwards live on their own fat and endure the hardships that
await them.
CHAPTER IV
THE LAST PREPARATIONS
Captain Patterson was now Joint-Commissioner of the province of Ladak.
He received me from the first with the greatest hospitality and
kindness, and was one of the finest men I have ever come in contact
with. Having a thorough knowledge of India, Ladak, and Tibet, he was
able to give me valuable hints and advice, and was untiring in assisting
to equip the great caravan, the object of which was still, officially,
Eastern Turkestan, without overstepping his instructions by a hair's
breadth. I found in him a true friend, and after dinner, which I always
took at eight o'clock in the evening, we often sat together till long
after midnight, talking of the future of Asia and the doings of the
world.
[Illustration: 30. MUHAMED ISA.]
Sir Francis Younghusband had recommended to me a well-known caravan
leader, Muhamed Isa. I had seen him in Kashgar and Srinagar, and knew
that he had been present at the murder of the French explorer, Dutreuil
de Rhins, on June 5, 1894. During about thirty years he had travelled in
most parts of Central Asia, and was also acquainted with many parts of
Tibet. Besides a number of shorter journeys which he had accomplished in
the service of various sahibs, he had also been Carey's and Dalgleish's
caravan leader on their great march through Central Asia, and had served
a couple of years under Dutreuil de Rhins. He accompanied Younghusband
on his famous march over the Mustagh Pass (1887), and had been his
caravan leader in the campaign to Lhasa (1903-1904). On Ryder's and
Rawling's journey in the valley of the upper Brahmaputra he had had the
management of the baggage caravan. During all these journeys he had
acquired experience which might be very useful to me, and I gratefully
accepted Younghusband's proposal, especially as Captain Patterson, in
whose service Muhamed Isa then was, did not hesitate to place him at my
disposal. Besides, Muhamed Isa spoke fluently Turki, Tibetan, and
Hindustani, and wished for nothing better than to accompany me. Without
knowing that he had been warmly recommended, he had earnestly begged his
master to allow him to enter my service (Illustration 30).
His father was a man of Yarkand, his mother a Lamaist of Leh. The mixed
race of such unions is called Argon, and is generally distinguished by
physical power and extraordinarily well-developed muscular structure.
Muhamed Isa also was a fine man, tall and strong as a bear, with great
power of endurance, reliable and honest, and after a few days' journey
with him I found that my caravan could not have been entrusted to better
hands. That the first crossing of Tibet was so successful was due in
great measure to his services. He kept splendid discipline among the
men, and if he were sometimes strict, it was for the good of the
caravan, and he permitted no neglect of duty.
He entertained Robert and myself, and even the caravan men, for hours
together with tales of his fortunes and his adventures in the service of
other Europeans, criticising some of his former masters without much
reserve. The remembrance of Dutreuil de Rhins especially seemed to
affect him; he frequently returned to his account of the attack made on
the unfortunate Frenchman. He was also a good boaster, and declared that
once in midwinter he had carried a letter in ten days from Yarkand to
Leh, with all his provisions on his back--a journey that an ordinary
mortal takes a month to accomplish. But there was no harm in his
exaggerations; he was always witty and amusing, always cheerful and
ready for a joke, and kept up the spirits of the rest in depressing
circumstances. Poor Muhamed Isa! How little we suspected, when he and I
set out together, that he would never return to his wife and home!
I had scarcely taken possession of my new dwelling in Leh when Muhamed
Isa appeared with a pleasant, kindly "Salaam, Sahib."
"Peace be with you," I answered; "you have not changed much in all the
years since we met in Kashgar. Are you disposed to accompany me on a
journey of two years through the high mountains?"
"I wish nothing better, and the Commissioner Sahib has allowed me to
report myself to you for service. But I should like to know whither we
are to travel."
"We are going northwards to Eastern Turkestan; you will hear about our
further movements when we have left the last villages behind."
"But I must know the details of your plan because of the preparations."
"You must take provisions for horses and men for three months, for it
may happen that we shall be so long without coming into contact with
human beings."
"Then, surely, we must be making for Tibet--that is a country I know as
well as my house in Leh."
"What are your terms?"
"Forty rupees a month, and an advance of two hundred rupees to leave
with my wife at starting."
"All right! I take you into my service, and my first order is: buy about
sixty strong horses, complete our store of provisions so that it may
last three months, and get together the necessary equipment for the
caravan."
"I know very well what we want, and will have the caravan ready to march
in ten days. But let me suggest that I be allowed to choose the
servants, for I know the men here in Leh, and can tell which are fit for
a long trying journey."
"How many do you want to manage the caravan?"
"Five-and-twenty men."
"Very well, engage them; but you must be responsible that only useful,
honest men enter my service."
"You may depend on me," said Muhamed Isa, and added, that he knew it to
be to his own interest to serve me well.
During the following days Muhamed Isa was always on his feet, looking
out for horses. It was not advisable for many reasons to buy them all at
once--for one thing, because the prices would then rise; so we bought
only five or six each day. As, however, the peasants from the first
asked exorbitantly high prices, a commission of three prominent Ladakis
was appointed, who determined the real value of the horses offered for
sale. If the seller were satisfied with the assessment, he was paid at
once, and the horse was led to his stall in our open stable. Otherwise,
the seller went away, but usually returned next day.
Altogether 58 horses were bought, and Robert made a list of them: 33
came from various villages in Ladak, 17 from Eastern Turkestan, 4 from
Kashmir, and 4 from Sanskar. The Sanskar horses are considered the best,
but are difficult to get. The Ladak horses, too, are good, for, being
bred in the mountains, they are accustomed to rarefied air and poor
pasture; they are small and tough. The Turkestan horses have, as a rule,
less power of endurance, but we had to take them for want of better, and
all ours had crossed the Karakorum Pass (18,540 feet) once or oftener.
As the horses were bought they were numbered in the list, and this
number on a strip of leather was fastened to the mane of the horse.
Afterwards I compiled a list of the dead, as they foundered, in order to
ascertain their relative power of resistance. The first that died was a
Sanskar, but that was pure chance--he died some days after we marched
out of Leh, of acute disease. Later on the losses were greatest among
the Yarkand horses. The prices varied considerably, from 37 to 96
rupees, and the average price was 63 rupees. A horse at 95 rupees fell
after three weeks; another, that cost exactly half, carried me a
year-and-a-half. The commission was very critical in its selection, and
Muhamed Isa inspected every four-legged candidate before it was
accepted. As a rule we did not hesitate to take horses ten or twelve
years old; the tried horses were more reliable than the younger ones,
though these often appeared much more powerful. But not one of them all
was to return from Tibet; the lofty mountains let none of their prey
escape. "Morituri te salutant," said Captain Patterson forebodingly, as
the first caravan passed out of Leh.
The caravan, then, consisted of 36 mules and 58 horses. It is always
hard at the last to make up one's mind to start; after a few days we
should find ourselves in country where we could procure nothing but what
grows of itself on the ground. Certainly we were in the very best
season; the summer grass was now in the greatest luxuriance, but it
would soon become more scanty, and in about ten days we should reach a
height where there was no pasturage. Therefore it was necessary to take
as much maize and barley as possible with us, and here a difficulty came
in: we durst not overburden the animals with too heavy loads, for then
the strength of the caravan would be broken in the first month, while,
in the second month, it would come to grief if we should find ourselves,
as was most probable, in a barren country. And as the days pass, the
stores diminish and come to an end just when they are most wanted. In
the first weeks we had the ascent to the border region of the Tibetan
plateau before us, and had consequently to expect the most troublesome
country to traverse just at the commencement of the journey. Therefore
our first marches were short, and all the shorter because the loads were
heavier. This is a pretty complicated problem for an army commissariat.
After consultation with Muhamed Isa I resolved to hire an auxiliary
caravan of 30 horses from Tankse to accompany us for the first month and
then return. Hence arose a financial problem. The men of Tankse asked 35
rupees a month for each horse, or 1050 rupees in all; of course they ran
great risk, and I must therefore undertake to pay 30 rupees for every
horse that fell on the outward journey, and 10 rupees for one that fell
on the return home. In the worst case, then, the cost would amount to
1950 rupees. On the other hand, if I bought these horses at 60 rupees a
head, the total expenditure would be 1800 rupees, and the horses would
belong to me. Then the old problem was repeated: I should have to take
fodder for these thirty horses, and engage ten men to attend to them,
and for these men provisions must be obtained. After many pros and cons
we at length decided to hire the horses only, for then their owners
would accompany them at their own risk and supply themselves with
rations carried by seven yaks. The provisions for the first month were
to be taken from our own animals, to lighten their loads and economize
their strength; for a horse or mule always gets tired at the beginning
of the journey, and must be spared. But if one of the hired horses
became exhausted, its owner was at liberty to send it home before the
expiration of the month.
As forage and grazing was dear in Leh, we sent off as early as August
10, 35 mules and 15 horses with their loads, and 15 men and a
_chaprassi_, to Muglib, which lies beyond Tankse and has good pastures.
Sonam Tsering, whom Captain Rawling had strongly recommended, was chosen
as leader of this caravan. He received 100 rupees for the expenses of
the caravan. Muhamed Isa accompanied it part of the way to see that
everything went on smoothly.
A few days after his engagement Muhamed Isa presented to me 25 men, who,
he proposed, should enter my service. There was no difficulty in finding
men willing to come; all Leh would have followed me if wanted. The
difficulty was to make a proper choice, and appoint only serviceable men
who could fill their posts and understood their duties.
It was a solemn moment when the main body of the caravan assembled in my
garden, but the spectacle had its humorous side when Muhamed Isa, proud
as a world-conqueror, stepped forward and mustered his legions. At my
request Captain Patterson was present to have a look at the fellows; he
now delivered a short address, and impressed on them how important it
was for their own sakes to serve me honestly. Their pay was fixed at 15
rupees a month, and half a year's pay was advanced to them. The Rev. Mr.
Peter was so kind as to undertake to distribute the money to their
families. Lastly, I promised each a present of 50 rupees for good
behaviour, and bound myself to guarantee their journey home to Leh, with
expenses, from whatever place we might separate.
In the course of my narrative I shall have abundant opportunities of
introducing these men individually to my readers. Besides Sonam Tsering,
already mentioned, who had served under Deasy and Rawling, I will here
name old Guffaru, a greyheaded man with a long white beard, who
thirty-three years ago accompanied Forsyth's embassy to Jakub Bek of
Kashgar. He had seen the great Bedaulet ("the fortunate one") in all his
pomp and state, and had many tales of his experiences on Forsyth's
famous journey. I at first hesitated to take with me a man of sixty-two,
but he begged so earnestly; he was, he said, Muhamed Isa's friend, and
he was so poor that he could not live if I did not employ him. He had
the forethought to pack up a shroud that he might be buried decently if
he died on the way. That everything should be properly managed in such
case, and that his outstanding pay might be transmitted to his family,
he took his son, Kurban, with him. But Guffaru did not perish, but was
in excellent condition all the time he was with me (Illustration 31).
Another, on whom I look back with great sympathy and friendly feeling,
was Shukkur Ali. I had known him in 1890 in Kashgar, where he was in
Younghusband's service, and he, too, remembered that I had once drawn
him in his master's tent. He was so unconsciously comical that one
almost died of laughter as soon as he opened his mouth, and he was my
oldest acquaintance among this group of more or less experienced
Asiatics. He had taken part in Wellby's journey, and gave us the most
ghastly descriptions of the sufferings the captain, who afterwards fell
in the Boer War, and his caravan had to endure in North Tibet, when all
the provisions were consumed and all the animals had perished. A year
later he shared in my boating trips on the holy lake, Manasarowar, and
was as useful as he was amusing. Shukkur Ali was an honest soul, and a
stout fellow, who did his work without being told, quarrelled with no
one, and was ready and willing for any kind of service. He was always in
the highest spirits, even during a violent storm in the middle of the
lake, and I saw him weep like a child on two occasions only--at the
grave of Muhamed Isa, and when we said the last good-bye.
[Illustration: 31. GUFFARU.]
These three were Mohammedans, as their names show. The caravan contained
eight sons of Islam in all; the leader, Muhamed Isa, was the ninth. The
other seventeen were Lamaists. Then came two Hindus, a Catholic, Manuel,
and two Protestants, Robert and myself. I will not vouch for the
religious convictions of the Lamaists. As regards some among them, I
found that they sometimes changed their religion. For instance, Rabsang,
when he travelled to Yarkand, was a Mohammedan and shaved his head, but
on the way to Tibet he was just as zealous a believer in Lamaism.
The oldest of my companions was Guffaru, sixty-two, and the youngest
Adul, twenty-two, and the average age of the whole company was
thirty-three years. Eleven of these men came from Leh, the others from
different villages of Ladak. Only one was a foreigner, the Gurkha Rub
Das from the frontier of Nepal. He was quiet and faithful, and one of my
very best men. It was a pity he had no nose; in a hot scuffle in Lhasa
an opponent had bitten off that important and ornamental organ.
I may pass quickly over the equipment; it is always the same. For the
men rice, flour, _talkan_, or roasted meal, which is eaten mixed with
water, and brick tea in bulk were taken. For myself several hundred tins
of preserved meat, tea, sugar, tobacco, etc., all provided by the
merchant Mohanlal, whose bill came to 1700 rupees. New pack-saddles,
ropes, frieze rugs, horse-shoes, spades, axes and crowbars, bellows,
cooking-pots, copper cans, and the cooking utensils of the men with
other articles cost nearly a thousand rupees. The pack-saddles we had
bought in Srinagar were so bad that we had to have new ones made, and
Muhamed Isa enlisted some twenty saddlers, who sewed all day under the
trees of the garden. But everything was ready in time and was of
first-rate quality. Captain Patterson declared that a better-found
caravan had never left Leh. How stupid I had been to linger so long in
Srinagar and associate with the lazy gentlemen of the Maharaja.
Everything that came from there was either exorbitantly dear or useless.
Only the mules were good. Yet I always remember my sojourn in Srinagar
with feelings of great thankfulness and pleasure.
The Moravian missionaries in Leh rendered me invaluable service. They
received me with the same hospitality and kindness as before, and I
passed many a memorable hour in their pleasant domestic circle. Pastor
Peter had endless worries over my affairs; he managed both now and
afterwards all the business with the new retainers. Dr. Shawe, the
physician of the Mission, was an old friend I had known on my former
journey, when he treated my sick cossack, Shagdur, in the excellent
Mission Hospital. Now, too, he helped me both by word and deed. He died
in Leh a year later, after a life devoted to suffering humanity.
Many of my dearest recollections of the long years I have spent in Asia
are connected with the Mission stations, and the more I get to know
about the missionaries the more I admire their quiet, unceasing, and
often thankless labours. All the Moravians I met in the western
Himalayas are educated to a very high standard, and come out
exceptionally well prepared for the work before them. Therefore it is
always very stimulating and highly instructive to tarry among them, and
there is none among the Europeans now living who can vie with these
missionaries in their knowledge of the Ladak people and their history. I
need only mention Dr. Karl Marx and Pastor A. H. Francke as two men who
are thoroughly at home in strictly scientific archæological
investigation.
Some young coxcombs, to whom nothing is sacred, and whose upper storeys
are not nearly so well furnished as those of the missionaries, think it
good form to treat the latter with contemptuous superiority, to find
fault with them, to sit in judgment on them, and pass sentence on their
work in the service of Christianity. Whatever may be the result of their
thankless toil, an unselfish struggle for the sake of an honest
conviction is always worthy of admiration, and in a time which abounds
in opposing factors it seems a relief to meet occasionally men who are
contending for the victory of light over the world. In Leh the
missionaries have a community which they treat with great gentleness
and piety, for they know well that the religion inherited from their
fathers has sunk deep into the bone and marrow of the natives, and can
only be overcome by cautious, patient labour. Even the Ladakis who never
visit the Mission stations always speak well of the missionaries, and
have a blind confidence in them, for apart from their Mission work they
exercise an effect by their good example. The Hospital is made great use
of, and medical science is a sure way of access to the hearts of the
natives.
During the last days of my stay in Leh I saw my old friends again, Mr.
and Mrs. Ribbach, in whose hospitable house I had spent many pleasant
winter evenings four years ago.
One day Captain Patterson proposed that I should go with him to call on
the wealthy merchant Hajji Nazer Shah. In a large room on the first
floor, with a large window looking over the Indus valley, the old man
sat by the wall, on soft cushions, with his sons and grandsons around
him. All about stood chests full of silver and gold-dust, turquoise and
coral, materials and goods which would be sold in Tibet. There is
something impressively patriarchal about Hajji Nazer Shah's commercial
house, which is managed entirely by himself and his large family. This
consists of about a hundred members, and the various branches of the
house in Lhasa, Shigatse, Gartok, Yarkand, and Srinagar are all under
the control of his sons, or their sons. Three hundred years ago the
family migrated from Kashmir to Ladak. Hajji Nazer Shah is the youngest
of three brothers; the other two were Hajji Haidar Shah and Omar Shah,
who died some years ago leaving numerous sons behind them.
The real source of their wealth is the so-called Lopchak mission, of
which they possess a monopoly. In accordance with a treaty nearly 200
years old, the kings of Ladak sent every third year a special mission to
the Dalai Lama, to convey presents which were a token of subjection to
the supremacy of Tibet, at any rate in spiritual matters. However, after
Soravar Sing, Gulab Sing's general, conquered Ladak in 1841 and annexed
the greater part of this country to Kashmir, the Maharaja of Kashmir
took over the duty of carrying out the Lopchak mission, and always
entrusted it to one of the noblest, most prominent families of Ladak.
For some fifty years this confidential post has been in the family of
Nazer Shah, and has been a source of great profit to them, especially as
several hundred baggage animals are provided for the mission gratis, for
the journey from Leh to Lhasa. A commercial agent is also sent yearly
from Lhasa to Leh, and he enjoys the same transport privileges.
The mission had left eight months before under the charge of one of the
Hajji's sons. Another son, Gulam Razul, was to repair in September to
Gartok, where he is the most important man in the fair. I asked him
jokingly if I might travel with him, but Hajji Nazer Shah replied that
he would lose the monopoly if he smuggled Europeans into Tibet. Gulam
Razul, however, offered me his services in case I should be in the
neighbourhood of Gartok, and I afterwards found that this was not a mere
polite speech. He will play a most important part in this narrative.
After my return to India I had an opportunity of drawing attention in
high quarters to the importance to English interests of his commercial
relations in Tibet, and I warmly recommended him as a suitable candidate
for the much-coveted title of Khan Bahadur, which he, indeed, received,
thanks to the kind advocacy of Colonel Dunlop Smith.
Now, too, he rendered me many valuable services; perhaps the greatest
was to take a considerable sum in Indian paper in exchange for cash,
part of which consisted of a couple of bags of Tibetan _tengas_, which
proved very useful four months later.
The old Hajji was a fine Mohammedan of the noblest type. He obeyed
faithfully the commands of the Koran, and five times daily tottered into
the mosque to perform his devotions. He had more than enough of the good
things of this world, for his extensive business connections brought him
in yearly a net profit of 25,000 rupees, and his name was known and
respected throughout the interior of Asia. Before my return he had left
the stage and taken possession of his place, with his face turned
towards Mecca, in the Mohammedan graveyard outside the gate of Leh.
[Illustration: 32. THE RAJA OF STOK.
33. PORTAL OF THE PALACE IN LEH.
34. VIEW OVER THE INDUS VALLEY FROM THE ROOF OF THE PALACE IN LEH.
35. LAMA OF HIGH RANK IN LEH.
Sketches by the Author.]
The small town itself is full of the most attractive and fascinating
examples of Tibetan architecture. On all sides are seen quiet nooks with
motley figures, temple portals, mosques, houses rising one above
another, and open shops, whither customers flock; and the traffic became
brisker every day after the summer caravans from Yarkand over the
Kardang Pass began to arrive at Leh. Round the town stands a crescent of
bare, lumpy, sun-lighted hills; to the south and south-east the dry
gravelly plain slopes down to the Indus, where a series of villages
among green fields and woods impart some life to the picture. On the
farther side is seen the Stokpa, a lofty summit, below which the village
Stokpa peeps out of a valley mouth. Here resides an ex-king of the third
generation, the Raja of Stok, whose grandfather ruled as king of Ladak
but was deprived by Soravar Sing of his dignity and State.
The Raja of Stok, or, to give him his full name and title, Yigmet Kungak
Singhei Lundup Thinlis Zangbo Sodnam Nampar Gelvela, Yagirdar of the
state of Stok, awakes one's sympathy in his somewhat sad position; he is
evidently painfully sensitive of the loss of the honour and power which
fate has denied him. He was on a visit to Leh, for he owns an
unpretending but pretty house in the main street. The Tibetans still
look upon him as the true and rightful king, while the ruler of the
country, the Maharaja of Kashmir, is only a usurper in their eyes. We
therefore concluded that a letter of recommendation from this Raja of
Stok might be very useful some day or other. He was evidently flattered
by my request and quite ready to grant it. In his open letter he ordered
"all men in Tibet of whatever rank, from Rudok, Gartok, and Rundor to
Shigatse and Gyantse, to allow Sahib Hedin to pass freely and
unmolested, and to render him all necessary assistance." This highly
important document, with the date and the red square seal of the Raja
affixed, was afterwards read by many Tibetan chieftains, on whom it made
not the slightest impression. They quietly answered: "We have only to
obey the orders of the Devashung in Lhasa." (Illustration 32.)
The old palace of Leh stands on its rock like a gigantic monument of
vanished greatness. From its roof one has a grand view of the town, the
Indus valley, and the great mountains beyond the river. In the
foreground stretch fields of wheat and barley, still staringly green
amidst the general grey, small groups of garden trees, groves of poplar,
farm-houses, and small knobly ridges, while the dreary Mohammedan
graveyard stands out sharply and obtrusively in the evening sunshine.
Immediately below us lies a chaos of quadrangular houses of stone or
mud, with wooden balconies and verandahs, interrupted only by the main
street and the lanes branching out of it. On the point of a rock to the
east is seen a monastery, for which a lama gave the name of Semo-gungma.
Semo-yogma stands in the palace itself. The temple hall here is called
Diva, and the two principal images Guru and Sakya-tubpa, that is,
Buddha. The portal of the palace with its pillars has a very picturesque
effect. Through this portal you enter a long, dark, paved entrance and
then pass up a stone staircase and through gloomy passages and
corridors, with small offshoots running up to balcony windows; in the
interior, however, you roam about through halls all equally dark. No one
dwells now in this phantom castle, which fancy might easily make the
scene of the most extravagant ghost stories. Only pigeons, which remain
for ever young among the old time-worn monuments, coo out their
contentment and cheerfulness (Illustrations 28, 29, 33, 34).
Still the palace, in spite of its decay, looks down with royal pride on
the town far below, with its industry and commercial activity, and on
this central point on the road between Turkestan and India. The wind
sweeps freely over its roof, its flat terraces, and breastwork with
prayer strips flapping and beating against their sticks. A labyrinth of
steep lanes lead up to it. Wherever one turns, the eye falls on some
picturesque bit: whole rows of _chhortens_, one of which is vaulted over
the road, small temples and Lama houses, huts and walls.
[Illustration: 36. MONUMENTS TO STOLICZKA AND DALGLEISH, LEH.]
On the hill behind Captain Patterson's bungalow lies a burial-ground
with the graves of five Europeans: the names Stolicza and Dalgleish
especially attract our attention. Over Stolicza's grave a grand monument
has been erected. The inscription on a tablet in front informs us
that he was born in June 1838 and died in June 1874 at Murgoo, near the
Karakorum Pass. The Indian Government erected the memorial in 1876 as a
mark of respect and gratitude for the service which Stolicza had
rendered during the journey of Forsyth's embassy. The same inscription
is repeated on the other side in Latin. Dalgleish's tombstone is
simpler, but is also adorned with a tablet of cast-iron. He was born in
1853 and was murdered on the Karakorum Pass in 1888. Both terminated
their life pilgrimage in the same country high above the rest of the
world, and both sleep their last sleep under the same poplars and
willows. Now the evening sun gilded the mountain crests, reddish-yellow
light fell on the graves and the trunks of the poplars, a gentle wind
murmured softly through the tree-tops, and spoke in a melancholy whisper
of the vanity of all things; and a short time later, when the lamps in
the Government buildings had been lighted, champagne corks popped at the
farewell dinner given by Captain Patterson to another pilgrim who had
not yet ended his lonely wanderings through the wide wastes of Asia
(Illustration 36).
CHAPTER V
THE START FOR TIBET
The time at Leh passed quickly, as we were working at high pressure, and
the result of our efforts was a splendid caravan in excellent order for
the march. Robert and Muhamed Isa seemed to be infected by my eagerness
to start, for they worked from morning to night and saw that every one
did his duty. I took leave of Captain Patterson, who had helped us in so
many ways, and on August 13 the loads of the second great caravan stood
in pairs in the outer yard, and had only to be lifted on to the
pack-saddles of the horses.
Muhamed Isa started at four o'clock next morning, and I followed a few
hours later with Robert and Manuel, four riding horses, and nine horses
for our baggage. Hajji Nazer Shah and his sons, our numerous purveyors,
the officials and pundits of the town, and many others, had assembled to
see us off, and sent us on our way with kind wishes and endless
"Salaams" and "Joles."
[Illustration: 37. RELIGIOUS OBJECTS FROM SANSKAR.]
[Illustration: 38. IMAGES OF GODS. A MINIATURE CHHORTEN ON THE RIGHT.
HOLY BOOKS, TEMPLE VESSELS. ON EITHER SIDE OF THE SMALL ALTAR-TABLE
WOODEN BLOCKS WITH WHICH THE HOLY BOOKS ARE PRINTED.]
A crowd of beggars escorted us along the main street, the merchant
Mohanlal bowed to us from the steps of his house, and we passed through
the gate of the town into the lanes of the suburbs. At the first turn
the horse which carried my boxes of articles for daily use became tired
of his burden and got rid of it at once. They were put on another horse,
which seemed quieter and carried them as far as the Mohammedan
burial-ground, when he, too, had enough of them, shied, broke loose,
disappeared among some _chhortens_, and flung the boxes so violently to
the ground that it was a marvel that they did not fly to pieces among
the pebbles and blocks of stone. The jade got clear of all the ropes in
a second, and galloped, with the pack-saddle dragging and dancing behind
him, among the tombs in which the Mohammedans sleep. That the boxes
might not be quite destroyed we hired a quiet horse for the day. This is
always the way at first, before the animals have got used to their loads
and pack-saddles. Here a couple of buckets rattle on the top of a load,
there the handle of a _yakdan_, or, again, a pair of tent-poles jolt up
and down and knock together at every step. The rest in the stable had
made the horses nervous, the fragrant trusses of juicy clover had made
them sleek and fat, strong, lively, and ready to dance along the road.
Every horse had now to be led by a man, and at length we came to the
open country, and our companions left us one after another, the last to
say farewell being the excellent, noble-hearted Mr. Peter.
Then we went down from Leh past innumerable _mani ringmos_ and through
narrow gullies between small rocky ridges, and so drew near to the Indus
again. A rocky promontory was passed, then another close to a branch of
the river, and then Shey came in sight with its small monastery on a
point of rock. The road runs through the village, over canals by
miniature stone bridges, over grassy meads and ripening cornfields; here
and there lies a swamp formed by overflowing irrigation water. To our
left rise granitic rocks, their spurs and projections ground down and
polished by wind and water.
After we had lost sight of the river and ridden through the village,
where the people almost frightened our horses to death with their drums
and pipes, we found ourselves in front of the monastery Tikze on a
commanding rock, with the village Tikze and its fields and gardens at
the foot. The tents were already pitched in a clump of willows. The
highway and its canal ran past it, and here stood our mules and horses
tethered in a long row before bundles of fresh grass. The puppies were
released immediately; their basket was already too small for them; they
grew visibly, could bite hard, and began already to guard my
tent--barking furiously when they smelled anything suspicious.
Barely half an hour after the camp is set in order comes Manuel with my
tea and cakes. He is rather sore after his day's ride, and looks
dreadfully solemn, dark-brown and shiny; he is darker than usual when he
is cross. Robert is delighted with his horse, and I have every reason to
be content with mine--a tall, strong, dapple-grey animal from Yarkand,
which held out for four months and died on Christmas Eve. At Tikze we
are much lower than at Leh, and then we begin to mount up again. The day
had been very hot, and even at nine o'clock the thermometer stood at 70°
F. Muhamed Isa is responsible for my twenty boxes; he has stacked them
up in a round pile and covered them with a large tent, and here he has
fixed his quarters with a few other chief Ladakis. Robert and Manuel
have a tent in common; the kitchen, with its constantly smoking fire, is
in the open air; and the rest of the men sleep outside (Illustration
39).
Now the new journey had begun in real earnest--we were on the way to the
forbidden land! I had had to fight my way through a long succession of
difficulties and hindrances before reaching this day. Batum was in open
insurrection; in Asia Minor Sultan Abdul Hamid had provided me with a
guard of six mounted men to protect me from robbers; in Teheran
revolutionary tendencies were even then apparent; in Seistan the plague
was raging fearfully; and in India I encountered the worst obstacle of
all--an absolute prohibition to proceed into Tibet from that side. Then
followed all the unnecessary complications in Srinagar and on the way to
Leh, and the stupid affair of the Chinese passport which I did not need,
but had so much trouble to obtain. Does not this remind one of the tale
of the knight who had to overcome a lot of hideous monsters and
hindrances before he reached the princess on the summit of the crystal
mountain? But now at last I had left behind me all bureaucrats,
politicians, and disturbers of the peace; now every day would take us
farther and farther from the last telegraph station, Leh, and then we
could enjoy complete freedom.
[Illustration: 39. TIKZE-GOMPA, MONASTERY IN LADAK.
Sketch by the Author.]
On August 15, exactly twenty-one years had elapsed since I started on my
first journey in Asia. What would the next year bring? the culminating
point of my career or a retrogression? Would opposition still continue,
or would the Tibetans prove more friendly than Europeans? I knew not:
the future lay before me as indistinct as the Indus valley, where dark
masses of cloud swept over the mountains and the rain beat on the tent
canvas. We let it rain, and rejoiced to think that, if the precipitation
extended far over Tibet, the pasturage would be richer and the springs
would flow more freely.
After a short march we come to the village Rambirpur, reconstructed
thirty years ago, and to the right of the road the small monastery
Stagna-gompa stands on a pinnacle of rock. On the left bank is seen the
village Changa, and a little higher up the well-hidden, small, and
narrow valley where the famous temple of Hemis lies concealed. Thunder
rumbles over its mountains as though the gods stormed angrily on their
altar platform.
At a corner where a small, shaky, wooden bridge spans the Indus, stand
some more long _mani ringmos_; they are covered with well-cut stone
flags, on which the letters are already overgrown by a weathered crust,
and stand out dark against the lighter chiselled intervals. Former kings
of Ladak caused them to be constructed as a salve to their consciences,
and to gain credit in a future life. They are a substitute for the work
of the Lamas; every one is at liberty to propitiate the divine powers by
this means. Thus the monks acquire a revenue, and every one, travellers
and caravans included, rejoices at the pious act, while the stone slabs
speak in their silent language of bad consciences and manifold sins, in
rain and sunshine, by day and night, in cold and heat.
Now we leave the Indus for good and all. "Farewell, thou proud stream,
rich in historical memories. Though it costs me my life I will find some
day thy source over yonder in the forbidden land," I thought, as,
accompanied by _jamadars_ and _chaprassis_ of the Kashmir state and some
of my men, I turned the rocky corner into the side valley through which
the road runs up past the monasteries Karu and Chimre to the Chang-la
Pass. The road now becomes worse; every day's journey it deteriorates,
sometimes changing into an almost imperceptible footpath, and at last it
disappears altogether. The great road to Lhasa along the Indus and to
Gartok was closed to us.
Our company makes a grand show; a sheep is killed every evening, and the
pots boil over the fires in the centre of the various groups which have
combined into messes. I make no attempt to learn the names of my new
servants; coolies and villagers are always moving about among them,
coming and going, and I scarcely know which are my own men. It must be
so in the meantime; the time will soon come for me to know them better,
when all outside elements are removed. A melancholy air is heard in the
darkness; it is the night watchmen who sing to keep themselves awake.
At Chimre we are at a height of 11,978 feet, and we ascend all the day's
journey to Singrul, where we find ourselves 16,070 feet above sea-level.
The road keeps for the most part to the stony barren slopes on the left
side of the valley, while the brook flows nearer to the right side,
where bright green fields appropriate so much of its water that little
is left to flow out of the valley. A path to Nubra follows a side valley
on the right. In Sakti we wander in a labyrinth of narrow passages and
alleys between huts and _chhortens_, boulders and walls, _mani ringmos_
and terraces which support cultivated patches laid out in horizontal
steps. Above us is seen the Chang-la, and we are quite giddy at the
sight of the road that ascends to it with a tremendously steep gradient
(Illustration 42).
Tagar is the last village before the pass; here I had halted twice
before. Its wheat-fields extend a little distance further up the valley
and then contract to a wedge-shaped point, continued by a narrow winding
strip of grass along the central channel of the valley bottom. The
sections of the caravan climb higher and higher, some are already at the
goal, and we have overtaken the hindermost. The path runs up steeply
between huge blocks of grey granite, so that our Ladakis have to take
care that the boxes do not get banged.
[Illustration: 40. MASKED LAMAS IN THE COURT OF CEREMONIES IN
HEMIS-GOMPA (LADAK).]
[Illustration: 41. GROUP OF MASKED LAMAS IN HEMIS-GOMPA.
(Taken by a photographer in Srinagar.)]
After four-and-a-half hours we are up on the small terrace-shaped
halting-place, Singrul, and the bluish-grey smoke of the fires of yak
dung floats over the soil, scantily carpeted with grass and traversed by
a rivulet of crystal clear water. An alpine, cold, barren landscape
surrounds us. Muhamed Isa sits enthroned like a pasha in his fortress of
boxes and provender sacks, the usual sheep is killed and cut up, and is
then thrown into the general cauldron, stomach, entrails, and
everything. The head and feet are broiled before the fire on stones.
Some of the men take possession of the skin, and spend the evening in
rubbing it and making it soft--probably it is for use as bed furniture.
The two Rajputs sit a little apart from the rest by their own small
cooking-pot, and, I perceive, make a very light meal of spinach, bread,
and rice. The rarefied air seems to be of no consequence to them, nor
the cold; the puppies, on the other hand, were very down-hearted when
the thermometer in the evening marked only 45°; they howled piteously,
and, crawling under my tent bed, rolled themselves up together. The four
coolies, who carried the boat, went beyond Singrul to a cave, where,
they said, they would be more protected from the cold in the night.
Towards evening the brook rose, and one of its arms made straight for my
tent, which had to be protected by a temporary dam. The Ladakis sat till
late and sipped their red tea mixed with butter, and at many points
reddish-yellow fires illumined the night.
The temperature fell to 21°, and it was really very uncomfortable in
this high, raw region where the wind had free play and the sun had not
yet got the better of the snow; rather large snowdrifts still lay on the
ground, and clear streamlets trickled down from their edges, juicy moss
and grass sprouting up beside them and forming a fine grass lawn.
Accustomed to the heat of India, we feel the cold particularly severe on
rising, when the snow particles beat like grains of sugar against the
tent. A bluish-black raven sits on a stone, sometimes flying down to
examine what we have left, snaps his beak loudly, and seems contented
with his morning's catch.
Slowly and heavily the horses and mules zigzag up through the grey
granitic detritus and round the boulders on the way. Our troop is
considerably strengthened, for the animals need help on the acclivities
and the loads easily get out of place. To climb up these heights with
loads on their backs, as our coolies do, they must have especially
constructed lungs, good chests, and strong hearts. We mount higher and
higher to the pass in the mighty range which separates the Indus from
its great affluent, the Shyok. We still see the green fields down below
at the bottom of the valley, the bird's-eye view becomes more and more
like a map, and the landscape behind us grows more distinct and
extensive. Sharply marked orographical lines indicate the direction of
the Indus valley, and the great range on its farther side rises darkly
before us and covered with snow. Fifty mules from Rudok laden with salt
threaten to block our way, but are driven to one side by our men. From
time to time we call a halt to allow our animals to recover their wind.
Then we go on a little farther; the rests become more frequent; the
horses puff and pant and distend their nostrils. And then on again to
the next halt.
At last we were at the top, 17,585 feet above sea-level. Certainly the
thermometer marked 41.4°, but the wind was in the north, thick clouds
obscured the sky, sweeping over the crest of the mountains, and soon
hail came down, slashing us like a whip. On the summit of the Chang-la
Pass stands a stone heap with sacrificial poles, which are decked with
ragged streamers torn by the wind. All these streamers bear in Tibetan
characters the prayer of the six sacred letters; coloured or faded, they
flap and rustle in the wind as if they would drive the prayers up higher
and higher by unknown paths to the ears of the gods. Horns and skulls
adorn this elevated altar. Here all our Ladakis in turn come to a halt,
raise a cheer, dance, swing their caps, and rejoice at having reached
this critical point without mishap.
[Illustration: 42. FROM SINGRUL, LOOKING TOWARDS THE PASS, CHANG-LA.
Sketch by the Author.]
[Illustration: 43. VIEW FROM SULTAK, AUGUST 17, 1906.
Sketch by the Author.]
[Illustration: 44. DRUGUB.
Sketch by the Author.]
The descent, however, on the eastern side of the pass, is still worse:
nothing but detritus, boulders of all sizes, sharp-edged pieces of
granite, and between a muddy paste in which our horses flop and
splash at every step. Sometimes the path is more like a rough staircase,
where you might fall headlong, but our horses are sure-footed and
accustomed to bad ground. It is cold, dreary, raw, and grey--how
different from the warm, sunny country we have so lately left!
At the foot of the descent from the actual pass old Hiraman, a friend of
mine on former journeys, was waiting. The old man was just the same,
perhaps a little more wrinkled than before (Illustration 45).
After a night with 12.8 degrees of frost we rode on from Sultak by a
small lake dammed up by moraines, and down a valley full of detritus.
Now the puppies had to run alone, and they did the short day's march
without complaining, but they were heartily sorry for their exhibition
of strength when we got to Drugub, and were so tired out that they
omitted to ferret about as usual (Illustrations 43, 44).
Drugub lies at a height of 12,795 feet, and on the short way to Tankse
we ascended only 299 feet; from there, however, the route again ascends
slowly until at length one reaches the great open plateau, where the
differences of elevation show little alteration in a month of marching.
Beyond Tankse a massive, finely sculptured mountain rises in the
background; deep valleys open on either side; through the southern runs
a road to Gartok, which I was to follow later; through the northern, the
road to Muglib, which I had travelled by before; this I was to take now,
and for two days keep to roads I was well acquainted with.
The Tankse river has a fair volume of water; we crossed it at a broad,
shallow place, where the fall is very slight. The water is almost quite
clear, of a bluish-green tinge, and glides noiselessly as oil over its
gravelly bed. The whole village was on foot, and watched the pitching of
my tent in a small clump of willows, which had resolutely struggled
against the elevated situation and severe climate. These, however, were
the last trees, worthy the name, that we saw for half a year.
We rested a day in Tankse, and settled with the men who were waiting
with their thirty hired horses. On the early marches one gains all
kinds of experience, and now we had to make one or two alterations.
Muhamed Isa set up for the caravan men a large Tibetan tent with a broad
opening in the roof to let out the smoke. The sacks of provender were to
form round the inside a protection against the wind, and at the same
time be themselves sheltered from rain. Furthermore, roasted meal,
spices, and tobacco were purchased for the men, and all the barley that
could be procured in the neighbourhood. The headmen of Tankse and
Pobrang offered to accompany us for some days on a pleasure trip, and to
see that everything went on smoothly.
Late in the evening a bright fire in Muhamed Isa's camp lighted up the
surroundings, and the noisy music sounded more merrily than ever. The
caravan men held a jollification on taking leave of civilization, and
had invited the notables of the village and the dancing-girls to tea and
music. It was a very jovial party; the barley beer, _chang_, Ladak's
national drink, raised the spirits of guests and hosts, and as I went to
sleep I heard female voices and the notes of flutes and bagpipes echoed
back from the mountain flanks.
On August 21 we were again on the move; at our departure all Tankse
turned out, besides the natives who had come in from the surrounding
villages, and all sent us off with friendly cries of "Jole" and "A good
journey."
Here I commenced to draw my first map-sheet, being the first stroke of a
work that for more than two years kept my attention riveted on every
mile of the route and on every object that could be seen from it. At the
same time the collections of rock specimens was begun. Specimen No. 1
was of crystalline schists _in situ_, while the bottom of the valley was
still covered with large and small blocks of granite.
[Illustration: 45. MY OLD FRIEND HIRAMAN FROM LADAK.]
[Illustration: 46. CHIEFS OF TANKSE AND POBRANG; MUHAMED ISA, THE
CARAVAN LEADER, IN THE BACKGROUND.]
We left the Tankse monastery on its rocky spur to our left, and
henceforth kept to the right side of the Muglib brook, now at the foot
of the mountain and past its cones of detritus, now over easily
recognizable denudation terraces, and again along the bank of the brook,
where here and there we came across a miniature meadow. Down in the
valley at Muglib there is good rich pasture; close by the brook the
meadows are swampy and treacherous, but higher up the soil is sandy, and
even thistles crop up among the grass.
Here our 130 animals grazed and were hurriedly inspected. Sonam Tsering
had to give a report of his stewardship, which he had managed admirably,
and our mules looked fat and plump after grazing for five days on the
open pastures of Muglib. Our camp was now for the first time fully
mustered, and with its four tents and its various groups of men seated
round, the camp-fires had a very imposing appearance. Horses neigh and
mules bray on all sides, the men remove the pack-saddles to see that the
under side is smooth and cannot rub and cause sores, the animals are
groomed and fed, their hoofs are examined and re-shod, if the old shoes
are worn out on the stony ground.
The village of Muglib consists of three wretched huts, and its twelve
inhabitants cultivate barley and peas. The barley harvest was expected
in ten days, but the peas were still in full blossom, and would not be
ripe before the frosts set in. They are then used as horse fodder while
they are still soft and green. I asked some Muglib men what they did in
winter. "Sleep and freeze," they answered.
Next morning the sun had not risen when a shouting and jingling, loud
voices, and the stamping and neighing of horses woke me out of
sleep--the heavy cavalry was marching off under the command of Muhamed
Isa. Then the puppies discovered that my bed was a grand playground, and
left me no more peace. Manuel's fire in the kitchen began to crackle,
and a fragrant steam gave notice that there were mutton cutlets for
breakfast. I was accustomed to camp life, but I had never been so
comfortable before and had never had so large and perfect a caravan.
Beyond the village we crossed the brook six times; it is quite small,
and seems always to contain the same amount of water, for it comes from
a small lake, where I had encamped on the eastern shore in December
1901. Now we followed the northern shore over many very difficult
mountain spurs of black schist and quartzite; the ground is covered
with gravel, sometimes with small patches of coarse grass, and then
again is very sandy. Sometimes torrents of clear water gush down from
the mountains, where huge fan-shaped cones of dejection descend from the
mouths of ravines to the valley.
A heap of stones bedecked with flags and a _mani_ mark the point of
hydrographical importance, which is the watershed between the
Panggong-tso and the Indian Ocean; here the height is 14,196 feet. From
this point the valley descends slowly to the lake, and we ride in the
channel through which at one time it discharged itself into the Shyok
and Indus.
Now, the Panggong-tso is cut off from the Indus and consequently
contains salt water. Behind a spur on the right side of the valley which
hides the view, the western extremity of the lake peeped out, and a few
minutes later a grand panorama unfolded itself before us; the great
bluish-green lake between its colossal cliffs. Five years before I had
skirted its northern shore with my camels, my old sturdy veterans, which
caused so much excitement in Ladak that there I was still called the
Camel Lord.
Just where the Pobrang river enters, forming a flat delta full of
lagoons, we halted for a while to control our determination of heights
by a boiling-point observation, and then rode along the river, which in
1901 was choked up with drifted sand, but was now full of water. When
the drainage water fails in winter, the bed is at once filled up with
sand, but the dunes are swept away again as soon as the spring flood
sets in.
Lukkong is a small village with a couple of stone huts, a field of
barley, a _chhorten_, a meadow, and a stunted mountain poplar. From this
place the road runs north and north-east through the broad pebble-strewn
valley, where we have a foretaste of the flatter conformation of the
Tibetan plateau. We are in a region which has no drainage to the sea; we
have already crossed three important thresholds, the Zoji-la, the
Chang-la, and, to-day, the small Panggong Pass, but we have still two
great passes in front of us before we finally enter the wide expanses of
the tableland. Beyond the first we must again descend to the basin of
the Indus, behind the second lies an enclosed hydrographical area which
we must traverse in order to reach the country draining to the ocean
through the upper valleys of the Brahmaputra.
From a small pass with a few stone cairns we had a surprising view over
a valley which ran parallel to the one we had just travelled through,
and was full of green meadows. Many tents and camp-fires were seen above
and below the village Pobrang, and the meadow land was dotted over with
dark caravan animals, for mine was not the only party that was paying
Pobrang a flying visit: an English _shikari_, too, was there, a Mr.
Lucas Tooth, who had been hunting in the mountains and was very well
pleased with his collection of antelope horns. We talked in my tent till
midnight, and he was the last European I saw for a space of more than
two years.
CHAPTER VI
TO THE EDGE OF THE TIBETAN TABLELAND
We had another day's rest in Pobrang; there we found the last good
pasture land on the way to Tibet; it was, moreover, important that men
and horses should gradually become accustomed to the increasing
elevation. I had also received my letters from Sweden and India, and was
a long time occupied with my letters and answers; the post-carrier was
to return to Leh on the next day. But it was arranged that a mail-runner
should be sent after us from there. From Pobrang he was to have a
companion, for the country is infested with wolves. After the road came
to an end the track of the caravan could easily be traced, and it was
agreed that we should pile up small heaps of stones at doubtful points
for the guidance of the letter-carriers. However, we never heard
anything of them, and I do not know how they prospered. Pobrang, then,
was the last point where I was in contact with the outer world.
Here we bought thirty sheep for fresh meat; we thought we should not
want more, as the chase would yield us some supply, and some of my men
were clever sportsmen.
At Muhamed Isa's suggestion, Sonam Tsering's pay was raised to 20
rupees, and he was appointed caravan-bashi of the mules. Old Guffaru was
leader of the horse caravan, and Tsering, the short name we gave to
Muhamed Isa's brother, had the management of the small caravan which
transported my daily necessaries, Robert's tent, and the cooking outfit.
The _jamadar_, Rahman Khan, who had been my leader in 1902, and had come
with us from Lamayuru, was discharged and well paid, and also the two
_chaprassis_, Razul and Ishe. Old Hiraman insisted on keeping us company
for another day's journey, while the _Numberdar_ of Pobrang and the
_Kotidar_ of Tankse were to remain with us, as already mentioned, up to
the plateau. Thus our party was gradually lessened; last of all the
hired horses and their ten attendants would leave us.
I consulted every evening with Muhamed Isa; Robert, too, was generally
present, for he was the first of all my servants, conducted the business
of the caravan, and kept accounts of the expenditure. We now resolved
that some of the hired yaks should carry the boat, and that the last of
the coolies should turn back. Then we took stock of our provisions: the
maize and barley must last for 68 days; the meal for our thirty men
would hold out for 80 days, and with economy for three months; the rice
would not be all consumed for four or five months. But, however
carefully calculations and estimates may be made, it is a risky,
adventurous undertaking to cross the whole of Tibet, and the
calculations seldom turn out correct. One may be sure of losing animals
wholesale; matters may, too, come to a crisis, when the loads become too
heavy for the surviving animals, and part of the baggage must be
sacrificed. It may also happen that the provender diminishes more
quickly than the animals, and then the latter must put up with smaller
feeds, and at last find what nourishment they can on the ground.
My chief anxiety now was to maintain the caravan until we might meet the
first nomads to the north of Bogtsang-tsangpo; had we good fortune so
far, we should manage to get on by some means or other. I now drew up a
provisional plan of campaign, the chief point being that it was based,
not on time and distances, but on pasturage and water. The length of a
day's march was, then, fixed by the occurrence of these indispensable
resources, and even a march of one hour in the day was enough when it
led to tolerable pasture. Where, however, the land was quite barren we
might travel any distance we liked. No one had any suspicion of my
actual plans; I meant to reveal all only when the last men and their
horses had left us. If I let anything transpire now, my plan would be
made known in Ladak, and would reach the ears of my opponents. Then, as
so often before, a merciless "Thus far and no farther" would have
sounded in my ears even at Bogtsang-tsangpo.
On August 24 we left Pobrang, the last village, and rode up the valley.
Fine tame yaks were sunning themselves on small grassy patches. To the
left stretches out the Ldata valley, with good pasture lands in its
lower part. Seen from a flat hilly rise with a couple of stone cairns,
the country to the east assumes more of a Tibetan character, with low,
rounded forms, and small, slightly marked open valleys and dried-up
river beds. Everything seems dreary and barren; small hard _yapkak_
plants are alone visible. The ascent is extremely slow, but the path is
still easily perceptible in the tiring gravel or sand. Not a drop of
water is to be seen. The weather is quite Tibetan: burning hot when the
atmosphere is calm and clear; raw and cold when the sun is overcast, and
the wind envelops horse and rider in sand.
At Lunkar we encamped near some deserted stone huts. A couple of hundred
yards from us were grazing a pair of _kulans_ or _kiangs_, as the wild
asses are called in Tibet and Ladak. Nine fires lighted up the darkness,
and snow hissed among the firebrands, continuing to fall, so the night
watchman reported, till early morning.
Consequently in the morning was heard the crunching sound caused by
footfalls on frozen snow; my tent bulged inwards under the burden, while
all the landscape disappeared under a white wintry mantle, and dense
clouds hung over all the crests. Manuel and Ganpat Sing had never seen
snow falling before; they appeared extremely astonished and curious, and
looked very cold in their _pustins_ or Yarkand fur coats. The puppies
were highly displeased at this new occurrence, and barked at the snow in
their disgust till they found that it was no use. They also disapproved
of our impudence in adding two large dogs from Pobrang to the caravan.
Another reinforcement consisted of ten goats to supply me with milk,
which were obtained in Lunkar.
We were all of a sudden transferred from the summer that reigned in
Tankse to midwinter on the heights, and received a foretaste of the cold
of the neighbouring Tibet. We saw little more of the summer this
year--Pamzel might allow us to take a last farewell of the warm season.
The main caravan was still there when I left my tent, and we started all
together. Old Hiraman took leave of us, and rode back down to his hut.
The sun came out, and all around became dazzling white; even the Ladakis
were forced to protect their eyes with a tuft of wool, which they fixed
in front under their caps, and they looked very comical with this by no
means becoming frontal decoration.
The long train now wound up to the pass like a huge black snake. The
forty sheep and goats with their drivers led the way, but were soon
overtaken by the mules, which now marched all day at the front. Next
came Muhamed Isa with the horse caravan, and at his heels the hired
horses with their leaders, and the yaks belonging to them. In their
tracks followed our seven hired yaks, which carried the heaviest boxes
and the boat; they did their work very well, and were first-rate
animals--great black beasts; they did not seem to be affected by the
high elevation of the pass, nor to feel the weight of the boxes; and
kept up with the rear of the caravan all day long. Behind the yaks I
rode, with Robert, the _Kotidar_ of Tankse, and a runner who held my
horse when I dismounted to search for rock specimens, take bearings, or
make sketches. Last of all came Tsering and Manuel with my small caravan
(Illustration 47).
We had not ridden far when we came up with the horse entered as number
52 on the list; it came from Sanskar, and cost 90 rupees. It had eaten
nothing the day before, and was evidently on its last legs, for its
leader could only make it stumble on a step at a time. It bled from the
nostrils, its belly was swollen, and its muzzle was cold--all bad
symptoms. It seemed to suffer from giddiness, and at last fell down and
could not be induced to get up again. After a time, however, it raised
itself up with a last effort, but rolled over again on the other side.
We saw it from the pass still lying motionless, its attendant beside it;
the latter overtook us later and reported that there was nothing to be
done with the horse. So it was numbered 1 in the list of the lost, and
we decided that the _Kotidar_ might keep it, should it unexpectedly
recover.
This pass, the Marsimik-la, had looked quite easy from our
camping-ground at Lunkar, but now we found that it would be a very
serious matter to cross it. The horses had to stop and recover their
wind every five minutes at first, then every minute and a half, and at
last they could not go more than a minute at a time, and then must stand
still for as long. The snow now lay a foot deep, and the caravan marked
out a coal-black winding line through the white expanse. Curious
yellowish-grey and violet clouds rose above the mighty snowy range to
the south and west. When the sun was visible our faces and hands were
scorched; but when it was hidden behind clouds the day was pleasant, and
the glitter of the sunshine on the snow, so trying to the eyes, was
extinguished by the shadows of the clouds.
The caravan in front of us seems hardly to move, so slow is the progress
in this highly rarefied air. Still it does move onwards, as we can tell
by the constant shouts of the drivers. Some of the Ladakis sing together
to lighten the toil of themselves and the animals. They are as cheerful
and contented as though they were going to a harvest festival. From time
to time Muhamed Isa's voice growls forth like rolls of thunder, shouting
out _Khavass_ and _Khabardar_. We see him standing up above at the last
turn up to the pass, and hear him distributing his orders from the
centre of the semicircle now formed by the caravan. His sharp, practised
eye takes in every horse; if a load threatens to slip down he calls up
the nearest man; if there is any crowding, or a gap in the ranks, he
notices it immediately. With his hands in his pockets and his pipe in
his mouth he goes up quietly on foot over the Marsimik-la.
[Illustration: 47. THE WAY TO THE MARSIMIK-LA.]
[Illustration: 48. SPANGLUNG.]
Now the first column of mules reaches the ridge of the pass. A joyous
shout goes out over the mountains; it is heard clearly and distinctly,
but is indescribably thin, cold, and toneless, and at once dies away
without awaking the feeblest echo; the air is too rare for that. Every
detachment as it comes to the pass raises the same shout of triumph.
With a feeling of relief I watch the last horse disappear below the
white outline of the pass summit.
At the highest point I made, as usual, a fairly long halt to take
observations, while Tsering's detachment filed past me, and the yaks
tramped, grunting, over the Marsimik-la. The absolute height was 18,343
feet, the sky was partly clear, and it was as warm as in an oven, though
the temperature had risen only to 34.7°. Before we began to move again
the tail of the procession had vanished behind the point of rock which
marks the entrance to the valley that leads downwards. The fallen horse
lay lonely and forlorn, a dark spot in the snow. It was the offering the
gods of the pass had exacted as toll.
Eastwards the high range appears more uniform, as though planed down,
and no prominent summit rises above the crest. The descent from the pass
is bestrewn with pebbles and small blocks, which may be said to swim in
mud. The snow thaws, and a continual trickling murmuring sound is heard.
The route of the caravan is marked by an endless succession of small
deep ditches filled with water, and meandering in dark lines through the
white surface. Numerous trickles of water collect into a rivulet, which
rushes down among the stones. Where the ground is level a swamp is
formed, dome-shaped clumps of moss render it uneven, and between these
stand pools, often of deceptive depth. For a long distance we follow a
perfectly bare slope, and we are almost impatient at descending so
slowly to the layers of denser air.
At length we go down steeply into the valley over a disagreeable slope
of detritus crossed by a number of small water channels. On the left
opens a large trough-shaped valley, where we can perceive in the upper
part three snow-covered glacier tongues with fissures in the ice-front
standing out clearly. From these a large brook issues, which unites with
the brook from the pass into a greenish-grey foaming river. From their
confluence we see the whole length of the valley which we must traverse
to reach our camping-ground. It is deeply and boldly eroded; the foaming
river occupies the whole of its bottom. We must therefore keep to the
steep banks on the right side, 300 to 600 feet above the river. Here
the ground is detestable--coarse, sharp pebbles forming the edge of a
terrace--and as we have to ride along the outer edge we should roll down
the slope and break our necks if the horses made a false step.
Here one of the Pobrang dogs came towards us; he made a wide detour to
avoid us, and did not once look at us when we tried to coax him.
Probably he suspected that we were on the way to inhospitable regions,
and thought he could lead a more peaceful life at the miserable huts of
Pobrang. At length we came down over swampy moss-grown rubbish mounds to
the camp, which was situated just where our valley ran at an angle into
the Spanglung valley, in the midst of lofty mountains where nothing
could be heard but the monotonous roar of the two streams. Wearied out,
we threw ourselves into our tents and enjoyed the pleasant heat of the
brazier. Bikom Sing went up the mountains and shot at an antelope, but
missed. Muhamed Isa said jestingly that hitherto the Rajputs had done no
more than the puppies. He did not include them at all in our muster
roll; in his opinion they did nothing but consume our stores of meal and
rice; but he was unjust in condemning them before they had had an
opportunity of distinguishing themselves (Illustrations 48, 49).
The moon shone, a cold pale sickle, over the mountains, and we were glad
to get to rest; after such a day the night comes as a friend and
deliverer.
Our route to Pamzal continued downwards along the Spanglung valley,
sometimes about 150 feet above the bottom, where some snowdrifts
resisted the warmth of the short summer, sometimes on sharply defined
terraces forming several steps. The road was bad, for the whole country
was full of detritus. On the right opened the Lungnak valley with small
snowy peaks in the background, and before us towered the great dark
range lying on the north side of the Chang-chenmo valley. The Manlung
valley runs up from the south-west, and its stream contributes a large
addition of muddy water to our valley.
[Illustration: 49. SPANGLUNG.]
[Illustration: 50. CAMP NEAR PAMZAL.]
[Illustration: 51. THE CHANG-CHENMO AND THE WAY TO GOGRA.]
As we advanced farther, other grand snowy mountains and jagged peaks
came into view--these are the heights that enclose the Chang-chenmo
valley. At last the path turned into this valley, and we bivouacked on
the small strip of vegetation on the left bank of the river
(Illustration 50).
Towards evening the river rose considerably; when we measured its volume
next morning we found the discharge to be 494 cubic feet a second, and
large strips of the stony bed were still wet from the high-water in the
night. In summer one cannot ride through the river at this place; then
it rolls enormous floods down to the Indus. Its name is Kograng-sanspo,
while Chang-chenmo denotes rather the whole country around. The Ladakis
said that the summer would here last twenty days longer; after that the
nights would become cold but the days remain fairly warm; then, however,
winter would come with ever-increasing rigour.
Eastwards five days' march brings one to the pass Lanak-la, which
belongs to the colossal ridge of the Karakorum mountains running right
through Tibet. Some English travellers have crossed this pass. To me the
road was closed. I had promised Lord Minto not to act against the wishes
of the English Government, but I should like to know who could have
prevented me now.
On August 28 we left this pleasant, quiet spot, and now it would be long
before we came again to so low a level. We were constantly increasing
the distance from roads and human dwellings; for some time yet we were
to remain in known country, and then the vast unknown land in the east
awaited us. The day was fair and warm when I set out with my usual
companions, Robert, Rehim Ali, one of our Mohammedans, and the two
drivers from Tankse and Pobrang.
The terrace on the left bank, on which we ride, is washed by a branch of
the stream which is very muddy, forms small rapids, and usually divides
into several arms. The whole of the valley bottom is grey with rubbish;
the river water has much the same colour, and therefore is not
conspicuous in the landscape. There is no living thing anywhere around,
neither tame yaks nor wild animals, and not a sign of men. But a faintly
beaten footpath shows that mountaineers occasionally wander here. It
guides us down to the river again, at a point opposite the narrow,
deep, and boldly sculptured transverse valley Kadsung with the usual
terraces, from which emerges a brook of clear, blue, beautifully fresh
water and mingles with, and is lost in, the dirty grey water of the main
stream. Here the path again turns upwards and affords a short cut over a
small pass to our camp for the night. We could see at a distance that in
the middle of the steep slope where the path runs there had been a
landslip, and a deep fissure formed which we could hardly cross until
some alterations had been effected. A troop of men were sent in advance
with spades and pick-axes, and meanwhile the various sections of the
caravan collected together on the bank.
Some men examined the ford on foot, for here we had to cross the main
stream. The water certainly foamed up to the houghs of the horses as
they were led over in long files, but the depth was nowhere more than 2½
feet, and all came safely to the other bank. The yaks evidently liked
the bath; they waded through the water as slowly as possible, and my
boat was poised over its own element without touching it. The most
difficult task was to get the sheep and goats over. The whole flock was
driven to the water's edge, and some were seized by the horns and thrown
into the river, though they struggled frantically. But the rest found
the situation too disagreeable, turned tail and made a wild dash up the
nearest terrace. Again they were all driven to the bank, and were there
shut in by a line of men and pushed into the water, and as the first had
now made up their minds to wade, the others followed and bravely
struggled against the current (Illustrations 51, 52).
Immediately after, the caravan was seen labouring up the steep slope; it
was a pretty sight, but not without danger. The sheep did not keep to
the path, but climbed about in search of food.
[Illustration: 52. MUHAMED ISA IN THE RIVER CHANG-CHENMO NEAR PAMZAL.]
A couple of minutes after the little pass Mankogh-la is left behind
there is a bird's-eye view of the valley of the Kograng-sanspol, at any
rate of the upper part, which we had followed from Pamzal; it makes here
a sharp turn, and we came over hills and spurs down again to the
river-bank. The camping-ground, which has fairly good pasturage, is
called Gogra. From here two valleys run up to the main crest of the
Karakorum range, the Chang-lung-barma and the Chang-lung-yogma or "the
middle and the lower north valleys." Both valleys would take us to a
nasty pass; we chose the second. We must get over somehow or other, and
at dangerous places the most valuable baggage could, if necessary, be
carried by men. With his cap on the side of his head, his fur coat
thrown negligently over his shoulders, and the inevitable pipe in his
mouth, Muhamed Isa stalked like a field-marshal through the smoke of the
camp-fires and issued his orders for the next day's march. None of our
men, indeed, knew the road, but from their uncertain reports we could
gather that we had a nasty bit of work before us.
We did not reach a much greater height during our march, but we had to
go up and down over so many hills and steep declivities that the day's
journey was as trying as though we had surmounted a number of passes.
The river was now considerably smaller, as many of its tributaries had
been left behind. Nevertheless, it was more troublesome to ford than
before, for the whole volume of water was confined to one channel, and
the fall was greater. It seemed hopeless to drive the sheep into the
cold water where the current would carry them away. The shepherds were
at a loss what to do when I lost sight of them, and I do not know how
the passage was accomplished; but they came across somehow, for they
reached the camp all safe and sound. The dark-green schists in this
neighbourhood are partly much weathered, partly hard and untouched. A
large cairn stands on a hill, and one of the men asserted that an old
road to Yarkand ran past here, while Guffaru affirmed that some, at
least, of Forsyth's companions travelled through this country.
The headwaters of the river flow from a large valley to the north-west,
its background formed by snow mountains, while we follow the heights
above a side valley, which, seen from above, has a grand and almost
awesome aspect. A small, clear brook murmurs melodiously along the
bottom. Then again we descend over soft red dust and rubbish. Small
cairns mark the route, and guide us down to the bottom of the valley,
here very narrow, and confined between steep, dark schistose rocks. A
little higher up the rocky walls are perpendicular, and the river finds
its way through a dark gorge. We therefore have to climb up the right
side to avoid the difficult spots, and the ascent is very steep. Here
the caravan came to a standstill; Muhamed Isa's gigantic form was seen
at the worst point of the ascent. Every horse had to be assisted up by
five men. One tugged at the bridle, two supported the load at either
side to prevent it slipping off, and two pushed behind; as soon as
somewhat easier ground was reached the baggage was put to rights and the
cords tightened, and then the horse had to get along the track without
help.
In the Chuta district, where we again find ourselves at the valley
bottom, warm springs of sulphurous water rise out of the earth. One of
them has built up a pyramid 10 feet high, somewhat like a toad-stool;
the water bubbles up from the centre of the crown, and drops down the
sides, forming a circle of stalactites around. The water as it leaves
the orifice has a temperature of 124° F. Another spring, which sends a
jet of water right into the river, has a heat of only 108°. At many
places on the bank and in the river-bed the water bubbles up with a
simmering noise.
After more rugged slopes of rubbish and loose yellow dust we arrived at
last in the Chang-lung-yogma valley, where the pasturage was very
scanty. In the evening it snowed hard, and the valley was veiled in a
mystic light, which was perhaps a faint reflexion of the moon. A couple
of fires flashed out of the mist and lighted up the large tent of the
Ladakis. Only the murmur of the brook broke the silence. Suddenly,
however, repeated shouts resounded through the stillness of the
night--perhaps some horses had taken into their heads to stampede to
more hospitable regions.
[Illustration: 53. RABSANG, ADUL, TSERING, AND MUHAMED ISA.]
[Illustration: 54. OUR HORSES AT THE KARAKORUM.]
We needed a day's rest in this camp, for before us was the high pass
which forms a watershed between the Indus and the isolated drainage of
the plateau. Muhamed Isa and Sonam Tsering rode up the valley to
reconnoitre, and, meanwhile, Robert and I repacked my boxes amidst
alternations of sunshine and snowfalls; winter clothing and furs were
taken out, and the tent bed was put aside; henceforth my bed was to be
made on the ground, on a foundation consisting of a waterproof sheet and
a frieze rug; by this method it is much easier to get warm.
On the last day of August the ascent was continued. The country was
white with snow, but before noon the ground was clear again. I now rode
a small, white, active Ladak pony; it was sure-footed, and we were soon
good friends. A small stone wall at a bend of the route shows that men
have been here; but many years have probably elapsed since their visit,
for there is no sign of a path or other indications of their presence.
All is barren, yet it is evident that wild yaks have been here not long
ago. Muhamed Isa set up three cairns at the mouth of a very small
insignificant side-valley for the guidance of the expected post-runners.
Here we turned aside from the main valley. The contours of the mountains
now become more rounded, the relative heights diminish, and the valleys
are not so deeply excavated as on yesterday's ride. The rivulet, which
we follow up to its source in the main ridge, is the last connected with
the system of the Indus, but still it is a child of the Indus, and
carries to the sea news of this elevated region. Winter will soon chain
up its waters, soon it will fall asleep in the cold and frost, until the
sun calls it to life again in spring (Illustration 55).
An old yak skull was set up on a rocky projection and grinned at
us--another of Muhamed Isa's waymarks. There were several _yapkak_
plants, hard as wood, in a small hollow, but even this meagre forage was
no longer to be despised. We therefore pitched our camp here at a height
of 16,962 feet, or about 1300 feet higher than Mont Blanc. This camp was
distinguished as No. 1, for we were now in a country beyond the range of
topographical names. A huge stone pyramid was erected among the tents,
for the men had nothing else to do while the animals were gnawing at the
_yapkak_ stalks close by.
CHAPTER VII
OVER THE CREST OF THE KARAKORUM
We had a hard day on September 1. The ground was white, and the sky had
a threatening aspect, but a small blue strip to the south gave hopes of
fine weather. We started early, and as I jumped into the saddle I saw
the whole narrow valley filled with the various sections of the caravan.
When I consigned my tent to its fate, that is, Tsering and the Hindus,
our deserted camp-fires were still smoking, and the new cairn stood out
black against the snow. We left camp No. 1 with some excitement, for now
we were approaching wild lands in real earnest, and were to cross a pass
of the first rank, which none of my people was acquainted with, and of
which we knew only that it was called Chang-lung-yogma; it lies a little
east of the pass marked on the large English map of north-east Ladak,
and, as far as I know, no European has yet made use of it.
The terraces along the river bank gradually come to an end, and, where
they do occur, they are only a couple of yards high, and disturbed by
frequent landslips. Our route runs to the north-east. In front of us
appears a pure white saddle, now flooded with sunshine; we take it for
the pass; but no, the mules, as shown by their tracks in the snow, have
turned in another direction.
The flanks on both sides consist of loose, extremely fine material, wet
and crossed by clefts a foot deep. At the edge of some spurs these
clefts run like the curved fissures of a glacier tongue. The ground is
unstable; the slopes slip down and are displaced by their own weight,
for they are soaked through, and there are no roots to hold the fine
material; they are in a state of motion, and the gently rounded forms
prevailing in the landscape are the result of this phenomenon.
The silence of the desert reigns in this country where the feet of man
have never wandered; only now and then are heard the warning shouts of
the caravan men. Not one of the animals is left behind, all goes on
satisfactorily. May all this hard day's march pass fortunately! The
valley becomes quite narrow, the water trickles out of the gravelly soil
in quantities barely sufficient to form a brook. But even on this gravel
the animals sink in the mud.
At the foot of a trough leading up to a side-pass, which had led us
astray, the caravan came to a halt, and an accessible passage was
searched for.
I rode forwards up innumerable zigzags, and stopped at every corner to
take breath. Muhamed Isa reported that the true pass had been found, but
I rode with Robert up to a height rising above all the land around, to
reconnoitre.
The view from this point was far too striking to be sought merely for
the purpose of orientation. Above and behind the mountains in the
foreground, some of them coal-black, appeared a white horizon and a
jagged line of mighty Himalayan peaks. A really magnificent landscape!
The sky was almost clear; only here and there floated a few white
clouds. Down below us lay the small valley through which we had
struggled so laboriously; here it looked ridiculously small, an
insignificant drain in a world of gigantic mountains. Some detachments
of the caravan were still toiling up the narrow way, and the shouts and
whistles of the men mounted up to us. The horizon was quite clear, not
enveloped in haze, as it frequently was; its outlines were exceedingly
sharply drawn; silver-white, sun-lighted summits towered up above and
behind one another; generally the fields of eternal snow gleam in blue
tints of varying intensity, now dull and now dark according to the angle
of the slope in relation to the sun's altitude; now shade and light pass
gradually and insensibly into each other, now they are sharply defined.
Here physical laws work out their perfect complicated scheme, exacting
absolute obedience. On a shelf below us a part of the caravan halts and
puffs; the animals appear like black spots on the snow. Up here the
south-west wind enwraps us in swiftly passing clouds of whirling
snowflakes.
All this agitated sea of the highest mountains in the world seems
singularly uniform as the eye passes unhindered over its crests. You
conceive that no summit rises above a certain maximum height, for before
its head lifts itself above the crowd, wind and weather, denudation,
have worn it down. In this the mountains are like ocean waves; when
these, too, rise in foaming wrath, their undulations, seen from the
ship's deck, are of equal height, and the horizon is a straight line;
and it is just the same with the small ridges between the furrows thrown
up by the plough, which are all of uniform height; so that the field
seems in the distance quite level.
The horizon seemed to be very far off; nearer heights broke the sky-line
only to the north and north-east, hiding those behind, and in this
direction thick clouds were hanging, white above and dark and bluish
underneath, and lay like soft cushions on the earth. There was, then, no
suggestion of a plateau, but far in the north a mountain range seemed to
rise right up to heaven. In the north-west a main crest was plainly
visible, starting from our point of observation, that is, the height on
which we stood. This is the Karakorum range. The whole ridge here took
the form of a rounded back, without solid rock, and intersected by
numerous small valleys, all starting from the crest, and cutting
gradually deeper and deeper into its flanks. The main ridge winds like a
snake over the highlands, and the erosion valleys diverge on all sides
like the boughs of a tree. Here horizontal lines predominate in the
landscape, but lower down, in the peripheral region, vertical lines
catch the eye, as in the Chang-chenmo lateral valleys. Down there the
scenery is more imposing and picturesque, up here the surface of the
earth appears rather flat; here is the abode of storms, and their
boundless playground in the long dark winter nights.
[Illustration: 55. IN THE SNOW, N.E. OF CHANG-LUNG-YOGMA.]
[Illustration: 56. MY TENT.]
[Illustration: 57. LAKE LIGHTEN.]
Chilled through to the bones we walked down to the pass gap, where the
whole caravan was assembled; here the height was 18,963 feet, and the
temperature 2° above freezing-point. The men were too tired to sing,
but we had good reason to be satisfied, for all the animals had got up
safely with their burdens. We slowly descended along a small valley
running northwards. The ground consisted entirely of mud, in which the
animals sank at every step, and in the footprints they left behind muddy
grey water collected immediately. Round about us lay a chaos of
comparatively low, flat hills, furrowed everywhere by clefts which
indicate landslips. A tiny rivulet winds silently down the middle of the
valley without forming rapids. For the rest, all the country was
flooded, and so we had no immediate fear of scarcity of water.
Where we encamped not a blade of grass could be seen; there was,
therefore, no object in letting the horses run about loose, so they were
tied together in couples, and had to stand waiting till the sun went
down. Then Guffaru sat down on a rug, had a sack of maize placed before
him, filled a wooden bowl with the grain, and emptied it into a
nose-bag, which a Ladaki hung on the muzzle of a horse. And so the men
ran about till all the animals had received their rations, and the dry,
hard maize corns cracked under the teeth of the hungry beasts. The Ladak
horses positively refused to eat maize, and were given barley instead;
they whinnied with delight when the bags were brought, but the pleasure
did not last long; the chewing gradually ceased, and with lowered heads
and blinking eyes they wearily waited for the long night.
Some spare horses were laden with dry _yapkak_ plants; at camp No. 2
there was not a particle of fuel. We were now at a height of 18,215
feet.
In the morning we took leave of Chenmo, the _Kotidar_ of Tankse, and
Zambul, the _Numberdar_ of Pobrang, who turned back here. They would be
able to enjoy warm winds and bright sunny days again. Besides a liberal
reward for their valuable services they each received a testimonial in
flattering terms. They took my letters with them, and were to give the
messengers instructions about the route, should they fall in with them.
Our party was thereby diminished by six men, three horses, and seven
yaks (Illustration 46).
There were now only three men in my detachment, namely, myself, Robert
on horseback, and Rehim Ali on foot. We turned with the brook to the
north, and had hilly elevations on both sides. The country was, as it
were, dead--not a blade of grass, not a track of a strayed antelope; all
organic life seemed to be banished from the neighbourhood. But when we
had advanced a little further we found signs of the visits of man. A
faint light streak on the ground seemed to be a path which had not been
used for a long time, and beside it stood a cylindrical cairn surmounted
by a slab of stone. At one spot, too, lay several skulls of horses and
yaks; yet hunters, they say, never wander hither. Perhaps it was a
memento of the cartographical work of the Survey of India, or was
connected with the European pioneers who many years ago travelled
backwards and forwards between Eastern Turkestan and India.
The weather was quite Tibetan. One shower of hail after another chilled
us through, and drove a cold douche into our faces, but the sun was
always shining somewhere within sight. Long sheets of hail fell from the
clouds, which seemed of very insignificant volume, but they could not
whiten the ground. It seemed dry as tinder, in contrast to the wet
slopes on either side of the Karakorum Pass. Dust even rose now and then
behind the horses. Far in front of us we saw two dark points on the
yellowish-grey land--they were a horse and its guide which had lingered
behind the others.
The long procession of the caravan moved extremely slowly along the
descent. It made a halt, so pasturage had been found! Ah, no--the soil
was just as barren here as along the other 12 miles we had travelled
this day. So, as yesterday, the horses had to stand tied together, and
the nose-bags of barley and maize were strapped round their necks.
In the twilight I summoned Muhamed Isa to a council of war.
"How long can the animals hold out, if we find no pasture?"
"Two months, sir; but we shall find grass before then."
"If the marches are no longer than to-day's we shall take ten days to
reach Lake Lighten, which Sahib Wellby discovered twenty years ago, and
the route lies through Ling-shi-tang and Aksai-chin, which are some of
the most desolate regions in all Tibet."
"Then we will try to make forced marches, to get through the bad country
as quickly as possible; in the neighbourhood of Yeshil-kul the grazing
is good, according to Sonam Tsering, who has been there."
"How goes it with the animals?"
"They are in good condition--only a horse and a mule are tired out, but
we will let them travel awhile without loads. As for the rest, their
loads are a little heavier now that we no longer have the seven yaks.
But that will soon right itself."
"How are the hired horses?"
"They are all right except two, which are on their last legs, and which
we shall soon lose."
"See that the animals are spared as much as possible and are well cared
for."
"You may depend on me, nothing will be neglected. In camps like this
they get more maize and barley than usual, but where there is pasturage
we will be more sparing of our supplies."
On September 3 the level plateau was hidden in snowdrift and mist, and
it was hard to decide in which direction to proceed: we agreed, however,
that none of us should lose sight of the brook, for apparently no other
water was to be found. We had not gone far when snow began to fall, a
sharp south-west wind arose, and the whirling snowflakes hid even the
nearest hills. It now snowed so thickly that we were afraid of missing
the track of the caravan, which was far in front of us. According to the
English map we could not be far from a small salt lake, but in this
weather we were unable to obtain any notion of the lie of the land, and
it was no use to climb a hill in order to look round. We sat in the
saddle pelted with snow, but the snow soon thawed on our clothes,
leaving an unpleasant smell of dampness behind.
But this weather did not last long; the heavy dark blue and purple
clouds parted asunder like curtains, and continued their rapid course to
the east; the view was clear again. Some scouts, who had gone in
advance, discovered some fine _yapkak_ plants on the left bank of the
river, and our hungry animals were glad to put up with these. Three
antelope tracks we crossed were regarded as a good sign; there must be
pasturage somewhere about, but where?
The next day's march led us over an apparently level plain, begirt by a
ring of mountains, and our direction was on the whole north-east. We
started simultaneously. I rode all along the caravan, which made a fine
show. The animals did not march in file but in scattered troops, and
their footprints combined to form a broad highway. The mules keep up
bravely, and are always in the van. Several of the horses are suffering,
and lie down from time to time, only to be roused up immediately by the
Ladakis. Muhamed Isa leads the way on foot; he is the lodestone which
draws after it the whole company.
Now we tried to cross the broad swampy bed of the stream. Muhamed Isa
mounted his horse, but his steed sank in up to the belly; we had to give
up the attempt and follow the bank instead. At times we had to cross
side channels with the same treacherous ground. When the pilot had shown
the way, some laden mules followed; then the other animals came all
together. They sank up to the knee in the squelching ooze, and the
ground behind them looked like an indiarubber sponge.
At ten o'clock the daily storm set in. In the north-west its outer
margin was marked with great sharpness. It rolled, huge, black, and
heavy, over the plateau. Now the storm is over our heads and its first
black fringes swallow up the blue expanses of the sky. Two ravens, which
have faithfully followed us for some days, croak hoarsely; a few small
birds skim twittering over the ground. The hail lashes us with terrible
violence; it comes from the side, and the animals turn their tails to
the storm, and thus leave the trail, and have to be driven again into
the right direction. We do not know where we are going. I halt with
Muhamed Isa for a moment's rest on a hill.
[Illustration: 58 a, 58 b. PANTHOLOPS ANTELOPE. 59, 60. OVIS AMMON.
Sketches by the Author.]
"It would be better if we filled some goatskin sacks with water, in case
we lose sight of the stream," he suggests to me.
"No, let us go on; it will soon clear up, and then we can consider the
matter."
And the train moves on in spite of the drifting snow and the wintry
darkness. It grows light, and the eyes survey unhindered the dreary,
hilly, snow-covered land; westwards extend the plains of Ling-shi-tang;
to the south-east stretches the immense Karakorum range with peaks
covered with eternal snow, where thunder rolls among blue-black leaden
clouds. Soon this storm also reaches us, and we are enveloped in dense,
fine, dry snowflakes, while the darkness of night reigns around us. I am
riding at the tail of the train. The caravan is divided into four
columns. We travel in the wake of the last, which looks almost black
through the mist; the one in front of it appears as a dirty grey patch;
the next is hardly perceptible, and the foremost is almost quite
invisible. Muhamed Isa has vanished. The snow now changes into large
feathery flakes, which sweep almost horizontally over the ground. All is
silent in our company; no one speaks: the men walk with their bodies
bent forward and their fur caps drawn over their ears. The whole party
looks now like snow men, and the snow makes the loads heavier for the
animals than they need be.
At last our old friend, the brook, peeped out again from the duskiness,
and we pitched our camp on the bank. Tsering discovered abundance of
_yapkak_ plants close at hand--some green, to which the animals were
led, others dry, and very acceptable as fuel. In the evening there were
5½ degrees of frost. The moonlight fell in sheaves of rays through an
atmosphere full of fine snow crystals. Absolute silence! One can hear
the puppies' hearts beat, the ticking of the chronometer, the cold of
night descending and penetrating into the earth.
The country we marched through on September 5 was good and level,
especially near a small lake, which now showed its blue surface in the
south-east. Like all other salt lakes in Tibet it seems to be drying up,
for we travelled for some distance over its dry muddy bed, and saw,
higher up, plainly marked old terraced banks. Muhamed Isa reported that
an exhausted mule would probably not be able to cross a pass in a small
ridge which barred our way. It managed, however, to get over, and came
into camp in the evening, but was thin and exhausted. Two Pantholops
antelopes, easily distinguishable by their long, lyre-shaped horns, sped
away southwards, and we came across a wolf's spoor. In some spots the
pasture was so good that we halted a few minutes to let the animals
feed. We were sometimes tempted to pitch our camp, but yet we passed on.
At last we bivouacked in an expansion of the valley with a stagnant
creek, _yapkak_, and thin grass. We had scarcely hoped to find these
three things so necessary to us--pasturage, fuel, and water, so soon and
so close to the Karakorum. In this camp, No. 6, we decided to give the
animals a day's rest after all their exertions (Illustrations 58 a, 58
b).
On September 7, at daybreak, six miserable jades were picked out from
the hired horses, and, as their loads were already consumed, were
allowed to return home with their two guides. The sick mule lay dead.
The sky was perfectly cloudless and the day became burning hot. In
another respect we entered on new conditions, for, though we had covered
19 miles, we had not seen a drop of water before we reached the place
where our camp was pitched. It seemed not unlikely that the monsoon
clouds would come no more over the Karakorum, and then scarcity of water
might render our situation very critical.
The direction of the march was determined for us by open country lying
between low, round, reddish hills. The ground would have been excellent
if field-mice had not undermined it, so that the horses continually
stepped into the holes and almost fell on their noses. The mice
certainly did not show themselves, but it was too early in the year for
their winter sleep. The broad valley opened into a colossal cauldron,
skirted on all sides by grand mountains, a regular _Meidan_, as the men
of Turkestan call such a valley. To the north the mountains between the
Karakash and Yurungkash lift up their lofty peaks, and in the south the
Karakorum diverges farther and farther from our course.
Antelopes career over the plain in light flying leaps; they stand
motionless, watching us, but as soon as we come near dart off as though
on steel springs, and soon vanish in the distance.
A mountain spur in front of us seemed a suitable point to make for,
where water would surely be found. But hours passed and it seemed no
nearer. A dying horse detained me; he was relieved of his load, but he
was quite done for. I was very sorry for him, and regretted that he
could not come with us any farther. I stayed awhile to keep him company,
but the day was passing, and the two men who were with him were ordered
to cut his throat if he could not get on. My Ladakis thought it dreadful
to desert a horse as long as it lived; its death-struggle might last for
hours, and its last moments would be horrible if wolves got wind of it.
It was a tall, black Yarkand horse; in the evening its number was
entered in the list of the dead.
The caravan was moving in a black line to a ravine between the hills,
where a faint greenish tinge seemed to indicate grass. A short time
after, however, it came down again and marched out of sight; probably
there was no water there. Another fairly long space of time went by
before we distinguished on the plain westwards small black spots and
lines, whether wild asses or our own mules we could not determine. The
field-glass would not reach so far. At the foot of a mountain in the
west shone a silvery brook, but it was a long way off, and all distances
were so great that the atmospheric effect misled us, and what we took
for a caravan might be only a shadow on an erosion terrace.
But Robert's sharp eyes detected the smoke of a signal fire at the foot
of the mountain. The caravan had, then, reached it and set the camp in
order, and after a ride of an hour straight across the plain we joined
it. Here the height was 16,250 feet.
We were now in a country belonging to the unannexed region Aksai-chin,
in north-west Tibet. Or tell me to what Power this land belongs? Does
the Maharaja of Kashmir lay claim to it, or the Dalai-Lama, or is it a
part of Chinese Turkestan? No boundaries are marked on the map, and one
looks in vain for boundary stones. The wild asses, the yaks, and the
swift-footed antelopes are subject to no master, and the winds of heaven
do not trouble themselves about earthly boundary marks. From here,
therefore, I could move eastwards without acting in direct opposition to
the wishes of the English Government, and the Chinese would certainly
forgive me for not using their passport.
The distant mountains in the north, which had but now stood out in rosy
colours like rows of houses in a great city, now grew pale in the grey
twilight, and the grand contours were obliterated as another night
spread its dark wings over the earth. A flute sounded softly and sweetly
among the tents, and its tones lulled our weary wanderers to rest.
The following morning the camp looked unusually small, for the hired
horses and mules had remained behind on the plain, where their guides
had found water by digging. They were thus spared a considerable detour.
As a precaution we took a couple of goatskin vessels full of water, and
filled all the bottles and cans. Just before starting we saw our Ladakis
lying full length by the overflow of the spring thoroughly quenching
their thirst, and the horses were allowed as much water as they liked.
This day's route was excellent, firm and level; the great trunk road in
India could not be better, and hardly a highway in Sweden. Masses of
clouds appeared from the east round to the south-west; a storm was
probably raging in the Karakorum, but its outskirts never reached us.
Here the ground was dry, and the exceedingly fine dust stirred up by the
caravan hung like steam over the earth. The other columns, like
ourselves, made for a goal previously agreed upon, a mountain spur in
the north-east. As we approached it, we speculated whether we should see
beyond it Aksai-chin, the lake Crosby passed in 1903.
[Illustration: 61. A GULLY AT CAMP 8 (AKSAI-CHIN).]
North of the spur a large flat plain extends, and here the mirage was
marvellously perplexing. The mountains seemed to be reflected in a
perfectly calm lake, but the surface did not look like water--it was
bright, light and airy; it was as transitory as a play of colours in the
clouds, and seemed as though it had a foundation of transparent glass.
The mule caravan, now in front of us, was also the sport of the mirage:
we saw it double as if it also were passing beside a lake.
At last we reached the spur and rested there awhile. Robert climbed up
the side to look for the expected lake; as he came down the detritus
began to move, our horses were frightened and wildly stampeded towards
the east. Fortunately, they followed the track of the caravan, which was
in the act of pitching the camp. The grazing at camp No. 8 was the best
we had seen since Pobrang, and water was obtained by digging at a depth
of 22 inches. Kulans had supplied the fuel, for their dung was
plentiful. The place was so comfortable that we remained here the
following day, and made an excursion to an elevation of sandstone and
conglomerate almost in the form of an upturned dish, which stands on the
south of the plain and turns its sharply clipped margin to the north. On
the top Muhamed Isa erected a cairn--he had a mania for cairns. Little
did I dream then that I should see these landmarks again a year and a
half later (Illustration 61).
At dawn next day we made another advance into the forbidden land. The
air was not quite clear, and we saw it quivering over the ground; but
above it was clearer, for the crests of the mountains were more sharply
defined than their feet. We marched eastwards; on our right was
blood-red conglomerate, which lay upon green schists. On the left the
lake was now visible, its deep blue surface contrasting vividly with the
dull tones which prevailed elsewhere. The sight of a lake was
refreshing; it gave the crowning touch to the scene. The country was
open eastwards to the horizon; only in the far distance one snowy
mountain appeared in this direction, but probably our longitudinal
valley extended along the north or south side of this elevation. In
short, the land was as favourable as it was possible to be, and remained
so for several days; and I suspected that Lake Lighten, the Yeshil-kul,
and the Pul-tso, known from Wellby's, Deasy's, and Rawling's travels,
lay in this valley, which in every respect was characteristic of the
Tibetan highlands.
The ground was like a worm-eaten board; the holes of the field-mice lay
so close together that all attempts to avoid them were vain. Even on the
intervals between them one was not safe. Frequently the roof of a
subterranean passage, consisting of dry loose soil mixed with gravel,
broke in. Robert once made a somersault with his horse. These
troublesome rodents, which live on the roots of the _yapkak_ plants and
grass, are very irritating.
The caravan had camped close to the shore, beside splendid water, which
a brook poured down in great abundance into the salt lake. Late in the
evening we saw a fire burning in the far distance. Was it another
traveller, or had hunters wandered thus far? No, it was some of our own
people, who were watching the animals and had kindled a fire to keep
themselves warm. There were no men in this desolate country but
ourselves.
CHAPTER VIII
TO LAKE LIGHTEN
We left camp No. 9 (16,171 feet) with a feeling of satisfaction, for the
country, as far as the eye could reach, was quite level; its elevation
above the lake shore was so insignificant that it could not be detected
without instruments. The atmosphere was hazy; the pure blue of the lake,
a reflexion of the sky, had quite disappeared, and now the water looked
dull and grey. One of the hired horses was left behind at the camp; its
owner hoped to save it, but he was disappointed, and he also betrayed
the horse, for he took another way home and mercilessly abandoned the
poor animal to solitude and the wolves.
We rode a long distance on the old lake bottom and perfectly level
stretches of clayey mud. Afterwards the soil was of fine gravel, and as
hard as though it had been compressed by the weight of a steam-roller.
Only in an isolated drainage basin can such level expanses occur among
huge mountains. Weathering, precipitation, flowing water, storm and wind
work together in levelling the land. All heights and ridges are thereby
reduced, all hollows are filled up with mud, sand, and rubbish. Far in
the east the country is quite open. Here giants riding on Indian
elephants would have room enough to play a game of polo in grand style,
and the swift-footed Jambas dromedaries might run till they were tired,
for even the restless west wind finds no obstacle in its path. Antelopes
and kulans appeared in timid herds. Of human beings not a sign.
Yesterday some of the men saw three stones placed together to form a
hearth; perhaps they had to do with Crosby's expedition (1903), for he,
too, passed eastwards from the Aksai-chin lake to Lake Lighten.
In the north, on the left side of our route, we could descry three
stages or crests; nearest to us a row of small dark-green hills; farther
off a continuous chain without snow on it, and quite in the background a
main range with a number of snowy peaks. On the south our longitudinal
valley was bordered by mountains gradually increasing in height towards
the east. At camp No. 10 we found all we wanted, though the water was a
little salt. Good luck followed us, and we had reached, quite
fortuitously, a much more kindly country than we had ventured to expect.
Near the camp we crossed a stagnant creek and we passed several others
on September 12. It soon turned out that a large river-bed, containing,
however, little water, ran to the lake, and all day long we fell in with
indications of its proximity. The landscape was monotonous, and showed
little variety during the day's march. But the ground was all that could
be desired, and if it so continued, it would help us to make good
progress into the heart of the forbidden land. Grass now cropped up in
larger quantities than we had hitherto met with. It thrived best where
the soil was sandy. It grew in small tufts, green and succulent only in
the middle, for the rest was yellow and hard from the frosts at night.
The west wind, which swept all day over Tibet, rustled pleasantly
through the grass. Who would have looked for a true prairie up here in
North Tibet? The ground was of a deep straw-yellow, but the vault of
heaven above us was clear and blue in spite of the wind; it seemed to me
as though an immense flag of the colours of my native country enveloped
heaven and earth. North and south rose dark purple, greyish-yellow, red,
and white-capped mountains.
The land was so level that the caravan, though it was an hour's march
ahead, was visible as a short, narrow black line against the horizon,
not the slightest rise ever hiding it from sight. In consequence of the
mirage it seemed to hover a little above the surface, and the animals
looked like fantastic long-legged camels.
[Illustration: 62. THE HIRED LADAKIS AND THE PROVISION SACKS IN
NORTH-WEST CHANG-TANG.]
[Illustration: 63. NAMGYAL WITH A SACK OF YAK-DUNG.]
At a spot where the grass was unusually good the hired detachment had
made a halt; it had lost another horse, and wished to try and save two
other death candidates. The packs were strewed about the ground, the
animals were grazing eagerly, and the men sat at the fire with their
backs to the wind and smoked in turns from a common pipe.
Salt made the soil in some places white as chalk, in others a thin layer
of coarse quartz sand occurred with a tendency to form dunes. The
caravan had encamped, and small scattered black points showed us that
the animals were grazing. A couple of spots, which were far removed from
the others, were riders in search of water. It was not easy to pitch the
tents; all the men must hold on with all their strength, lest the canvas
should be blown away or torn into shreds, and at the same time coarse
sand blew into their faces. We were glad to get under cover at last, but
even then the wind roared and whistled through all the holes and chinks,
and the puppies were very uneasy. But such a westerly storm has one
advantage: it makes the march easier, pushing on behind. One needs only
to turn and try riding against the storm to learn the difference.
The 13th began badly, for nine horses had made off in the night, and
Muhamed Isa with some Ladakis had gone in search of them. Meanwhile we
waited in a regular snowstorm. Manuel was engaged in a very lively
dispute with Ganpat Sing; it was about a pair of stockings which the
latter had bought from our cook in Leh. But now Manuel found that he
could use them himself, and talked over Ganpat Sing to retract the
bargain. Manuel often amused Robert and myself with his broken English.
If it snowed, he said "The dew falls"; if it stormed, "There seems to be
a breeze in the air to-day"; and when we left the lake he asked when we
should come to the next "pond." He thought the Aksai-chin lake a
wretched puddle compared with the boundless ocean at Madras.
After five of the lost horses had been caught I started on the track of
the mules. The land rose as slowly as before, nothing was seen of the
mountains through the drifting snow; we might as well have been on the
plains of Mongolia or the Kirghiz steppe. The camp this day was pitched
by a source at the foot of the mountains on the northern side of the
valley, where there was good pasture. In the absence of a tent we were
housed in Sonam Tsering's round fortification of provision sacks, where
a fire burned in the middle and we were sheltered from the wind. Towards
evening Muhamed Isa sent word that another horse had been recovered, but
that it was impossible to look for the others in the driving snow, and
he asked for furs and provisions from the main camp. The man, however,
whose unenviable duty it was to return with these things to camp No. 11
through the darkness and snow, could not find the caravan-bashi and his
companions, who had therefore to spend the night in the open, exposed to
the frost and without food and drink. They were much exhausted when they
rejoined us next day with all the missing horses. I gave my night
watchmen a scolding, and insisted strongly that this must not occur
again, for the animals were tired by these wanderings and exposed to the
attacks of wolves, and the march was delayed. It was, however, really
wonderful that we had so far lost only a mule and two horses
(Illustration 64).
And now we went on eastwards, still in the same great longitudinal
valley. The river contained more water the higher we mounted, for below
the water was lost by evaporation and percolation into the ground.
The red conglomerate continued on our right, on the left were green
schists. In the midst of the sterile valley we passed a small round
oasis of grass, like a coral island in the ocean. The day's storm
brought us rain and muggy weather; about mid-day it poured down and the
thermometer marked 39°. All was uncomfortably wet and dirty when we
formed our camp, and the damp fuel would not catch fire. Then it began
to snow, and late in the evening the country was again clothed in wintry
white. We had hoped in vain to reach the saddle whence Lake Lighten
might be seen. According to Wellby's map it might be still a couple of
days' march off, but under favourable circumstances it must be visible
from a long distance.
[Illustration: 64. SHELTER OF PROVISION SACKS.]
[Illustration: 65. CAMP IN A NARROW VALLEY (CAMP 41).]
[Illustration: 66. ROBERT, MUHAMED ISA, AND TWO SERVANTS BY A FIRE.]
Icy east wind blew next day. It was cold and raw as it passed over
the snowfields, and the vile weather was not only uncomfortable
physically, but it had a depressing effect on the spirits, so that we
sat listlessly in the saddle, were sleepy and indifferent, and longed
for the brazier in the evening. The antelopes were bolder than usual; at
this season they are fat and strong. We rode past a horse which had
fallen and died on the track; nothing could have been done for him. He
lay with wide-opened eyes as though looking for a land in the east, and
he was still quite warm. The pack-saddle had proved useful, for Muhamed
Isa had thoughtfully had all the saddles stuffed with hay for future
use. So the animals could little by little consume their own
pack-saddles. In camp two sheep were slaughtered, for they showed signs
that they would not hold out much longer.
In the morning a dying horse lay among the tents. A wolf crouched in a
side valley, watching our departure and looking forward to a grand meal;
but he would not have the pleasure of killing the horse, for we put an
end to its life with a knife. We had now entered on a critical period,
for scarcely a day passed without our losing one or more of our animals.
We still mounted slowly eastwards, and, trusting to Wellby's map, I had
promised my people that they should this day get sight of a lake. We
ascended a rise in the ground, but from the summit only another was
visible, which quite blocked up the view, and when we had surmounted
this there was a third in front of us. Now, however, our expectations
were no longer to be disappointed. Part of the blue lake appeared in the
east-south-east, encased in hills. On its southern shore, where Wellby
had travelled in 1896, rose singular irregular points and groups, the
continuation of the red snowy range which we had seen for several days
past, and now, in fine weather, stood out in all its wild beauty. We had
mounted for six days towards the expected pass, and found it just above
the lake. Its height was 17,300 feet.
Now the horses were so exhausted that we must find good pasture at any
cost, and let the animals rest a few days. Camp No. 15 was pitched on
the strand, and afforded a view over all the lake. To the south rose
the singular range in shades of yellowish-red and scarlet, pink, and
light brown, and fantastic precipitous rocks stood out between soft
snowfields of a glistening bluish tinge.
Camp No. 15 was to be a notable station in our bold raid into the
forbidden land (Illustration 57). We had scarcely got things in order
when the last eight of the hired Tankse men, attended by Muhamed Isa,
appeared before my tent, fell on their knees after the Ladak custom,
touched the ground with their foreheads, and then sat motionless as
images while their leader and foreman spoke as follows:
"Sahib, we have nineteen horses left; eight of them are still strong,
but the rest will not last much longer. Oh, Sahib, let us return home
before winter comes and our animals perish."
"It was agreed that you should accompany us as far as the Yeshil-kul; do
you mean to break your word?"
"Sahib, we know that we are in your hands, and are dependent on your
favour; our provisions will not last more than ten days; if we go as far
as Yeshil-kul we shall all die on the return journey. Oh, Sahib, have
pity on us, and let us go home."
"Very well. If I let you go, which road will you take?"
"Sahib, we will travel over the mountains here in the south, and pass by
Arport-tso to the Lanak-la, which one can reach in ten days."
"Can you find your way, and are you sure that your supplies will last
out?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then make ready to start." Turning to Muhamed Isa I continued: "Manuel
and the two Rajputs cannot bear this climate, and it is best to let them
go also before the cold winter comes."
Muhamed Isa was a diplomatist, and tried to conceal his satisfaction as
he answered: "Yes, if we take them with us farther into the country in
winter they will freeze to death. Already they crawl together like
marmots to the fire, and yet their teeth chatter and they tremble from
cold in their furs."
"We can easily do without them."
"Hitherto they have done no more work than the puppies, or, rather,
less, for they are either too lazy or too grand to collect fuel for
their own fire; two of our Ladakis have to attend on them and their
horses. It would be a great gain if we were quit of them."
"Let them go, and then we shall have the use of their horses, for I can
hire some of the Tankse horses to be at their disposal on the journey to
Ladak."
"Yes, sir, they have three saddle-horses, besides two others for their
baggage. We are now losing the Tankse horses, some of which, indeed,
have only carried fuel, but, by their departure, the baggage to be
carried by our own horses will be increased by fifteen other packages.
Therefore the black men's horses are a very necessary reinforcement."
Next day the plates and rock specimens, to be forwarded to Srinagar,
were packed up, and I wrote letters home and to friends in India. I
begged Colonel Dunlop Smith to send after me, in October, to the
neighbourhood of Dangra-yum-tso, with the permission of the Viceroy, all
letters that had come for me up to that time. They must be sent through
Gyangtse and Shigatse, and the Tashi Lama, who had recently been so well
received in India, would certainly be very pleased to see that the
post-bag was transmitted to me. I thought that, even if I were forbidden
to travel further in the interior of Tibet, my letters would not be held
back--at the worst I could make the forwarding of the mail a condition
of the acceptance of the demands of the Tibetans. I accordingly
requested that a post-runner should receive orders to reach
Dangra-yum-tso at the end of November, there to await my arrival.
On the morning of September 17 three of our own horses lay dead among
the tents. The following night the great spotted Yarkand horse, which
had carried our boat, died (Illustration 67). When the sun rose on the
19th two more victims had followed the others, and lay, with neck and
legs outstretched, frozen hard after a night frost of a degree below
zero. I summoned Muhamed Isa.
"How many more animals have we?"
"We have 83: 48 horses and 35 mules; 10 horses and a mule have died."
"It will be bad if this dying goes on at the same rate as in the last
three days."
"I do not think it will, Sahib; the weakest have succumbed, the
strongest remain."
"But six horses are gone, and that means six more loads for the
survivors, besides the fifteen of the Tankse horses."
"The six fallen horses have carried nothing during the last few days."
"But at any rate the loads will now be heavier."
"Since we have been camping here I have given the animals double
measures of maize and barley, partly to strengthen them, partly to
lighten the loads. On the first days, when we start from here, we must
make short marches, and rather let the horses eat their fill than throw
away a single sack of barley."
"Good. We have 510 English miles before us to the Dangra-yum-tso, and
that makes 51 days' marches at the rate of 10 miles a day. If 15 days of
rest be added, we should arrive at the lake on November 25, that is, in
two months and six days. The mules seem hardier than the horses; we must
try to keep a stock of strong mules; later on we shall contrive
something when we have met the first nomads."
"Oh, yes, if it comes to the worst the Ladakis can carry what is
absolutely necessary, and we can all go on foot."
"Yes, Muhamed, remember that I shall certainly not turn back unless I am
compelled by superior force."
"No, I know that; all will be well."
[Illustration: 67. THE LARGE PIEBALD YARKAND HORSE.]
[Illustration: 68, 69. THE SLAIN YAKS: TUNDUP SONAM, THE HUNTER, ON THE
LEFT IN 68.]
Four horse-loads of maize and barley were consumed in this camp; and
henceforth a horse-load would be used daily, not including the men's
rations. But probably we should also lose a horse a day, often, perhaps,
two or more. Still, there always remained a chance of finding better
pasturage, where the horses might recover their strength, when we turned
off to the south-east. We had at present no ground for complaint. The
hired horses had done us very great service. We were able to leave the
western shore of Lake Lighten with 83 laden animals. Two horses were
required for our boat and all its appurtenances, but I intended to
spare them a couple of days, and let the boat be taken over the lake.
So far we had succeeded in keeping our stages well in advance, and that
was good. Wellby, Deasy, Rawling, and Zugmayer, who were all in this
region, and brought back such excellent, meritorious results, had here
and at Yeshil-kul caravans in a far less efficient condition than mine.
Leh and Tankse were my starting-points. But the last connections with
them were severed at Lake Lighten, and here commenced a bold march
towards an unknown destiny.
CHAPTER IX
ON THE LAKE IN A STORM
On September 19 we took leave of the Hindus and the natives of Tankse. I
was sorry for the former; it was not their fault that they could not
bear the climate, and they had had no opportunity of showing what they
were worth. On the last evening Bikom Sing had sung his swan-song in our
party, the same monotonous, melancholy Sanskrit hymn which had so
frequently reminded himself and his fellow-countrymen of a warm country
with pleasant huts in the shade of palms and mango trees, of laden
ox-carts on dusty roads, and of the warning growl of the royal tiger in
the jungle by the river bank, when the full moon shines from heaven on
mild spring nights. I thanked them for their good, faithful, and honest
services, paid them well, provided for their return journey, and handed
them good testimonials. They received supplies of meal, sugar, tea, and
rice, and a sheep for butcher's meat. Manuel was allowed to take with
him one of the puppies which he was fond of. Muhamed Isa had sewed
together a tent of empty corn sacks, to protect them from the frosts at
night.
They intended to travel on the first day only to the foot of the red
mountain chain, and the day was already far advanced when they shook
hands and mounted their horses. We remained standing awhile, watching
the little party grow smaller under the sun in the south-west, and soon
disappearing behind the nearest hills.
I have never heard anything more of them. Eighteen months later Manuel's
father wrote to inquire where his son was, but I did not know. So much I
ascertained, that he had arrived safely at Leh, but I could not track
him any farther. However, I hope that he will turn up all right at home
after his wanderings. We missed them sorely, but we consoled ourselves
with the boat, which was unpacked and put together on the bank.
A bright clear day after 30 degrees of frost. The rivulet at our camp
was frozen into a shiny riband, meandering to the strand, and along the
bank a belt of ice two yards broad flapped up and down under the beat of
the ripples. The water of the lake may be drunk in case of necessity;
probably its affluents reduce the salinity along our shore, where the
river descending from the pass and numerous springs pour into it. The
sand on the bottom of the lake is finely and sharply rippled by the
oscillating movement of the waves, and the water is crystal clear.
Now our horses, which had lost another comrade in camp No. 15, were
laden with heavy packs. The caravan had orders to skirt the northern
shore of the lake, and to encamp at some suitable spot near it. Robert
was to draw a rough sketch of the shore-line; Tsering, Muhamed Isa's
brother, accompanied me at his own request. And so we left at the same
time this dreary place, where we had parted with our companions and had
lost seven horses. Amid the silence of the desert it lay rocked to
sleep, as it were, by the murmur of the waves against the shore--a
burial-ground forgotten by gods and men.
Tsering soon got used to the oars, and afterwards the west wind came to
our assistance. We made across to the north-western corner of the lake,
and had a much less distance to cover than the caravan, which had to
make a wide detour. The sail was only a trial trip, but I was delighted
from the first moment with the English boat, which was solid and
comfortable, and easy to steer. The greatest depth we measured was 159
feet. After rounding a promontory we caught sight of the bluish-grey
smoke of our camp a little distance from the shore, drew the boat on to
the beach, and rejoined our people.
The camp was arranged as follows: Muhamed Isa, Tsering, two other men,
and the kitchen were accommodated in a large tent, quadrangular below
and pyramidal above. The principal Ladakis lived in the Tibetan tent,
while the rest found shelter within the ramparts of the provision sacks.
Robert had Manuel's tent to himself, and he had piled up so many boxes
of all kinds round his bed that it looked like a Parsee tomb. Outside,
on the right wing, stood my tent, a little apart from the others. The
black Pobrang dog was missing; probably he was enjoying a feast on the
seven dead horses; and so it was in fact: when Muhamed Isa sent a man
back to camp 15 there was the dog fat and bloated, like a tightly
stuffed bag, and so lazy and stupid that he could hardly move. He had
thoroughly overeaten himself, and would not look at his food for a whole
day after.
September 21 was a memorable day in our chronicles. The boat lay on the
shore ready to sail, and I resolved to spare the horses its weight once
more. Eastwards the lake seemed quite small, and it could not be far to
its eastern bank, near which the caravan could encamp wherever there was
passable grazing. If it became too dark before they heard anything of
me, they could light a beacon fire on the shore. But, of course, we
should turn up in good time. We looked upon the trip as a mere trifle,
and did not think of providing ourselves with food, drinking-water,
fuel, and warm clothing for the night. I was dressed as usual, wore my
leathern vest, and took my ulster with me, and a fur coat was spread
over the back bench only to make a soft seat.
[Illustration: 70. REHIM ALI, ONE OF MY LADAKIS ON THE FIRST CROSSING OF
TIBET.]
Yes, we were too thoughtless on this occasion. In the forenoon I
inspected the animals, as usual, and then gave Rehim Ali a lesson in
rowing, for he was to come with me this time, and he did so well that he
was solemnly appointed _Kemibashi_, or admiral of the fleet. Just at
starting I decided to row across the lake, to sound its depth and
ascertain its breadth. The distances, or, more correctly, the course, I
measured with a log by Lyth of Stockholm, and the depths were to be
sounded every quarter of an hour. We should certainly reach the
rendezvous before dark. At eleven o'clock the temperature of the water
was 43° F., and it rose afterwards a few degrees higher. The day was
bright and quite calm; at one o'clock we noted 53° F. I took the dark
opening of a bank terrace as the point to steer for. We could do without
drinking-water, for the hydrometer marked 1000 in the lake; it therefore
floated as low as in fresh water (Illustration 70).
The lagoons on our shore were covered with ice fully half an inch thick.
Six wild yaks were seen at the foot of the mountain to the north. The
lake lay deceptively quiet and smooth; only a slow gentle swell, the
last reminder of the effect of the expiring night wind, could be felt.
Not a wisp of cloud, not the slightest breeze--weather all the more
enjoyable after the storms of the past days. The lake shone against the
light turquoise-blue vault of heaven, when we looked southwards, with as
bright a green as the tender foliage of birches in the spring.
For a few minutes we heard the bells of the mules as they tramped off,
but the black line of the caravan soon vanished in the hilly lands along
the shore. Rehim Ali rowed like a practised boatman. At the second
sounding-station the depth was 115 feet, and at the third 161. When my
oarsman shipped his oars the next time the sounding-line, 213 feet long,
did not reach the bottom; unfortunately we had no reserve lines, for I
had never found before such great depths in a Tibetan lake.
"This lake has no bottom at all," groaned Rehim Ali.
"Of course it has a bottom, but we have no more line."
"Does not the Sahib think it dangerous to go further when the lake is
bottomless?"
"There is no danger on that account; we can row to the shore, which is
not far, and then we have only a short distance to the camp."
"Inshallah, but it may be farther than it looks. Bismillah," he cried,
and he set to work again.
About two o'clock the lake was as smooth as a sheet of glass, and showed
curious confused reflexions of the mountains. We became quite dizzy in
the head; the lake had now assumed the same colour as the sky, and we
might have been soaring in a space of bright blue ether within a magical
spherical planet. Behind us, to the north, the panorama of a mighty
crest unrolled itself, with flattish lofty domes covered with eternal
snow. The sun was scorching hot, Rehim Ali wiped his brow, the smoke of
my cigarette hung motionless in the air, there was not a ripple except
those produced by the boat and the oars--it was a pity to spoil the
surface. All was quiet and peaceful as a day in late summer which had
lingered among the mountains.
"God protect us from the darkness," said Rehim Ali; "it is dangerous to
be on the water after the sun has set."
"Do not be afraid."
Now the sounding-line touched the bottom at 95 feet, and next time at 34
feet. A quarter of an hour later we jumped ashore.
I drew a panorama of the northern mountains, while Rehim Ali munched a
piece of bread which he had providently brought with him.
It was a quarter to four when we put off again. In two hours it would be
dark, but then we should see the camp-fire on the shore. The east end of
the lake seemed quite close, but we were easily deceived by the mirage.
We rowed for a while east-north-eastwards along the shore. It would be
extraordinary if the west wind did not get up on this day. I asked Rehim
Ali repeatedly, for he had the western horizon in front of him, if the
view was clear in that direction, or if the westerly storm was making
its appearance.
"No, there is no storm," he answered quietly.
"Yes, now it is coming," he said, after a short interval; "and it will
be a bad one."
I turn round and see in the west, above the pass we had crossed some
days before, high, light-yellow vortices of sand and dust, which soon
tower up to 30° above the horizon; they rise rapidly, condense into a
dark cloud, and hide the view of the western heights. Yes, that is a
westerly storm coming on.
[Illustration: 71. STARTING ON A VOYAGE.]
But the danger to us is not great; we can land wherever we like; we have
matches to light a fire, and sufficient _yapkak_ can be found, so we
shall not freeze even with 29 degrees of frost; and we can do without
food for once.
But we will not land; perhaps the camp is close to. "Row on, Rehim
Ali--no, wait a moment, set up the mast and loose the sail before the
storm breaks, and then we shall get help for a part of the way. If the
storm becomes too violent we will go ashore."
It is still deadly quiet. But now comes the first forerunner--a ripple
skims over the surface, the wind catches the sail, puffs it out like a
ball, smoothing out all its folds, the boat darts forwards, and a
whirling, boiling track is formed in our wake. We keep to the southern
shore; there lie a series of lagoons and spits of sand and pebbles. A
pair of black geese sit on one of these spits; they gaze in astonishment
as we pass; they perhaps take us for a huge water-bird which cannot fly,
because it has only one wing. The lake is getting rougher; we fly
towards a spit to the north-east; oh, heavens! the water is only 3 feet
deep under our keel. If we run aground the boat will be dashed to
pieces; its oiled sailcloth is as taut as a drum-skin. I put the helm
over as far as possible, and graze the spit amidst the raging surf; the
manoeuvre succeeds, and the next minute we are in deep open water where
the waves are more moderate.
Now a spit shows itself to the east-north-east projecting far into the
lake, but it is a long distance off, and we are out on the agitated
lake, where the white horses are getting higher and higher and their
roar becomes louder and louder; the whole lake is in the wildest
commotion; if we can only reach that landspit safe and sound we can get
under its lee and land safely. Yes, we must land by hook or crook, for
the storm is upon us; it becomes more violent every moment and the mast
cracks; I dare not sail any longer with the sheet made fast. We have a
grand sailing wind, the water roars and rages under the stem and boils
and bubbles behind us. We have to look out, for if the mast breaks,
which already bends like a whip, the boat will tip over, will fill in a
moment, and will be sunk by the weight of the centre-board, which is not
in use but is carried as cargo. We have two life-buoys as a last
resource.
Rehim Ali sits in the bow. He clings to the mast, keeps a look-out
forwards, and reports that the lake beyond the landspit is as extensive
as in the west. We have been the victims of an illusion, and cannot
reach the eastern shore before complete darkness overtakes us. Would it
not be better to land and wait for the day? Yes, let us land and get
into the lee of the landspit. The sun sinks, the storm grows in
strength, we can hear it howling through the chasms to the south; fine
spindrift flies like a comet's tail over the crests of the waves; it is
a most critical and trying moment. The dust clouds have disappeared, and
the western horizon is dimly perceptible. The sun sinks to its rest, a
ball of liquid gold, and a weird, mysterious gleam spreads over the
whole country. Everything is coloured red except the dark-blue
white-edged lake. The night rises out of the east, dark purple shades
lengthen out behind the mountains, but the most easterly pinnacles and
the summit T, rising above all the others with its glittering
snowfields, stands out fiery red against the dark background, like
volcanic cones of glass lighted within by glowing streams of lava; a
couple of riven clouds rush eastwards, their crimson colour vying in
beauty with the snowfields and glaciers below them. All shades of
rose-colour play on the sail, and a purple foam quivers on the crests of
the waves as though we were being driven over a sea of blood.
The sun sinks; now the sail and spray turn white, and soon only the last
tint of the evening red lights up the highest snowfields. The night
spreads further westwards, and the last glow, the final glimmer of day,
dies out on the summits in the south-east.
Rehim Ali crouches at the bottom of the boat while we shoot towards the
landspit, tossing, rolling, and pitching. All outlines are still sharp
and clear. I steer the boat out of the surf round the landspit, but then
pause a moment; it would be easy to get into lee-water; but no, all is
well now--the moon shines brightly, and before it goes down we may
perhaps reach another point.
[Illustration: 72. IN PERIL ON LAKE LIGHTEN.]
Through driving spume and hissing foam we fly past the point, and in a
second it is too late to get under its lee, however much we might wish
to do so, for the roar of the surge dies away behind us, and open water
again yawns before us black as night, bounded in the distance by a
scarcely perceptible strip of land, another spit of the gravel so
abundant on the southern shore.
So we speed over the disturbed lake. We start with a fright, for we hear
the huge waves rolling over behind us. The dull droning comes nearer,
and I turn round--we must inevitably be buried under the heavy, rolling
crests. A faint gleam of the dying day still lingers in the west. The
spray, driven by the storm, gives us a cool bath. Then the waves reach
us, but they lift up the boat gently, and then roll on towards the
eastern shore, which Rehim Ali does not expect to reach.
Now the sail is white in the moonshine, and my shadow passes up and down
it with the movement of the boat. Rehim Ali is almost dead of fright; he
has rolled himself up like a hedgehog on the bottom of the boat and
buried his face in my ulster, so as not to see the agitated water. He
says not a word, he is quite resigned and is awaiting his last moments.
The distance to the eastern shore cannot be estimated, and it is
certainly impossible to effect a landing there without shipwreck. If
there are cliffs and reefs on the shore we shall be mangled and crushed
amid the breakers, and if the strand slopes down gently we shall
capsize, and be thrown ashore by the great rolling billows like a piece
of cork (Illustration 72).
In the midst of the dark, indistinct chaos the surf at the point of the
landspit flashes out; it is more furious than at the other point, for
the waves have become larger as we have left a wider expanse of lake
behind us. I try to get into the lee, but the storm drives us out again,
and we are away from the land before we are aware. It now becomes
colder, but I do not feel it, the excitement is too great, and our lives
are at stake. I look in vain for the beacon of my servants; have they
not obeyed my orders, or are they so far from the shore that the fire is
invisible? I succeed in removing the back bench and sit on the bottom,
where I am somewhat protected from the cutting wind. Behind us, the
broken streak of moonlight on the water makes the waves look more weird
than before; they have become gigantic, and the nearest hides all behind
it.
The hours pass one after another; the moon sets. Now all is pitch
darkness; only the stars flicker like torches over our heads, otherwise
the deepest blackness surrounds us. My right hand is gone to sleep,
cramped with grasping the rudder; the boat seems to dart eastwards, but
the waves roll past us--they are still quicker than we. Now and then I
ask Rehim Ali whether his cat's eyes can see the breakers on the eastern
shore. He casts a hurried glance over the gunwale, answers that they are
still very far off, and buries his face again in the ulster. The tension
becomes more acute; whatever happens we are certainly approaching the
moment when the boat will be cast helpless on the strand. I hope that
the lake is so broad that we may continue our wild career till daybreak.
But no, that is incredible, for there are no lakes so large in Tibet. We
have the whole night before us, and in this flying course we can cover
immense distances.
There is something uncanny and awe-inspiring in such a sail, when the
crests are visible in the darkness only when they lift the boat, to roll
onward the next moment. We hear nothing but their swish, the howling of
the wind, and the hissing of the foam under the stem.
"Look out, Rehim Ali," I call out; "when you feel that the boat has
grounded, jump out and pull it with all your strength to the beach." But
he makes no reply; he is quite paralyzed with fear. I pack up my
drawings and sketch-books in a small bag.
But what is that? I hear a thundering roar that drowns the growling of
the storm, and in the pitch-black darkness I see something like a bright
streak close to us. That must be the surf on the shore. "Loose the
sail!" I cry, so loudly that my throat nearly cracks, but Rehim Ali is
helpless and does not move an inch. I undo the rope and let the sail
flap and beat just as the boat grinds against the bottom and suddenly
sticks fast.
"Jump into the water and draw the boat up," I shout, but he does not
obey; I poke him in the back, but he takes no notice. Then I seize him
by the collar and throw him overboard just as the next roller dashes up
the beach, fills the boat, turns it over, and soaks me to the skin. Now
I may as well jump out myself, but Rehim Ali at last realizes the
situation and helps me to draw the boat beyond the reach of the waves
(Illustration 73). The fur coat and ulster are as wet as myself, and
only after a long search do we recover all the things that have been
scattered in our shipwreck.
We were half-dead with weariness and excitement; one almost loses one's
breath altogether with such exertions in this rare atmosphere. We
mounted a sandy hillock and sat down, but the cutting icy wind drove us
away. Could the boat provide us with shelter? We must draw out the bolts
which held the two halves together, and at last we succeeded with the
help of the centre-board. Uniting our forces we heaved up one half of
the boat, propped it up with a plank, and crept under its shelter. We
were quite numbed; no wonder, for the water froze in our clothes so that
they crackled when touched. The water on the bottom of the boat turned
to ice; my fur coat was as hard as a board, and was absolutely useless.
Hands and feet were stiff and had lost all feeling; we must get up again
or we should be quite frozen. There was only one thing to do. In the
shelter of the boat I took off my Kashmir boots and my stockings, and
Rehim Ali shampooed my feet, but I felt no life in them till he had
opened his _chapkan_ and warmed them for a long time against his naked
body.
There was no sign of life anywhere about. Amid the roaring of the surf
we had to shout to make ourselves heard. How were we to pass the night
with 29 degrees of frost, and wet clothes already stiffened into
cuirasses of ice? Could we keep alive till the sun rose? Rehim Ali
disappears into the darkness to search for fuel, but he comes back
empty-handed. To my joy I discover that my cigarette-case and matches
are still available; I had stood in the water only up to my breast, even
when the last breaker had done its best to wet me through. So I light a
cigarette and give one to Rehim Ali to cheer him up.
"Is there nothing here, then, that we can burn? Yes, wait, we have the
wooden roller of the sounding-line and the frame in which it is fixed.
Fetch them at once."
We ruthlessly break up this masterpiece of Muhamed Isa's skill in
carpentry, and hack in pieces the frame with our knives; we lay aside
the wet shavings, and use the dry, inner sticks as firewood. They make a
very tiny heap. Only a couple are sacrificed at once, and I get them to
burn with some blank leaves from my note-book. Our fire is small and
insignificant, but it warms us famously, and our hands thaw again. We
sit close over the fire, and keep it up with the greatest economy,
putting on one splinter at a time. I take off my clothes to wring them
as dry as I can; Rehim Ali dries my ulster, on which I depend for the
night; the fur coat is left to its fate. How long is it to the dawn? Ah,
several hours yet. The roller and the handle are still in reserve, but
this small stock of wood cannot last long, and I look forward with
trepidation to the moment when the cold will compel us to sacrifice the
mast and the benches. The time passes so slowly; we say little to one
another, we long for the sun. As soon as our clothing is a little dry we
can boil water in the baler, so as to get something warm into our
bodies.
[Illustration: 73. THE AUTHOR AND REHIM ALI PULL THE BOAT OUT OF THE
WAVES UP ON TO THE SHORE.]
However, we had good reason to rejoice that we had got off so well. I
shall never forget Lake Lighten, Wellby's and Deasy's lake. It had kept
us company for several days, we had lost seven horses on its banks, and
our friends had left us with the last letters. We had seen this lake
strikingly beautiful in bright light hues, but also pitchy black, like a
tomb, in the arms of night; it had lain smooth and shining in the
burning sunshine, but it had also shown us its teeth, white shining
teeth of foam and spindrift. Not long ago we were almost roasted in the
heat of the sun on its unknown depths of crystal-clear, vernal-green
water; now we were on its bank nearly frozen in the bitter, wintry cold;
then it lay so still that we hardly ventured to speak lest we should
disturb its peaceful repose; now it raved in unbridled fury. Its shores
had yielded us grass, spring-water, and fuel, but to the voyagers in the
night it had seemed almost boundless: the eastern bank had retired
before us all day long; we had seen the sun rise, sink and set in a sea
of purple and flames, and even the moon accomplish its short journey
before we reached our goal where the surf thundered and folded us in
a wet and cold embrace. We had made a notable voyage in the small boat,
full of variety and excitement; thrice our lives had hung by a hair as
we almost ran aground on the landspits, for had we capsized there we
could hardly have reached land before our hands were paralyzed on the
life-buoys in the icy-cold water. Wonderful lake! Only yaks, wild asses,
and antelopes find freedom on thy shores; only glaciers, firn-fields,
and the everlasting stars are reflected on thy surface; and thy silence
is only interrupted by the music of thine own waves and the victorious
war-song that the western tempest plays on thy strings of emerald-green
water.
At any rate we were still alive and on land without any broken limbs. We
longed for the grey of dawn, and kept a tight hand on the fire, feeding
it only now and then with a fresh chip to prevent its going out
altogether. Sleep was out of the question, for we should be frozen.
Sometimes we nodded a moment while we sat cowering over the flickering
flames, and Rehim Ali occasionally hummed an air to make the time pass.
I am just thinking how I should enjoy a cup of hot tea, when Rehim Ali
gives a start, and cries out:
"A fire in the distance."
"Where?" I ask, somewhat incredulous.
"Yonder, northwards, on the shore," he replies, pointing to a feebly
luminous point.
"That is a star," I say, after searching through the darkness with a
field-glass.
"No, it is on this side of the mountains."
"Why, then, have we not seen the fire before? They would not light a
beacon fire in the middle of the night."
"It is not a fire, it is a lantern; I see it moving about."
"Yes, indeed, it is a light which changes its position."
"Now it is gone."
"And it does not appear again; perhaps it was only an optical illusion."
"No, there it is again."
"And now it is gone again."
And it remained so long invisible that we lost hope, and cowered over
the embers of the last chips of the roller.
"Does not the Sahib hear something?"
"Yes, it sounds like the tramp of horses."
"Yes, and like men's voices."
The next moment the shadowy outlines of five large horses and three men
appear against the sky. The riders dismount and approach us with joyful,
friendly greeting. They are Muhamed Isa, Rabsang, and Adul. They sit
down by us and inform us that camp No. 18 lies an hour's journey to the
north, a little distance from the shore. As soon as the camp was pitched
they had sent out men to look out for us, but had given up the search,
as these men had found no signs of us and had seen no fire. Late at
night, however, Robert, feeling uneasy because of the storm, had climbed
a hill, and had seen our small fire. He at once sent the three men after
us. They said that they had kept up a large beacon fire all the evening,
but apparently the inequalities of the ground had concealed it;
certainly we could not see it from the lake.
I borrowed two sashes from the men to wind round my feet. Then we
mounted, and with the lantern in front the little cavalcade moved off
northwards to the camp, while the billows continued their ceaseless race
towards the shore.
[Illustration: 74. CAMP AT THE YESHIL-KUL.]
[Illustration: 75. THE PUL-TSO, LOOKING EAST.]
[Illustration: 76. HORSES AND MULES IN OPEN COUNTRY.]
CHAPTER X
DEATH IN THE JAWS OF WOLVES--OR SHIPWRECK
When we marched on September 22 over the old terraces of the lake and up
to the threshold of the pass separating its basin from that of
Yeshil-kul, the view of Lake Lighten opened up more the higher we rose,
and at length the whole of the great blue lake in all its beauty lay
before us at the foot of the snowy mountains. The pasturage was
excellent everywhere, and the Pantholops antelopes in their surprise and
perplexity often did not know in which direction to make their escape,
and prompted by curiosity came thoughtlessly to meet us. The pass has a
height of 17,392 feet. We had proceeded only a few paces on the other
side when a complete change of scenery presented itself, as though a
leaf of a large book had been turned over. The forms which had hitherto
riveted our attention vanished forever, and new mountains lay before us,
a new basin, and a new turquoise-blue lake--the Yeshil-kul. To the south
and south-west of the lake extend great flats of pure white salt;
concentric rings and isolated pools indicate that Yeshil-kul also is
contracting (Illustration 75).
During the following days we encamped in a country where the grazing was
good but the water slightly salt. On the wide, flat plains on the west
side of the lake stand long rows of cairns, heaps of earth or skulls,
piled up at a distance of two or three yards apart. They look like
boundary marks, but, in fact, have been erected by antelope hunters of
the Changpa tribe, Tibetan nomads, who are the "Northmen," or natives of
the northern plateau, Chang-tang, and who in this way drive the game
into their nooses laid in a hole. It should be explained that antelopes
have a decided objection to leaping over such lines, and will rather run
along them till they come to the end. But before they reach it one of
them has had the misfortune of putting his foot in a ditch with a noose
in it. Only a son of the wilderness, who passes his life in the open
like the wild animals, could devise such a mode of capture. My Ladakis
informed me that the Changpas no longer hunt here, for fear of the
people of Eastern Turkestan, who have often shown themselves hostile.
The 24th of September was another memorable day--my sails on Tibetan
lakes, curiously enough, almost always ended in adventures. Of my
Ladakis five had been in the service of Deasy and Rawling, and two of
them affirmed that a shiny spot east-south-east was the spring where
Captain Deasy had encamped for ten days in July 1896, and which he names
in his narrative "Fever Camp." Their indication agreed with Deasy's map;
so Muhamed Isa was ordered to lead the caravan thither, light a large
beacon fire on the nearest point of the shore as soon as darkness set
in, and keep two horses in readiness.
Our plan was to sail in an east-north-easterly direction for the
northern shore, and thence southwards again to the signal fire. Rehim
Ali was on this occasion assisted by Robert, who subsequently developed
into an excellent boatman. The lake was nearly quite calm; its water,
owing to its small depth, is greener, but quite as clear as that of its
western neighbour. It is so salt that everything that touches it, hands,
boat, oars, etc., glitters with crystals of salt. The shore and bottom
of the lake consist chiefly of clay cemented together by crystallized
salt into slabs and blocks as hard as stone, so that great care must be
exercised when the boat is pushed into the water, for these slabs have
edges and corners as sharp as knives. The lake is a salt basin of
approximately elliptical outline with very low banks; nowhere do
mountains descend to the strand. The three-foot line runs about 100
yards from the shore; but even 650 yards out the depth is only 15 feet.
We executed our first line of soundings across the lake in the most
delightful calm, and I steered the boat towards the point I had fixed
by observations. At one o'clock the temperature was 49° F. in the water,
and 50½° in the air. The depth increased very regularly, the maximum of
52.8 feet occurring not far from the northern shore. Robert was much
delighted with the sail, and begged that I would always take him with me
in future, which I the more readily granted that he was always cheerful
and lively, and that he gave me valuable help in all observations. A
little bay on the north shore served us as a landing-place. We surveyed
the neighbourhood, and then hurriedly ate our breakfast, consisting of
bread, marmalade, _pâté de foie_, and water. My companions had brought
sugar, a tea-pot and enamelled bowls, but left the tea behind; but this
forgetfulness only raised our spirits.
Then we put off again to make for the spring to the south-east. A row of
stone blocks and lumps of salt ran out from the landing-place
east-south-eastwards, and the water here was so shallow that we had to
propel our boat with great care. Just as we had passed the last rock, of
which I took a specimen, the west wind got up, the surface of the lake
became agitated, and a couple of minutes later white horses appeared on
the salt waves.
"Up with the sail and down with the lee-boards."
The lake before us is tinted with shades of reddish purple, a reflexion
from the clayey bottom; there it must be very shallow, but we shall soon
pass it.
"Do you see the small white swirls in the south-west? Those are the
forerunners of the storm, which stirs up the salt particles," I said.
"If the storm is bad, the boat will be broken on the sharp ledges of the
bottom before we can reach land," remarked Robert.
"That is not clouds of salt," said Rehim Ali; "that is the smoke of
fires."
"But Muhamed Isa should be camping at Sahib Deasy's source; that lies
towards the south-west."
"There is no smoke there," replied Robert, who had the field-glass;
"perhaps they have not been able to cross the salt flats on the south of
the lake."
"Then it is their beacon fires which we see; but we cannot cross over in
this boat in a storm."
"Master," suggested Robert, who always addressed me thus, "would it not
be more prudent to land again before the storm reaches its height? We
should be safe behind the stones, and we can gather a quantity of fuel
before sunset."
"Yes, that will perhaps be best; this lake is much more dangerous in a
storm than Lake Lighten. We have, indeed, no furs, but we shall manage.
Take in the sail and row behind the boulders. What are you gazing at?"
"Master, I see two large wolves, and we have no guns."
He was right; two light, almost white, Isegrims were pacing the shore.
They were so placed that they must be able to scent us in the boat; the
odour of fresh live meat tickled their noses. When we stopped they
stopped too, and when we began to move they went on close to the margin
of the water. "Sooner or later you must come on shore, and then it will
be our turn," perhaps they thought. Rehim Ali opined that they were
scouts of a whole troop, and said it was dangerous to expose ourselves
to an attack in the night. He had only a clasp-knife with him, and
Robert and I only pen-knives in our pockets; we had, therefore, little
chance of defending ourselves successfully. Robert, for his part,
preferred the lake in a storm to the wolves. I had so often slept out of
doors unarmed, that I no longer troubled myself about them. But in the
midst of our consultation we were suddenly compelled to think of
something else. The storm came whistling over the lake.
[Illustration: 77. DEATH IN THE JAWS OF WOLVES--OR SHIPWRECK.]
Fortunately, the sail was still standing and the centre-boards were
down; the wind caught the canvas, the water began to rush under the
stern, and we shot smoothly southwards with a side wind. Robert gave
vent to a sigh of relief. "Anything but wolves," he said. I made Robert
and Rehim Ali row to save time, and soon the two beasts were out of
sight. "They will certainly gallop round the lake, they know quite well
that we must land somewhere," said Robert. He was quite right, the
situation was exceedingly unpleasant; we had only a choice between
the storm and the wolves. We could not depend on our people; they were
evidently cut off from us by salt morasses, which it was dangerous to
venture into. We would therefore try to reach a suitable point on the
south shore before dark (Illustration 77).
The hours fled past, and the sun sank in glowing yellow behind the
mountains. For two hours we held on our course towards Deasy's camp, but
when the beacon fires became more distinct in the gathering twilight we
changed our direction and steered southwards to reach our people. The
distance, however, was hopelessly long, and just from that direction the
storm blew, and in the broken, freakish light of the moon the waves
looked as weird as playing dolphins. Sometimes I was able to take some
rapid soundings; they gave depths of 32 and 36 feet. Our fate was just
as uncertain as on the former occasion on Lake Lighten; we steered for
the shore, but did not know how far off it was. Rehim Ali judged from
the length of the path of moonlight on the water that it was a long
distance. Two more hours passed. I gave my orders to the oarsmen in
English and Turki. We had now the waves on our quarter, and if we did
not parry their rolling, foaming crests they would fill the boat and
sink it; so we had to sail straight against them.
The situation was not a little exciting, but good luck attended us. The
boat cut the waves cleanly, and we got only small splashes now and then.
The spray trickled down our necks, was pleasantly cool, and had a saline
taste. I again took soundings, and Robert read the line: 33 feet, then
25, and lastly 20.
"Now the southern shore cannot be very far," I said; but my companions
remained still and listened. "What is it?" I asked.
"A heavy storm from the west," answered Rehim Ali, letting his oar fall.
A regular humming noise was heard in the distance, which came nearer and
nearer. It was the storm, which swept over the lake with redoubled
violence and lashed up foam from the waves.
"We shall not reach the shore before it overtakes us. It will be here in
a minute. Master, we shall capsize if the waves become twice as high as
they are now."
The waves swelled with incredible rapidity, the curves in the streak of
moonlight became greater and greater, we rocked as in a huge hammock.
The sounding-line had just marked 20 feet. How long would it be before
the boat would ground on the hard, salt bottom, if it found itself in a
trough between two waves? The lee-boards beat against the sides, the
boat pitches and rolls, and any one who does not sit firmly and stiffen
himself with his feet must go overboard. A terrible wave, like an
all-devouring monster, comes down upon us, but the boat glides smoothly
over it, and the next moment we are down in a trough so deep that all
the horizon is concealed by the succeeding crest. We were not quick
enough in negotiating this new wave; it ran along the gunwale and gave
us a good foot-bath (Illustration 78).
"Master, it looks dangerous."
"Yes, it is not exactly pleasant, but keep quiet. We cannot land in such
a sea. We must turn and make for the open lake. About midnight the storm
may abate, and then we can land."
"If we can only keep on rowing so long."
"We will help ourselves with the sail."
"I am not tired yet."
To land on the southern shore would be certain shipwreck; we should all
be drenched to the skin, and that is dangerous on this night when we
cannot reckon on the slightest help from the caravan. We shall be frozen
before the dawn. To look for fuel before the sun sets is not to be
thought of, for the saline plains in the south are absolutely barren.
No, we will turn.
At the same moment we felt a violent blow, which made the boat tremble.
The larboard oar, which Rehim Ali worked, had struck against the ground
and started loose from the screw which fastened it to the gunwale. Rehim
Ali managed to catch hold of it just in time, while he shouted, "It is
only a stone's throw to the land."
"Why, how is this?--here the lake is quite smooth."
"A promontory juts out into the lake. Master, here we shall find
shelter."
"All right, then we are saved; row slowly till the boat takes ground."
That soon happened, the sail was furled, the mast unshipped. We took off
our boots and stockings, stepped into the water, and drew the boat on to
dry land. My feet were so numbed in the briny water, cooled down to 41°,
that I could not stand, and had to sit down and wrap my feet in my
ulster. We found a patch of lumps of salt, thoroughly moist, indeed,
though drier than elsewhere, and the best spot to be had; for water lay
all around us, and the bank was extremely low. How far it was to really
dry ground we could not ascertain; the moon threw a faintly shining
strip of light for a considerable distance farther towards the land.
While I endeavoured to restore life to my feet by friction, the others
carried our belongings to our wretched salt island. Then the boat was
taken to pieces, and the two halves were set up as shelters. At nine
o'clock we noted 31° on the thermometer, and at midnight 17½°; yet it
was warmer now than on the previous days, for the water of the lake
retains some of the heat of the summer air. Muhamed Isa had made a new
roller for the sounding-line, with frame and handle, out of an empty
box; it was of course immediately utilized as fuel.
The provision bags and the water-cans were brought out again, and we
drank one cup of hot sugar-and-water after another, and tried to imagine
it was tea. As long as the fire lasted we should not freeze--but then,
what a night! Towards ten o'clock the wind abated--now came the night
frost. We lay down on the life-buoys to avoid direct contact with the
briny soil; Robert had the fur coat, I the ulster, and Rehim Ali wrapped
himself in the sail. He slept huddled up together, with his forehead on
the ground, as is the Mohammedan custom, and he did really sleep. Robert
and I rolled ourselves together in a bunch, but of what use was it? One
cannot sleep just before freezing. My feet were, indeed, past feeling,
but this consolation was a sorry one. I stood up and stamped on the salt
patch, and tried to walk without moving, for the space was very
limited. I sang and whistled, I hummed a song, and imitated the howl of
the wolves to see if they would reply. But the silence was unbroken. I
told anecdotes to Robert, but he was not amused by them. I related
adventures I had had before with wolves and storms, but they had little
encouraging effect in our present position. We looked in vain for a
fire; there was nothing to be seen in any direction. The moon slowly
approached the horizon. The wind had sunk entirely. Little by little the
salt waves, splashing melodiously against the shore, also sank to
rest--an awful silence reigned around. We were too cold to think much of
the wolves. Twice we raised a wild scream, but the sound of our voices
died away suddenly without awaking the slightest echo; how could it
reach the camping-ground?
"Now it is midnight, Robert; in four hours it will be day."
"Master, I have never been so starved in my life. If I get back to India
alive, I shall never forget this dreadful night on Yeshil-kul and the
hungry wolves on the shore, though I live to a hundred."
"Oh, nonsense. You will think of it with longing, and be glad that you
were here."
"It is all very fine to look back on, but at present I should be
delighted to have my warm bed in the tent and a fire."
"Life in Tibet is too monotonous without adventures; one day's journey
is like another, and we want a little change occasionally to wake us up.
But we will take tea and firewood with us next time."
"Shall you have more of such lake voyages, Master?"
"Certainly, if there is an opportunity; but I fear that the winter cold
will soon make them impossible."
"Will it, then, be still colder than now?"
"Yes, this is nothing to what the cold will be in two months."
"What time is it, Master?"
"Two o'clock; we shall soon have been lying six hours on the morass."
[Illustration: 78. A DANGEROUS SITUATION ON THE YESHIL-KUL. IN
MOONSHINE.]
We nodded a little once more, but did not really sleep for a minute;
from time to time Robert told me how badly his feet were frozen. At
three o'clock he exclaimed, after a long silence: "Now I have no more
feeling in any of my toes."
"The sun will soon come." At a quarter past four begins a faint glimmer
of dawn. We are so chilled through that we can hardly stand up. But at
length we pull ourselves up and stamp on the ground. Then we cower again
over the cold ashes of our fire. We constantly look to the east and
watch the new day, which slowly peeps over the mountains as though it
would look about before it ventures out. At five o'clock the highest
peaks receive a purple tinge, and we cast a faint shadow on the bottom
of the boat, and then the sun rises, cold and bright-yellow, over the
crest to the east. Now the springs of life revive. Rehim Ali has
disappeared for an hour, and now we see him tramping through the swamp
with a large bundle of wood, and soon we have kindled a sparkling,
crackling fire. We undress to get rid of our wet and cold clothes, and
warm our bodies at the flames, and soon our limbs are supple again.
Then Muhamed Isa's tall figure appears on horseback in the distance. He
ties a cord to the foreleg of his horse and leaves it at the edge of the
swamp, while he proceeds on foot. When I was suffering most severely
from cold I had composed a sharp curtain-lecture for him as soon as we
met. But now when I caught sight of my excellent caravan leader I forgot
it all, for I had to admit the validity of his reasons for delay. The
caravan was long detained in dangerous, unstable ground, and the men had
to carry everything. We went together to Deasy's camp, which the caravan
reached also. When the sun attained its highest altitude at mid-day, it
found me still in the arms of Morpheus. I take it for granted that my
two companions also requited themselves for the loss of their night's
rest.
On the morning of September 26 two horses were nearing their end; they
could not get on their feet and had to be killed; one had died in the
previous camp, and one fell on the march. We had lost 15 horses out of
58, and only 1 mule out of 36; these figures are distinctly in favour of
the mules.
We now rode along the great longitudinal valley, where favourable ground
made our progress easy, and passed a salt basin, with a pool in the
middle surrounded by concentric rings of desiccation as regular as the
benches of an amphitheatre. Before us in the distance was seen the
caravan in two detachments, appearing like two small black spots in the
boundless open landscape. I was deeply impressed by my own
insignificance compared to the distances on the earth's surface, and
when I remembered that we travelled at most 13 miles a day, I was
overwhelmed at the thought of the length of way we must traverse before
we had crossed Tibet. Wolves were seen at the foot of a hill; perhaps
they were our acquaintances of yesterday. We had to leave them, much
against our will, an abundant banquet at the last camp, where six ravens
had swooped down on our fallen horses.
One of the uppermost "benches," which stood some 160 feet above the
surface of the pool, afforded a capital road. Round about the soil was
chalky white with salt. To the right of us was a low, brownish-purple
ridge. Soon, with my usual companions, Robert and Rehim Ali, I came up
with a worn-out horse. He did not look at all emaciated, but he had been
relieved from duty for several days in hopes of saving his life. His
guide came into camp in the evening, and reported that he had collapsed
on the road and expired. The country is somewhat hilly, but solid rock
seldom crops out, and then it is limestone and light-green clay-slate.
The camping-ground on this day, No. 22, had an interest of its own.
Captain H. H. P. Deasy, on his remarkable expedition through West Tibet
and Eastern Turkestan during the years 1896-1899, had great difficulties
to contend with, and lost so many animals that, in order to save the
expedition and its results, he had to leave behind a large part of his
baggage and provisions, in short, everything that could be spared at
all. In the year 1903 Captain Cecil Rawling made an equally meritorious
journey of exploration through the same parts of Tibet, and as he found
himself in a very critical situation through want of provisions, he
decided to search for Deasy's depôt, which, according to the map, must
be somewhere in the neighbourhood. Two of Rawling's men, Ram Sing and
Sonam Tsering, had also accompanied Deasy, and Sonam Tsering was able to
point out the place where the baggage and provisions had been buried.
Thanks to the stores of rice, meal, and barley, found there in the
wilderness, Rawling was able to save his horses, which would otherwise
have been lost, and a small bag of horse-shoes and nails came in very
usefully for their hoofs.
Sonam Tsering now accompanied me on my expedition. I had ordered him in
the morning to halt at Deasy's and Rawling's camp, and therefore he
marched on this day in the front with the mules. It was, of course, of
great importance for my route survey to visit a spot so accurately
fixed.
There was not the slightest difficulty in finding the spot, and when we
reached the camp, which lay on a small flat space between gently rounded
hills, Muhamed Isa had already digged out seven boxes. One of them
contained flour, which had gone quite bad in the long interval, and
probably was already spoiled when Rawling was here three years before.
Only one box was of Tibetan workmanship, for Rawling, as Sonam Tsering
informed me, had exchanged some of his worn-out Kashmir boxes for
Deasy's Turkestan chests, which were much better. But even Rawling's
boxes were better than the easily damaged wooden boxes from Leh, in
which we kept candles and tinned meats. We therefore appropriated some
of them and used our own as firewood. After all, Rawling had so
thoroughly ransacked the depôt that there was very little left for me;
but I was not in such urgent need of the goods. Some boxes of American
beef were very welcome to the dogs, but the men despised them as long as
we had fresh mutton. Cubical tins, which had contained Indian meal, lay
all about the place. One of the boxes held a quantity of empty
cartridge-cases; they had not been used, and Sonam Tsering believed that
the Changpas had been here a couple of years after Rawling, and had
picked out the powder; he pointed out to me one or two fireplaces, which
seemed much more recent. In another box we found a shipping almanac and
some map-sheets of Upper Burma--Deasy had planned to pass into that
country, but had been prevented by sickness and death in his caravan. A
packet of blotting-paper came in very handy, for Robert had started a
herbarium for me; and Muhamed Isa discovered some ropes in good
condition. Besides these things, we took only a couple of novels and
Bowers' description of his journey in Tibet in 1891, a welcome addition
to my very scanty library (Illustration 79).
We were now in a country which several travellers had visited before me.
Wellby and Malcolm, who discovered Lake Lighten, a lake already touched
by Crosby, I have already mentioned. Dutreuil de Rhins, Wellby and
Malcolm, Deasy, Rawling, and the Austrian naturalist, Zugmayer (1906),
had been at Yeshil-kul. I crossed the route of the last a couple of
months after his journey; he, like the Frenchman and the English
explorer, has written a valuable book on his observations. At the time I
knew nothing of his journey, but now I find that I crossed his route
only at one point. Wellby's and Dutreuil de Rhins' paths I crossed only
once, but Deasy's at two points. In the following days it was harder to
avoid the districts where Wellby and Rawling had been, and where the
latter especially, with the help of native surveyors, had compiled such
an accurate and reliable map that I had no prospect of improving it.
Consequently, I longed for country which had never been touched by other
travellers. My camp 22 was identical with Rawling's No. 27, and his
expedition had skirted the lake Pul-tso, which lay a day's march in
front of us, both on the northern and southern side. Therefore, to avoid
his route, I made for the middle of this lake, which stretches north and
south, an unusual orientation.
When the great caravan is loaded up, and starts at sunrise, the camp is
usually full of noise and commotion. In consequence of our daily loss of
baggage horses the loads have always to be re-arranged; when, however,
the crowd has moved off, all is quiet again, the iron brazier and the
hot bath-water are brought, and in my tent, with its opening turned to
the east, because the prevailing wind blows from the west, it is soon
as hot as in a vapour bath. This heat often tempts one to put on lighter
clothing, but one soon regrets it, for it is always cold outside. Then
we go on through the desolate country where three expeditions have
converged to the same point.
The soil is brick-red, the pasturage good everywhere. To the south lie
low hills with arched tops, to the north stretches the immense mountain
system of the Kuen-lun with several imposing mountain masses covered
with eternal snow, and just in front of us rises the colossal
dome-shaped, snow-covered massive, which Rawling named the "Deasy
Group." We had seen this gigantic elevation from Yeshil-kul, and it
would serve us for a landmark for several days to come.
The caravan encamped on the bank of the Pul-tso (16,654 feet) near a
small rock of limestone. Tundup Sonam, the "Grand Court Huntsman" of the
caravan, begged to be allowed to go out shooting, and was given four
cartridges. After a few hours he returned with three cartridges, and
showed a yak's tail as a proof that he had killed a huge beast, which he
had found grazing peacefully by itself behind the hills to the south.
Now the caravan had fresh meat to last ten days; "and when it is
consumed, Tundup will shoot us another yak," said Muhamed Isa, who was
always much pleased when men he had picked out made a good job of their
work. I had marrow from the yak's bones for dinner--a dish that would
not have disgraced the table of Lucullus (Illustrations 68, 69).
CHAPTER XI
GREAT LOSSES
We had scarcely pitched our camp on the west shore of the Pul-tso when
Muhamed Isa came to ask for a day's rest. The grazing, he said, was
good, fuel abundant, and the animals needed a little time to recover. I
fell in with his wishes the more readily that they fitted in with my own
plans--another lake voyage. I intended to go with Robert and Rehim Ali
early in the morning across the lake in the direction of a precipitous
mountain which lay 56° east of north; then we would sail over to the
south bank and pass the night at a mountain 62° east of south. The
following morning we expected to reach the north-east corner of the
lake, where the caravan would wait for us on the yellowish-green
pastureland. We should thus take two days on the lake to cover a
distance which the caravan would traverse in one day. We would take with
us food, warm clothing and bedding, and a quantity of fuel, that we
might not be in such straits as last time. Water was not wanted; the
lake water was potable, though it had a rather queer taste.
The lake looked very inviting and picturesque at even, its perfectly
smooth mirror lying dark, dreamy, and silent between the mountains
capped with eternal snow. Great, reeking fires of dung burned cheerfully
among the tents, the men prepared their supper, or mended the
pack-saddles, chatting merrily the while; all was quiet and peaceful,
and the moon floated, silvery white and cold, among rose-coloured
clouds.
[Illustration: 79. AT DEASY'S CAMP.]
[Illustration: 80. AFTERNOON TEA IN THE OPEN AIR.]
[Illustration: 81. MELTING SNOW FOR DRINKING-WATER.]
Then I hear far in the east a droning sound, which swells up rapidly,
comes nearer, and changes into deafening thunder, and in a moment a very
violent storm sweeps over the shore. I call men to close the opening of
my tent. I hear Robert raise a whoop as his airy dwelling flaps about
and threatens to split up into shreds. But a dozen men set it to rights
again. Then my tent is strengthened with sand heaps and boxes; I am shut
in with my brazier, but a small spy-hole is left in the tent opening.
The moonshine glistens on the surf of the billows rolling against the
shore--a grand spectacle--wild, weird, almost theatrical in its beauty.
A storm of unsurpassed violence rushes ruthlessly along. It sounds like
express trains rolling through covered stations; it lashes, roars, and
howls, and dashes the surf thundering against the beach. The fires, but
now flickering so cheerfully, are put out; the spray is spurted out like
rockets; I hear Muhamed Isa's tent flapping about; then the sound of
men's voices is heard no more, only the howling of the storm and the
thunder of the waves disturb the silence of the wilderness. If I do but
look out of my spy-hole I am almost suffocated by the pressure of the
condensed air. Only the yaks delight in such weather; they grunt and
snort with pleasure when the long black fringes of hair on their flanks
flutter in the gusts.
September 28, however, was clear, the storm had sped off on its course
to the west, and the dull splashing of the swell on the beach was all
that was left of its fury. Before we were half way along the first line
of soundings, the lake was again as smooth as a mirror; it was only
flecked with small flakes of foam left behind by the storm. The water
had been too thoroughly stirred up to be clear. We took little more than
an hour to reach the rocky promontory, sounding on our way a maximum
depth of nearly 56 feet. We left on the north a considerable bay which
the caravan would have to go round.
After a short rest we continued our voyage to the south-east, and were
well helped on our way by a gentle northerly breeze. This time we
reached the shore without any adventures and before sunset. We landed
with all our belongings. Rehim Ali collected heaps of dry dung, Robert
set the camp in order, and I cruised about in the evening breeze till
twilight came, and cold and darkness surrounded our bivouac. We sat down
by the fire, talked, and cooked. The mince of fried sheep's brains and
kidneys tasted delicious in the open-air. To the west we could see the
fires at camp No. 23. Later in the evening a strong east wind rose up
again, and the waves dashed against the shore barely two yards from us.
We rolled ourselves in our furs and gazed into the fire; the head is
never so full of projects and aspirations as when the eyes follow the
play of the blue flickering flames and the fiery forms that arise in the
glow.
But the storm increased in violence, we could hardly keep the fire
alive, and soon we crept under the boat, which we used as a shelter
without taking it to pieces. We all three lay in this improvised tent,
and strengthened it with the sail and two tarpaulin cases, which covered
the halves of the boat on the march, and which we had brought with us to
protect our night wraps and beds in bad weather. Above us hung a lantern
which we extinguished when we were ready; now the moon shone on the
sail, the tempest howled and moaned round the boat, and the surf soon
lulled us to sleep.
The minimum thermometer marked 14°; it is always warmer near lakes. We
were early on our feet, a good fire put new life into us, and we
breakfasted beside it, the sun looking on. Our berth for the night was
restored to its element, the baggage was packed in, we stepped on board
and steered eastwards to the entrance of a passage which divides the
Pul-tso into two basins. Its breadth is about 65 yards; in the southern
basin the water was often almost red with small crustaceæ. We crossed it
south-westwards, and found depths of barely 46 feet. Then a strong
breeze came up from the north-west, and the waves splashed and lapped
against the boat. If we only got a south-west wind we could easily sail
to the appointed rendezvous. We would wait a little by the shore. It
curves gracefully, and has four terraces, each about two yards high.
On the sail back a new line was sounded, the maximum depth being about
60 feet. Now we had a favourable wind on the quarter, let down the
weather-board, hoisted the sail, and danced along to the strait. As we
came up to its eastern point, a rider with spare horses and several men
on foot came in sight. It was Muhamed Isa coming to meet us. Now Rabsang
relieved Rehim Ali, but he was so awkward with the oars, that we
preferred to take back our old oarsman. We said good-bye to the rescue
party, and steered northwards over the northern basin of the lake, where
the depths were 10 feet at most. Unfortunately the wind veered to the
north, so that we were thoroughly chilled through during the two hours'
sail to the north shore.
Muhamed Isa had brought us sad news: two more horses and a mule had died
at camp No. 23; in the evening another horse died. Otherwise the caravan
at camp No. 25 was sound and lively. Therefore we were the more
astonished to see a large fire at the abandoned camping-ground in the
west. The caravan had started towards eight o'clock in the morning, and
now it was four o'clock in the afternoon. Not a soul had remained behind
in camp No. 23, and yet there was the fire; we saw flames and smoke,
which hung like a great veil over the shore. Rehim Ali thought that the
post from Ladak had caught us up at last.
"No, that is impossible; a post-runner cannot travel so far and carry
his rations with him."
"But the camp-fire must have gone out immediately after the departure of
the caravan. A fire does not burn so brightly with no one to attend to
it."
"The smoke of camp No. 25 can be plainly seen from camp No. 23. If the
post had reached camp No. 23 it would not have stayed there a minute,
but would have hurried on to join us before night."
"Yes, Sahib, but perhaps the messenger is so exhausted that he is
signalling for help."
"May it not be Changpas?" remarked Robert.
"Yes, certainly, it may be Tibetans, sent from the south to order us to
stop, or at least to watch us, and report to the nearest headman."
"Master, perhaps we shall have to stop sooner than we think. What is to
happen then?"
"I do not think that the Tibetans can interfere with us so far to the
north; they cannot force us to turn back. At the worst we shall have to
pass eastwards through Central Tibet to China or Burma, as Bower did."
"Look, now, how it smokes; this great fire must mean something."
"Yes, it is a regular will-o'-the-wisp, a Saint Elmo fire. The gods of
the lake have lighted it to lead us astray."
"I believe it is the post, but the fire looks uncanny," said Rehim Ali,
and rowed with all his might.
"Do not disturb yourself. If it is the post we shall hear of the
messenger before evening; I believe that the camp-fire has not gone out,
but has smouldered on in a sheltered spot all day long; when the wind
changed, some reserve heap of dung caught fire, and, fanned by the north
wind, it has burst into flames."
At six o'clock we were home again. After I had taken a much-needed meal
I summoned Muhamed Isa and Sonam Tsering to a consultation.
"How many horses have we left?"--"Forty."
"How many mules?"--"Thirty-four."
"Are they in fairly good condition?"--"No, Sahib, not all; four of my
horses and six of Sonam's are at the point of death, and five mules."
"We shall, then, have more losses soon?" "Yes, alas! But to save all we
can, the strongest animals must now have maize and barley; the sickly
ones must forage for themselves till their hour comes. They are
certainly doomed."
"That is barbarous; give them at least something. Perhaps some may be
saved."--"We must be very sparing with the forage, Sahib."
The management of the caravan-bashi was prudent, but cruel.
At seven o'clock the storm came. It was the third evening we had had
violent east winds, a direction exceedingly infrequent in Tibet. It came
like a stroke, and put an end to all our peacefulness, stopped all
conversation, interfered with all kinds of work, extinguished the
camp-fires, blew sand and dust into my tent, and prevented the tired
animals from grazing; for they will not feed in a storm. They place
themselves with their tails to the wind, keep all four legs as close
together as possible, and hang their heads. So they remain standing, and
wait till it is quiet again. They had to wait all night long, and
perhaps, sleepy and heavy-headed, dreamed of the heartlessness of men
and the peaceful, sunny slopes at Tankse and Leh. In the evening Muhamed
Isa and I inspected them. The moon shone brightly, but its cold, bluish
light made the piercing wind seem more icy than usual. The animals
stood, like ghosts, so motionless in the night, that one would think
that they were already turned into ice. Not the cold, but the wind,
kills our horses; all my people say so. Winter was coming down upon our
mountains in all its severity. The rarefaction of the air and the scanty
pasturage were the worst troubles.
The wind whistled mournfully round the corners as I went to sleep, and
the same sound fell on my ear in the morning as Tsering, muffled up in a
thick fur coat, brought the brazier in. A dreary morning! Everything in
the tent was buried under a thick layer of dust and drift sand, and I
was thoroughly frozen before I had dressed. The horses and mules had
gone forward eastwards, but I did not start till nine o'clock--in a
furious storm. Just outside the camp the last horse that had perished
lay cold and hard as ice. Tsering told me that he was scarcely a stone's
throw from the body when the wolves had already crept up to feast on it.
The ground is good, sand, dust, and fine gravel. Afterwards the soil
becomes brick-red. One cannot see far, the air is hazy and the sky
overcast, but as far as the sight can carry, only low mountains are
visible. One or two brooks, almost frozen up, run out of side valleys on
the north. We slowly ascend to a pass, whence the country eastwards
seems just as level and favourable as hitherto. Here I am following
Rawling's route; his map corresponds to the actual conditions in the
smallest details.
It is quite a different thing to ride against the storm over rising
ground, and to have the wind on one's back going downhill. We work our
way through the wind, which penetrates our furs, and in ten minutes are
quite numbed. I can scarcely use my hands for mapping work; now and then
I thrust them into the sleeves of my coat, lean far forwards, and let
the horse find its own way. Two more horses die before the evening; a
third was led nearly to the camp; he looked fat and sleek, but he
tumbled down.
When I rode into camp I had had more than enough of this terrible day. A
bright fire was burning in the fort of provision boxes, by which we
chatted awhile, waiting for Tsering. The camp fort shrank up day by day
at an alarming rate, but the animals died so quickly that the loads
were, nevertheless, too heavy. But it was Muhamed Isa's opinion that
enough mules would be left till we got to the Dangra-yum-tso, and that
no baggage need be left behind. In case of necessity the boat and a
couple of tents might be sacrificed. Empty provision chests were
consumed at once as firewood. Undoubtedly we should reach the distant
lake in a state of utter helplessness. Without assistance we could
proceed no further. Then the Tibetans could easily stop us. We were
therefore a prey to great anxiety, which increased every day.
"If the animals founder at the same rate as at present, we shall not
reach the nearest nomads."
"Sahib, the strongest are still alive."
"Yes, that is always your consolation; but in a few days some of the
strongest will be dying."
"The wind kills them. If we had only a few days of calm weather!"
"There is no prospect of that at this season of the year. This storm has
now lasted 27 hours. Then come the winter storms from the south-west."
On October 1 I wrote in my diary: "What will be our experiences in this
new month? At eight o'clock the tempest still raged, and the ride to-day
was worse than before."
Flat, open country. Only one or two hills of red sandstone and
conglomerate with green schist--otherwise no hard rock. The Deasy Group,
towering to the south, seems nearer and nearer. The horse, No. 27, lies
in a pool of frozen blood, cold and bare, for the pack-saddle has been
removed for the sake of the hay. During the night three horses had
stampeded, and were searched for by Muhamed Isa and three Ladakis.
Stupid animals, to tire themselves out for nothing! Some unaccountable
restlessness seemed to have driven them from the spot where they were
unloaded. The poor things perhaps thought they could find better grass
than our hard-heartedness allowed them.
We approached a very small freshwater lake, by which both Wellby and
Deasy had rested. A fourth of its surface was frozen over, and on its
west bank the storm had reared up a wall of ice fragments a foot high.
An icy brook descended from the Deasy Group into the lake. The water of
the lake was cooled down below freezing-point; a few more hours of
perfect calm and the whole lake would be frozen over. On the bank Sonam
Tsering found three old tent-poles with the iron rings still on them. He
could not remember that Rawling had left them here: probably they were a
memento of Wellby's visit.
Tundup Sonam had killed an antelope, and for my dinner I was served with
fragrant _shislik_ roasted on a spit. Tsering knew his work; he had been
cook to Beach and Lennart, whom I met in Kashgar in 1890, and was more
skilful than "the black fellow," as Muhamed Isa contemptuously styled
the late Manuel.
The Lamaists among my Ladakis told me in confidence that they prayed
every evening to their gods for a lucky journey. They were just as eager
as myself to reach Shigatse and the holy monastery Tashi-lunpo, where
the Tashi Lama resides. For then they would receive a title of honour,
just as a Mohammedan becomes "Hajji" when he has been in Mecca. They
would willingly pay their Peter's pence, seven rupees for butter for the
altar lamps, nay, would give up a whole month's pay as a present to His
Holiness, the Tashi Lama. Their aim was to bring a pilgrimage to a
successful termination; mine to fill up as many blanks as possible in
the map of Tibet. We must succeed! Heaven befriend us!
No one minded that we had not a single man as escort. Yet with every day
we were getting nearer to inhabited country, and were advancing into a
land which had recently (1904) been at feud with its powerful neighbour
on the south. The Tibetans were ever hostile to Europeans, and after the
slaughter at Guru and Tuna they would probably be still more bitter
against them. We had neither passport nor permission to enter the
forbidden land. How should we prosper? Our excitement was always
increasing. Should we be received as open enemies, and after all wish
ourselves back with the wolves on the banks of Yeshil-kul?
October 2. Thirty-six degrees of frost in the night--and we hear nothing
of Rabsang! Has anything happened to him? Shukkur Ali is sent back along
the caravan track with meat, tea, and bread. A mule, which can no longer
keep on its feet, is killed in the camp. When the wind falls
occasionally, it is singularly quiet. The landscape is still
monotonous--a boundless, gently rising plain. North and south the two
mountain ranges with their snow-peaks still run on. Grass and _yapkak_
grow on all sides. Hour after hour we ride east-north-east without any
change of scenery. I look forward to the moment when we shall turn
towards the south-east, but that is far off, for I must first pass round
all the region that Rawling explored. The animals will then have still
harder work, for we shall have to cross several passes. The ranges run
from east to west; meanwhile we are marching between two of them, later
on we shall have to go over them. I examine the animals daily with great
anxiety, and fix my hopes on the strongest, the select troop which will
hold out to the last. How depressed I feel when one of them slips its
collar.
At camp No. 28, beside a salt pool, the animals are mustered as usual.
They understand the summons when the corn-bags are ready. Then they are
turned out to graze. Empty provision sacks and pack-saddles serve as
cloths to protect the animals from the cold at night. For the mules
small triangular pieces are cut to bind over their foreheads, where they
are supposed to be most susceptible to cold. Outside the Ladakis'
enclosure stand our twenty goats and sheep, tied head to head into a
compact group, so that they may keep one another warm.
This day the moon rose blood-red over the mountains in the east. It
became quickly paler the higher it rose, and the snowy mountains shone
as white as the steam of an engine. The evening was calm, and the tent
was easily heated in camp No. 28. Yet the temperature sank to -8°--and
Rabsang was still missing. Had the wolves torn him in pieces?
Next morning, however, he turned up in Shukkur Ali's company, but
without the horse. He had followed the trail of the wandering animal for
a long distance, and in the sand on the shore of the small lake had been
able to read the story of a tragic incident with almost dramatic
vividness. The tracks showed that the horse had galloped madly about,
pursued by a troop of wolves on either side. They had chased their
victim on to a narrow strip of mud ending in a point. There he had found
only one track of the horse, which disappeared in the slowly deepening
bed of the lake. But the wolves had left a double track--they had come
back. They thought to fall upon the horse on the landspit, where he
could not run further, but they had made a mistake. Rabsang maintained
that their confusion was reflected in their backward trail. The helpless
horse, driven to desperation by the wild and hungry jaws opened wide to
devour him, plunged into the water, preferring to drown rather than fall
into the clutches of his persecutors. Not a drop of blood could be seen.
If he had attempted to swim across the lake, he must have died of cramp;
if he had turned back to the shore, the wolves would have waited for him
and not have retired into the mountains. He was a hero, and now I felt
his loss doubly; he was one of the best in the caravan, a Sanskari, and
had long carried the heaviest boxes of silver. The picture of his bold
spring into the water, and of his desperation bordering on frenzy, long
haunted my imagination, when I lay awake at night, and I thought of the
horse on which Marcus Curtius plunged into the abyss.
The day's march took us further along the same even plain, where at
length every trace of vegetation ceased. At camp No. 29 there was,
alas! no pasturage, and so we had to lead the horses to the foot of the
mountains where grass grew sparingly.
October 4. We continue our journey to the east-north-east, and there is
not the slightest change in the country. Like a squirrel in a revolving
cage, we go on and on and yet find ourselves always in the same country;
north and south the same summits appear, and their profiles change but
slowly. Deasy named this great open longitudinal valley "Antelope
Plain." Rawling traversed its south-western portion in two directions,
and my route runs between them on the left bank of its very broad, but
now waterless, drainage channel. We suppose that the salt lake, which
Wellby skirted on the south, must lie to the east-north-east, but it is
not yet visible. Yellow grass again appears on both sides, and the camp
is pitched beside a small basin of splendid spring-water. As soon as the
animals are relieved of their loads and let loose, we notice that a
third begin to graze at once, another third stand resting with drooping
heads, and the remaining third lie down immediately. The first are the
best and strongest horses, the last those that are most exhausted. Among
these is horse No. 10, which has to be killed next morning; he is
entered in the list of dead as No. 25.
Muhamed Isa does not now set out before half-past eight in the morning.
He has noticed that the animals feed with a better appetite in the early
hours after sunrise. The broad, hard river-bed is an excellent road,
quite a highway, descending with an extremely slight gradient. During
the last days the needles of the aneroids have remained almost
stationary at the same figure. To the north we have still the Kuen-lun,
sometimes as masses of dark rock, sometimes with snow-capped, rounded
summits.
At one o'clock I always make a short halt with Robert and Rehim Ali to
read the meteorological instruments. The journal is kept by Robert with
the greatest care. I draw a panorama and take bearings, while our horses
stray about grazing. We take no food at that time, for we eat only twice
a day--at eight o'clock in the morning and six in the evening. Yet the
short mid-day rest is very welcome. We are by that time thoroughly
frozen; we can more easily keep ourselves warm on the ground than in the
saddle, where we are fully exposed to the wind.
We have not seen a drop of water all day long, and the caravan is
evidently looking for a spring, for we see scouts making off from time
to time to the right and left. At length they discover a large pond, and
there the tents are set up. We have marched lately about nine miles a
day--we cannot do more.
We had scarcely set out on the morning of October 6 when the
camping-ground was inspected by wolves on the look-out for another
horse. They follow us as faithfully as the ravens, and perhaps receive
reinforcements from time to time. Strict orders are issued that the
night watch must be responsible for the animals, and will be punished if
we suffer any loss from the wolves. The six ravens also still stick to
us. They settle when we encamp, they set out with us, and follow us all
day long with their hoarse croaking.
We pass over the river-bed, now containing water and ice, but still the
low hills hide the expected lake. Otherwise the ground is level, so
level that only the languid movement of the stream shows in which
direction the land dips. Yellow sand-whirls in the north-west indicate
the approach of a storm, which comes upon us out of a clear sky. Within
half an hour it passes into an easterly storm, a typical cyclone. Worn
out with the cold we arrive at camp No. 32.
The puppies are now quite big, and up to all kinds of mischief. It is
recorded against the white puppy that she has torn up one of my
map-sheets. Fortunately, none of the fragments is wanting. Tsering also
found a toothbrush in front of my tent, which the silly dog must have
considered superfluous. The brown puppy bit in two a hydrometer, which
was lying about in its leathern case. Their education is very defective,
but they are foundlings from the streets of Srinagar, and we cannot
therefore expect much of them. They have not the slightest notion of
discipline, and they do not obey when they are called. But when Tsering
brings the dinner they come to heel at once, put on a show of
amiability, and force themselves to the front by some means or other.
They are not of much use; they keep my feet warm at night, for then they
lie rolled up together on my bed.
Forty-five degrees of frost in the night! That was perhaps why I had
such a horrid dream: a whole host of dark Tibetans came to meet us, and
drove us back to the north. The water in the basin and the ink are lumps
of ice.
Now we have left Rawling far behind us, and Wellby and Malcolm's is the
last route which has been traversed in this region. We are still
following the same valley as that expedition.
Our store of yak meat was just at an end when Tundup Sonam killed an
antelope. A second, unfortunately, he only wounded, and it escaped on
three legs. One of our wolves was pacing about on a hill. He had closely
watched the chase, and the wounded animal would probably become his
prey.
Muhamed Isa, in his thick grey winter suit and with his pipe in his
mouth, moves about, and is guiding the caravan up between the hills when
we overtake him. We ascend to the summit of a hill. A white line
appears, and below it a bluish-green stripe which gradually increases in
dimensions. After a few minutes we have the salt lake we have been
looking for immediately below us, for the hills slope steeply to the
southern shore. Now the Ladakis commence one of their finest march songs
in soft, melting tones; they are glad to have reached this lake which I
have spoken of constantly, and, like myself, remind themselves that we
have reached another stage on the long journey to Dangra-yum-tso. To the
north-west the scenery is grand, with the great mountains, their
snow-capped peaks and great glaciers. Continuing the direction of the
sea westwards is flat land white with salt, and there white eddies
dance, whirling along the dismal shore.
East-north-east the longitudinal valley is as open as before; there
Wellby travelled. We can now, if we wish, turn aside to the south-east
without again coming in contact with Rawling's route. There new country
awaits us, the great triangle between Wellby's, Bower's, and Dutreuil
de Rhins' routes. It had been one of my most cherished hopes to cross,
at least once, the great white patch which bears on the English map of
Tibet nothing but the one word "Unexplored."
CHAPTER XII
IN UNKNOWN COUNTRY
In the middle of the night I was awaked by seven mules, which stood
close to my tent stamping about on its ropes. I went out to drive them
away, but when I saw how piteously cold they were, and how closely they
crowded together, I let them alone. One of them lay dead in the morning
beside my tent, with its belly swollen all out of shape.
Green schists form small ledges and strips on the otherwise soft ground,
so that at a distance the land seems striped with black. Here and there
veins of quartz crop out. Reddish-purple hills appear on the western
horizon, and the country becomes more uneven. After a while we pass the
sheep driven by the men in the wake of the caravan. They travel very
slowly, grazing as they go; we have still 18 left. To-day the water is a
difficulty. Some is found by digging at a depth of a foot, but it is
briny. The day's march is therefore longer than usual, 12 miles, but
then we come to a spring.
On the eve of a day of rest we feel as though it were Saturday evening
and there were no school next day. We intended to spend October 9 in
camp No. 34; I had not given a day's rest for 17 days. All were
delighted, and the Ladakis, in anticipation of the day of rest, arranged
an _al fresco_ feast round a great camp-fire. The refreshments were the
same as usual: tea in wooden bowls, parched meal, and roasted antelope
meat--spirituous liquors of any kind were prohibited in our caravan.
But, nevertheless, the men were in a right jovial mood; they danced
round the fire, and sang a lively song with a chorus culminating in
barbaric, shrill-sounding laughter. They rejoiced that they had
proceeded so far and still possessed sufficient power of resistance to
undergo severe hardships. We have travelled 331 miles from the
Karakorum, and there are 400 more to the Dangra-yum-tso. But we are
nearer the lake than we are to Leh, and so have really more than half
the journey behind us.
After 41 degrees of frost in the night, October 10 dawned with brilliant
weather, sunny and calm. Horse No. 3 was the twenty-sixth martyr of the
caravan; he lay dead on the field. We passed another which was reduced
to a skeleton and never reached the camp. We travelled east-south-east,
and had now to leave the longitudinal valley through which Wellby had
traversed the whole of north Tibet. A small hollow in the ground was
crossed, and the camp was pitched among the hills on its south side. The
brown puppy had behaved so disgracefully that she had to lie outside as
a punishment. She howled and whined piteously, but slept after she had
been covered with a frieze rug. Next day she had to travel with the
mules to her shame. In the night another horse died.
Red and yellowish-grey hills begirt the way, which led up in three hours
to a small flat saddle, whence the view eastwards seemed boundless. Had
it been our intention to proceed farther in this direction we should
have encountered no difficulties in the nature of the ground for many
days to come, but my unalterable goal was the Dangra-yum-tso, and
therefore we must direct our course south-eastwards. There a dark chain
with an irregular, toothed crest soon came into view. Between its
summits were seen deeply-cut saddle-formed gaps; but, to our chagrin,
they were more difficult to surmount than they appeared, and the
slightest rise in the ground was felt by our caravan in its prostrate
condition.
The ground was all honeycombed with the holes of the abominable
field-mice, but the holes were not so treacherous now, for the soil was
frozen, and held firm when we rode over the subterranean catacombs
connected by a network of passages.
Again we mounted a small swell in the ground (17,234 feet). We saw
before us a dark point in the track of the caravan; it was a dead mule,
which slept his last sleep with wide-open eyes beside his pack-saddle.
Behind a hill we surprised a large, handsome fox, which made off in a
great hurry as we drew near. But he could not refrain from frequently
turning round and staring at us; he had probably never seen a human
being before.
At camp No. 36 there was not a drop of water, but we were not able to
travel further. We had with us two goat's leather bottles filled with
ice which sufficed for our tea; but the animals had to go without water.
However, we could not complain; it was the first time since Leh that we
had had no water.
An unusual sight greeted us on the morning of October 12; the whole
country was covered with snow. But scarcely had the sun mounted up, when
the snow melted and the ground was dry. The caravan set out early for
the sake of the thirsty animals. Now we kept on a south-easterly course,
leaving out of the range of our vision the lake discovered by Rawling,
and named "Lake Markham" after the former distinguished President of the
Royal Geographical Society in London.
Again we pass a horse with its throat cut; it is reddish-brown, and
contrasts strongly with the grey, sandy soil. The eyes have already been
picked out by the six ravens which sit like black ghouls round the
fallen beast and hold a wake. A little farther something suspicious
again appears in the track of the caravan--it is the sixth mule. He has
collapsed on the march and has not to be killed; he is still soft and
warm, and his eyes have not lost their brightness, but the ravens will
soon be here, for they follow the caravan like dolphins in the wake of a
vessel. For every animal that falls there is a horse-cloth to spare for
his comrades. They will need it when the severe cold of winter comes.
The two victims to-day have long been released from duty, but they had
to follow on till they died, for there was always a hope that they would
recover--a vain one, indeed.
The trail leads us to the mouth of a valley, where we soon come up with
the caravan--all the animals have their heads in a brook, they have had
to thirst so long. The valley must come down from a pass, so we march up
it. It becomes narrower and narrower, till at length there is a passage
only five yards broad between walls of schists tilted up vertically. By
the brook lay the bleached skull of an Ammon sheep with fine horns
(Illustrations 59, 60). We found shelter from the cutting wind at the
foot of a precipitous wall of rock on the left side of the valley, and
there set up our tent poles. Muhamed Isa climbed a height opposite,
taking the field-glass. "A labyrinth of small mountains," was his
unsatisfactory report. By this time we had lost 29 horses and 6 mules,
and had only 29 horses and 30 mules. "The strongest animals are still
living," was Muhamed Isa's consolation.
October 13. The night with 39 degrees of frost deprived us of another
horse and a mule. Their bones are bleaching in camp No. 37, and are
tokens of our visit. A heavy march over very undulating ground. We had
to cross over three small, trying passes. A good deal of snow still lay
on the ground. To our right extended a red mountain crest, and in a
gorge a waterfall was congealed into a mass of ice. Muhamed Isa had
erected three cairns to show us the way where the track of the caravan
became indistinct on pebbly ground. On the first pass the prospect was
dreary, nothing but pink, purple, and yellow mountains. On the north the
Turkestan mountains still dominated the landscape with their majestic
peaks, a row of imperial crowns far above the rest. Fifty degrees east
of north we fancied we perceived a large lake, but it might equally well
be a plain transfigured by the mirage. Many of the hills and spurs
consist of creeping soil from above, which in consequence of its slow
motion is frozen into concentric rings and other patterns. The third
pass rises in perfectly barren land. Here Tsering gave himself enormous
trouble in setting up a cairn, which was quite unnecessary, for no one
would come after us; but it was an act of homage to the gods of the
mountains, an earnest prayer that they would let us pass safely.
At last we came down into open country, a main valley running
eastwards, where there was a glimpse of yellow grass in the distance.
Tundup Sonam shot two Ammon sheep, and their flesh prolonged the lives
of our 18 sheep. In this cold, windy weather we are never properly warm.
When I sit, sketching the panorama of the mountains or taking a solar
observation, I must have the brazier beside me to warm my numbed hands a
little, so that I can use them. Only Muhamed Isa, Tsering, Sonam
Tsering, and Guffaru are exempt from night duty; all the rest are
obliged to turn out into the cold, dark, wintry night. When darkness
falls I fill up the drawings I have sketched in the day, study maps, or
read light literature, or Supan's _Physische Erdkunde_, and a couple of
books on Buddhism and Lamaism. At nine o'clock Robert takes
meteorological readings, and sets up the hypsometer, which I read off in
my tent. Then we talk awhile and go to sleep. My bed is laid on an
India-rubber sheet and two folded Turkestan frieze blankets. On these is
laid a great square of goatskins sewed together. I lay myself down on
one half of the square and cover myself with the other, and then Tsering
tucks in the edges under the felt blankets, so that the whole is
converted into a sack. Lastly, he spreads two more felt blankets, my
ulster, and my fur coat over me. I have my fur cap on my head and a
_bashlik_; otherwise I undress as usual. In stormy weather the morning
bath is not exactly pleasant; my clothes have become icy cold during the
night. The Ladakis have no notion of cleanliness, and consequently carry
about with them small colonies of vermin, for which I have not the least
use. But those who make my bed, clear up, and wait on me in my tent,
cannot help giving me a most liberal share of their surplus, and
therefore my underclothing has to be frequently washed in boiling water.
My sensitiveness in this respect is a wonderful source of amusement to
the Ladakis; I hear them laughing heartily at my horror of all kinds of
blood-sucking creatures. But I tell them that I feel comfortable only
when I am quite alone in my clothes.
The winter evenings grew longer and longer, and our life passed in
monotonous solitude. The worst was that my light reading was put a stop
to. To occupy the leisure hours I made the Ladakis relate to me
traditions and legends of their own country, and noted some of them
down. I also made each of my servants narrate his own experiences; but
the notes I made of them were not very remarkable, for the men had not
much to tell, and thought it all quite natural and unimportant. You must
question and draw them out, and even then the result is unsatisfactory.
They very seldom know the name of a European whom they have served for
months, and they cannot state their own age. But they know exactly how
many horses there were in a caravan they accompanied years ago, and the
colour of each horse. One Ladaki, who has traversed the inhabited parts
of western Tibet, can tell me the name of every camping-ground, describe
it accurately, and tell me whether the pasture there was good or bad.
They have also a marvellous memory for the character of the ground.
Having regard to the compass of this narrative, I cannot allow myself to
wander into diffuse biographical notices, but I must very briefly
introduce my little party to the reader. We will begin, then, with
Rabsang, who went in search of the horse that was baited by the wolves.
He is a Bod, or Buddhist, strictly speaking a Lamaist; his father is
named Pale, his mother Rdugmo, from the village Chushut-yogma in Ladak.
By occupation he is a _zemindar_ or farmer, grows barley, wheat, and
peas, owns two horses and two yaks, but no sheep, pays 23 rupees (about
31 shillings) in taxes to the Maharaja, but no contributions to the
lamas. Once a year he travels in the service of Afghan merchants to
Yarkand, and receives 50 rupees for the whole journey. The merchants
carry clothing materials, coral, tea, indigo, etc., to Yarkand, where
they put up in the _serai_ of the Hindus, and stay twenty days to sell
their goods and purchase silk, felt rugs, ordinary rugs, etc., which
they get rid of in Peshawar. Rabsang had served chiefly the Hajji Eidar
Khan, a rich merchant of Cabul. Six years ago he had an adventure on the
Suget-davan, where twelve Badakshan men, who owed the Hajji money, met
the caravan. The twelve men had led a wild life in Yarkand, and could
not pay their debts The Afghans, who numbered five, fell upon them and
a violent scuffle ensued, ending in bloodshed. That was Rabsang's worst
adventure. He had served Captain Deasy five months and another
Englishman as long. When he was away himself, his wife and a brother
tilled his land and looked after his affairs.
"Can you depend on your wife's faithfulness for so long a time?"
"No," he answered, "but we do not think much of that in Ladak."
"What happens if she misconducts herself with another man?"
"Then he must give me a sheep as compensation."
After this not a word more could be extracted from Rabsang.
In our caravan he is under Tsering's immediate command, and leads the
four horses which carry my tent, my bed, the four boxes of articles for
daily use, and the kitchen utensils. He is assistant to the head cook,
and has to keep me supplied all the evening with fuel. He brings Tsering
fuel and water for cooking, and is an exceedingly sturdy, useful fellow.
A year later he had a prominent part to play.
[Illustration: 82. PREPARATIONS FOR DINNER AT CAMP 41.]
I have already spoken of the Mohammedan Rehim Ali. He is my right-hand
man on the march. Guffaru is the oldest of the company, and guide of the
horse caravan; consequently the more horses die, the less he has to do.
The Hajji Gulam Razul has been twice in Mecca; he is Muhamed Isa's cook.
Shukkur Ali has made many remarkable journeys, which would fill a whole
chapter themselves; with us he is leader of a section of the horse
caravan, but has now only two charges. Gaffar is a young Mohammedan, who
follows the horses, gathers fuel, and fetches water. Young Tsering has
the same occupations, and Ishe, Tundup, and Adul belong also to this
party; the last, a hard-working, sturdy man, has entered my service in
order to buy himself a house in Leh and to enable him to marry. Islam
Ahun is horse watchman. Bolu belongs to my caravan, and is one of
Tsering's assistants. Galsan, who has travelled much in western
Tibet, serves as a mule-driver. Ishe Tundup is responsible for the
sheep. Lobsang Rigdal, nicknamed the Lama, has to attend to my horses.
He is come with me to earn money to give to his father and elder
brother, because they have always taken good care of him. He is the
jester of the caravan, and has a very comical appearance. Tashi, who
accompanies the horses, is one of our best men. Tundup Sonam keeps up
the sporting reputation of the caravan and provides us all with fresh
meat. He scarcely ever misses, and is as quiet and composed as a pan of
clotted milk. He had served under me before, in the winter of 1902, when
I travelled from Leh to Yarkand. Gartyung belongs to the mule caravan,
and entered my service to restore order in his financial affairs. A
small, short, black-bearded fellow, fifty years of age, answers to the
name of Tashi Tsering; formerly he was called Islam Ahun, he says, so he
has changed his religion, though it seldom happens that a Mohammedan
goes over to Lamaism. He also leads a troop of horses. Rub Das is a
Gurkha from Sitang, and does all sorts of work; he is silent and works
like a slave, without needing the slightest reminder. Tundup Geltsan is
the reciter of tales, whose voice is heard when all the day's work is
over; he is also chief cook in the black tent of the Ladakis. Namgyal is
a mule-driver, and one of our best; Sonam Tsering is overseer of the
mules, Kurban nothing but Guffaru's son, and Tsering is my head cook.
Herewith the list closes. Each of these men had his duty to perform; all
were willing and good tempered, and quarrels and disputes were never
heard. But Robert and Muhamed Isa knew excellently well how to maintain
discipline. Every man had a warm sheepskin, and they made themselves
bedding of the skins of the slaughtered sheep or the wild animals that
were shot; as the winter cold abated they used empty provision sacks as
blankets. As they all travelled on foot they soon wore out their soft
Ladak boots, and they had to re-sole them repeatedly; for that purpose
they utilized pieces of skin with the wool turned inwards.
On October 14 we passed a series of large river-beds which intersect
the ridge to the south along flattish valleys. Kulans and antelopes were
grazing in large numbers. At the camp, situated between reddish hills,
the grass was good. Our direction was east-south-east. In the night a
horse died. The country preserves henceforth the same character: it
consists of a number of small ridges extending from east to west, and
much time is lost in crossing them; between them lie longitudinal
valleys. Not infrequently we can count southwards three or four such
ridges, and we have to pass over them all. We have lost ourselves in a
sea of rigid undulations; we are like a ship that has lost its rudder
and is on the point of sinking: no islands of refuge, no ships coming to
meet us, boundless sea on all sides. We should like to pour oil on this
rough sea; we long for calm waterways, but as long as a plank remains we
will cling fast to it. At camp No. 40 there was good grazing, and water
we could obtain from ice.
The men have sewed up a felt coat for the brown puppy, which they put on
her when it is cold at night. She looks very ridiculous in her new
night-dress when she runs about, steps on a corner, and then rolls over.
The white puppy sits at first quite disconcerted and gazes at her, but
then finds the sight so alluring that she cannot refrain from making fun
of her comrade, dancing about her and biting her cloak. The brown one,
on the other hand, sits resolutely quiet and lets the white one sport
about her.
We penetrate further into the forbidden land. On October 16, the
anniversary of my departure from Stockholm, we had still 380 miles to
travel to Dangra-yum-tso, but now were seldom able to march more than 7½
miles a day. In Camp No. 41 (Illustration 65) some articles that we
could spare were left behind, to lighten the loads, among them several
books that I had read and Bower's narrative, which had now served their
turn in my travelling library. The tents were set up in a sheltered
valley at the foot of a rock. Tundup Sonam had gone in advance, and had
surprised a four-year-old yak which was lying on a slope in the sun.
Taking advantage of inequalities in the ground, the sportsman had crept
up quite close to it. The first ball had entered the pelvis. The yak,
thus unpleasantly aroused from his meditation, sprang up and received a
second bullet in his hough. Then he rushed down the slope, turned a
somersault on to the bottom of the valley, and lay dead as a mouse; and
here, therefore, the tents were pitched. He was already skinned and cut
up when we arrived, and the dark-red flesh with a purplish tint at the
legs lay in the sun. The stomach was immense, and full of grass, lichen,
and moss--no wonder that the animal needed rest after such
gourmandizing. The head was set up as a decoration at the foot of a
mountain spur, and the hunter was photographed beside this trophy. The
Ladakis were ordered to eat their fill of the meat, for we could not
burden ourselves with any extra weight. All the fat, however, was taken
with us, and the marrow was reserved for me. When we left the place,
there was not much left of the yak, and I have my suspicion that the
Ladakis carried some fine pieces with them in their private bags.
The ravens, in company with an eagle, sat feasting round the bloody
skeleton. Now there are eleven of them, and their wings shine in the sun
like blue steel. They feel, alas! quite at home in the caravan and are
half tame. The dogs take no notice of them, and are treated by the
ravens with sarcastic contempt.
October 17 was a trying day; there was a strong wind from the west, and
the temperature did not rise above 23° at noon. We were approaching a
pass, but we encamped before reaching the summit. At nine o'clock the
thermometer marked 9.3°, and I could make it rise in the tent only to
24.5°, for the little warmth radiating from the brazier was at once
driven out by the wind. The minimum thermometer stood at -18.8°, the
lowest temperature that we had hitherto recorded. A white mule, which
had carried no load for the past ten days, was frozen to death. Now I
had 27 mules, 27 horses, and 27 servants in the caravan. We had not seen
a man for 57 days. Should we all remain together till we fell in with
the first nomads?
Antelopes and yaks were grazing on the slopes of the pass, the height of
which is 17,575 feet. A labyrinth of mountains spreads itself out in the
direction of our march, and therefore we turn aside to the north-east
and encamp in the mouth of a valley. The white puppy, which faithfully
follows Robert and myself, is always soundly thrashed by her brown
sister when we arrive in camp. She has no hope of defending herself, so
she lies quietly on her back as if she were made of papier maché, and
does not dare to utter a sound. Now they are both bloated from
over-indulgence in yak flesh; but however bad the brown puppy may feel,
her little sister must get her licking as soon as she appears.
In the night of October 19 two more of our horses were frozen to death,
and a sheep. Of the latter we had now only 16; puffed up with gas the
three dead animals lay on the slope and stared at us with dark
blood-stained eye-cavities; the ravens had already been at them. The
ground was very difficult, constantly sloping upwards and then down
again. We saw the caravan struggle up to a pass, but beyond appeared
another still higher, with patches of snow. The crests of the mountains
in this country run in general to the east-north-east. In the south lies
a lake at a distance of about 20 miles, but it is far to the right of
our route.
When we reached camp No. 44, at a height of 17,539 feet, in the midst of
terrible mountains, it was announced that Muhamed Isa was ill. He had
suffered for some days with severe headache, and had been well dosed
with quinine. As he could not reconnoitre as usual, Robert asked
permission to climb the high pass which barred the way to the east, and
to look around. He did not come back till dark, and then informed us
that we should soon emerge from these troublesome mountains if we turned
to the south-east. Muhamed Isa therefore received instructions for the
following day in accordance with this information.
What a difference from the previous evening when the stars twinkled down
from a blue-black sky and the fires blazed bright and red! Now heavy
masses of cloud lie over mountain and valley, so low that they seem
almost within reach of the hand. It snows unusually thickly; the ground
is white, and the inequalities and tufts of moss throw long shadows
about the fires. A pale light rises out of the provision fortress, now
reduced to small dimensions, and casts a feeble glow on the black tent
of the Ladakis. Tsering sits with his men round the kitchen fire,
wrapped in furs, and delivers a lecture more than two hours long,
without pausing a second. His tongue is like a windmill in a breeze.
They have all known one another for years. What on earth can he have to
tell them that they have not heard already twenty times over? But
Rabsang, Rehim Ali, and a couple of other men listen attentively, and
express their satisfaction from time to time. I join them for a while.
They rise to greet me, and lay a fresh armful of dry dung cakes on the
fire. The flickering flames throw a glaring light over the snow, which
crunches under the feet of the men. But the brightness does not extend
far, and, beyond, the darkness of night yawns on all sides. The grazing
animals can neither be seen nor heard, but the snow hisses as it falls
continuously into the blaze of the yak-dung fire.
CHAPTER XIII
UNFORTUNATE DAYS
October 20, 1906, was a bad day. The snow lay three inches deep, and all
around was dazzling white in the sunshine; only to the west blue shadows
spread over the slopes. We were to cross the pass. In the universal
whiteness the distance seemed short, but after the caravan had advanced
half way, the pass still appeared as a small, black, fixed point. The
field-mice were awake and scurried about between their holes in the
snow, which became deeper as the way became steeper. It was soon a foot
deep, and we had to keep carefully in the track of the caravan, lest we
should roll over into the snowy abyss. Spots of blood were seen; one of
the animals had hurt its foot against the sharp-edged detritus. Step by
step we mount upwards, blue-black clouds gather threateningly together
behind us, and in an instant we are enveloped in the wildest driving
snow: the dry particles, fine as flour, whirl round us, like comet
tails, with a rushing sound. They collect into drifts, the track of the
caravan is hidden, and we can no longer see how far it is still to this
deadly pass.
A dead horse lies on the way, without its eyes--the wicked ravens must
always have the eyes while they are still warm and soft. The wind had
driven the snow over his back and neck, as though to make him a nice and
comfortable couch. He lay as on a bed of state, exposed to all the winds
of heaven, with clean white pall, and the black ravens as a guard of
honour--the only thanks he got for his services.
On the pass we make the usual halt for observations; the height is
18,409 feet; it blows and snows, with 18 degrees of cold. We perceive,
however, some sign of the saddle to the south-east which Robert
reconnoitred yesterday, and which is supposed to lead down into level
country. But Muhamed Isa has taken his own way down a valley running
north-east, and that is serious for us. Far in front as he is, we must,
though much against our will, follow his track, lest we should lose one
another. It is now difficult to see whither the caravan had marched. If
we lose one another in such country, and the snow continues to fall, we
are done for.
So we follow him down the valley. The pass behind us looks weird--a
white saddle against a background of blue-black clouds, which resemble
whirling, suffocating smoke. Tsering reaches the pass with his two men
and four horses, and salutes it with a loud salaam. Treacherous frozen
rivulets are crossed, as hard as glass and as smooth as cooling grease;
our riding horses stumble and slide. It is very seldom that a small hill
of dark schist peeps out above the snow.
As the valley runs too much to the north, the caravan perceives its
mistake, turns aside to the east, and buries itself in a labyrinth of
hills where not a blade of grass grows. We ride past the shepherd with
the 16 sheep and the goats; the white puppy teases them as usual, till a
bold wether puts her to flight. The goats are remarkably hardy and get
on splendidly, and yield me a cup of milk every morning and evening.
We found the caravan behind a second saddle. The camp was formed, but in
a most unfavourable spot; there was neither grass nor _yapkak_, neither
dung nor water--absolutely nothing. The animals stood in a dark group,
standing out sharply against the white snow. Thus they had to stand,
quietly and patiently, all night long, and doubtless felt how slowly the
time passed, how hunger and thirst increased, and the cold again
diminished. They had to wait standing for the morning red, which might
perhaps fail to appear, for dark masses of cloud still covered the sky.
Robert and I took refuge in the tent of the Ladakis, where a fire
burned, which was fed with fragments of a box and antelope dung. We
could at any rate obtain water by melting snow; my dinner consisted of
parched meal, bread, and coffee, for nothing else could be cooked. In
the twilight Rabsang appeared and asked me to come outside. Two large
wild yaks stood on a neighbouring hill and gazed at our camp with
astonishment. But we left them in peace, for we did not want their
flesh, and would not add to our loads. They trotted slowly away when
they were convinced that we were not of their species. The night was
pitch dark, so that I had to inspect our weary beasts with a lantern.
We set out early from this unlucky camp, where a mule had fallen at his
post. The footprints between the tents, made in the snow the evening
before, were filled up with fresh snow, and a new set of paths had been
formed. Scarcely two minutes' walk from the camp a horse lay dead, which
had carried his load only the day before, and the black corpse-watch was
beside it. A dead wild-duck also lay in the snow. Is there a lake in the
neighbourhood? No; the ducks come long distances, and this one had
probably lost its way.
Now the sun burns, now a snowstorm envelops us in its fine dust, now we
are roasted, now chilled through--regular Tibetan weather, unreliable
and changeable. Another dead horse! The men had cut its throat to
shorten its sufferings; swiftly whirling snow covers the stream of blood
that congeals in the cold. We make our way up to a pass, and then follow
a ridge, but the ground is frightful. At length we ride down a flat
valley which gradually winds round to the north; on the south rises a
formidable crest. Muhamed Isa had orders to take, if possible, a
south-easterly direction, but as he was not sure of the way, he had
encamped at the bend of the road. He had gone forwards with two men to
reconnoitre. Towards four o'clock he returned, and reported that we
should reach open country within three hours. My first thought was to
set out at once, for in camp No. 46 there was no grass, and the animals
were so hungry that they bit one another's tails and the pack-saddles.
One horse had actually not a hair left on his tail, but that one had
been eaten up the night before. The old, experienced hands, however,
gave their opinion that it would be better to start in the early
morning.
I therefore gave orders to reserve as much rice as we should require for
forty days, and to give the rest, mixed with barley and maize, to the
animals. While, however, they were eating from their nose-bags, the men
changed their minds, and Muhamed Isa asked if they might make a start.
"I am quite willing, but it will be pitch dark in an hour."
"I will find the way. You have only to follow the trail in the snow."
Then began the tumult of breaking up camp, and the sound of tramping in
the snow; but there was no singing. There were 27 degrees of frost with
a boisterous wind from the west. Everything was taken except my things
and Robert's and the cooking utensils. A mule, which refused to move,
remained with us. No fires lighted up the dark procession led by the
horses and closed by the sheep. It moved off slowly, and the shouts of
the men reached us more and more feebly till at length the caravan
disappeared in the pale moonlight. I entered my tent stiff with cold. A
quarter of an hour later a man came back with another mule which could
not get on any further. So we had two dying animals with us.
And then came the night. The air was clear and calm, the stars twinkled
like diamonds in the brightness of electric light, and the cold settled
keenly round our tent. Outside, Tsering, Rabsang, Rehim Ali, and Bolu
had rolled themselves together into a heap under all their belongings.
As long as I was awake I heard the irrepressible Tsering telling his
tales in the depth of his cave of furs, and the others occasionally
giving vent to a subterranean giggle. Curious fellows, these Ladakis! No
amount of cold seems to affect them, while I, in my tent, can only sleep
a minute at a time.
An awful, terrible night in the lonely mountains of Tibet. The
temperature sank to -17°, and that was too much for the two mules which
had been left behind. One expired about midnight; he was the animal
which Sonam Tsering had wished on the first day to send back to Leh as
useless. We tried then to exchange him for a horse, but as no one would
have him, he had to come with us after all. He was accustomed to travel
with horses, and later on always went with them. To the astonishment of
all he became strong and led the van--a good example for the horses. Now
he lay cold and hard as iron, with his legs stretched out; if he had
been lifted on to his feet he would have remained standing. Sonam
Tsering wept when he heard that the animal was gone.
The other mule was heard moving about in the night and nibbling at the
yak grass, which is too short for other animals except the yak; the
tongue of the yak is provided with horny barbs which pluck up the fine
velvety grass. Early in the morning I heard the mule squeal, and was
glad that one at least still survived. But when the sun rose his
strength too was spent, and when Tsering woke me he said that the animal
was dying. He looked healthy and well nourished, but we tried in vain to
raise him up and feed him with maize, and he was sacrificed to the gods
of this valley of death. He did not move a limb or twitch an eyelid as
the blood spurted out on to the snow; he seemed only to experience a
welcome sense of peace and resignation, while his eyes were turned full
on the sun.
As we were on the point of leaving this horrible camp, there came fresh
tidings of misfortune. Tundup Sonam appeared to show us the way, and
reported that the horse caravan had wandered off too far to the left,
while the mules under Muhamed Isa had taken the opposite direction.
Muhamed Isa, as soon as he found out his mistake, had descended into the
first valley he could find, to wait there for the dawn. As for the flock
of sheep, Tundup Sonam could only say that it had at first followed the
track of the horses, but had afterwards turned away. The greatest
confusion reigned everywhere, but the worst news Tundup Sonam kept to
the last: four more mules had died during the night.
Our situation was desperate. We could not go on much longer; we were
coming to a crisis. The ground, the weather, and the cold were all
against us, the horses died wholesale, and it might be a hopeless
distance to the nearest nomads. What did it matter whether the Tibetans
would be friendly or hostile? Now the only question was: should we be
able to drag ourselves along to inhabited districts? For, if these
losses continued a few days longer, we should soon be compelled to
abandon all the baggage and continue our journey on foot. But could we
carry ourselves enough provisions to last us through this uninhabited
country? Should we perish one after another in these icy deserts of the
Tibetan Alps? And if at length, in a wretched, half-dead condition, we
met with Tibetans, they could do what they liked with us. At any rate we
could not force our way through to Shigatse and the unknown country to
the north of the Tsangpo, the goal of all my most cherished dreams.
A journey straight across Tibet looks pleasant and easy on the map. In
reality it is a serious and difficult undertaking, costing suffering,
excitement, and tears. The meandering line is drawn in red on the map,
for it is really marked with blood. We set out under the guidance of
Tundup Sonam, and it soon became evident that we should never have found
the way without him. Up and down, over hills and through valleys we
threaded this intricate maze, where the deep snow smoothed down the
inequalities and quite misled us in estimating the heights of the steep
declivities. We left the track of the horses on our left; there a load
of maize was left, but Tundup Sonam assured me it would be fetched. To
the right appeared the high ground where the mules had wandered in the
night trying their strength uselessly. An icy south-west wind blew over
the bitterly cold snowfields. From time to time Tundup Sonam reared up a
slab of schist to show the way to Tsering, who was coming behind without
a guide.
Now we cross the trail of the mules and see the valley where they have
passed the night. "Yonder, on the slope, lies a mule," says Tundup
Sonam, "and two behind the hill, and a little farther on a fourth." We
could not see them from where we were, but the ravens resting here,
sleepy and satiated, confirmed his words.
At last we reached the pass, whence we caught sight of the plain and a
small lake to the south-east. The height was 18,048 feet. At one o'clock
there were 18 degrees of frost, the wind was high, and it snowed so
thickly that the view disappeared again. We did not stay a minute longer
than was necessary for observations, and then rode down a steep descent.
We rested at the first grass we came to; the horses were almost mad with
delight when they saw it--their stomachs were so empty.
Now we saw five men on a height. They were Muhamed Isa and four
companions, who had come out to look for the missing men and animals--14
horses, 8 men, 16 sheep, and 2 dogs. We were able to inform them that
their track ran north-eastwards, and after they had given directions how
to find the camping-ground of the mules they vanished again in the snow.
After searching in vain for the track and looking out for the smoke of
the camp-fire, we came to a halt on a smooth plateau, where the grazing
was good, and collected dung for a fire--it was high time, for Robert
and I were half dead with cold.
We were in a terribly sad plight. We did not know where the mules were
encamping, and had not the slightest notion where the horses had gone.
The sheep, in this country swarming with wolves, were probably lost.
Tsering had remained behind, and might easily miss our track in the
snowstorm. We could do nothing but thaw our clothes. After we had been
sitting an hour, and had somewhat recovered in the heat of the fire, the
"Lama" came over the plain bringing with him Sonam Tsering, who had been
camping with the mules behind some hills. The good fellow wept bitterly
at our losses; Muhamed Isa had proved a bad pilot this time, he
complained. Nine mules had perished within a few hours in these
frightful mountains, which were probably the western prolongation of the
system called by the Mongols, dwelling farther to the east, Buka-magna,
or the "Head of the Wild Yak." Twenty mules still remained, but two of
them had received their death-warrant. Of the twenty-three surviving
horses one was left behind with his pack-saddle in a hollow, and was
probably dead by this time. At a late hour of the night only one of the
missing ones, namely, Tsering, had put in an appearance.
Under these circumstances it was a matter of course that we should have
a day's rest in camp No. 47. When day broke, I was awakened by the
bleating of sheep. The shepherd had at first followed the track of the
horses, but soon abandoned it when he noticed that the mules were not
there, and he began to look for the track of the latter. In the darkness
he got completely lost, and in a pass one of the sheep had refused to go
any farther. He had carried it awhile, but as he soon felt that it had
become cold and stiff he threw it away as dead. Frightened of the
darkness and the wolves, he had taken refuge in a gorge, tied together
the sheep and goats in a circle, and set himself in the middle to keep
himself warm and look out for the wolves. However, they had not ventured
to attack him. In the morning twilight he had found one of the many
tracks leading to camp No. 47.
Two of the missing men turned up in the forenoon, carrying boxes. A
horse had been left behind. Islam Ahun, who had led the horse caravan,
had cleverly conducted them down by the shortest way to the lake, and
had encamped there beside good pasture. Muhamed Isa and his companions
had lost themselves in the night, and had slept beside a fire, with
nothing to eat or drink but snow. But they, too, found their way to us
again, and so the remnants of the caravan were gathered together to one
place.
Here everything was sorted out that could be spared: sacks, bags, ropes,
horse-shoes, tools, and cooking utensils. Boxes were burned after their
contents had been transferred to others; no one was allowed to burden
the caravan with unnecessary articles. The rejected goods formed a large
heap, and we thus got rid of two horse loads. Then we took stock, and
found that we had still 32 loads including the boat. We had 20 mules, of
which 2 were on their last legs, and 21 horses also, including 2 ready
to drop, or 37 serviceable animals in all. Only Robert and I were
allowed to ride, so that we had 3 spare horses; but in the evening the
loads were so distributed that all the animals carried something, except
the sickly ones. Four animals were to be laden with maize and barley,
the rice made seven loads more, the meal five, the bread one, and the
butter, which the Ladakis took in their tea, only half a load. We
estimated that the meal would last a month longer; five loads of rice
were to be given up to the animals, and I directed all the men to take
the greatest care of the veterans. Tundup Sonam shot three antelopes
just when our meat was finished. Some of the Ladakis had to cut them up,
and at even when they returned with the spoil they intoned the
antiphonal song they sing when they carry a _dandy_, or an ordinary
load, at home in Ladak. One of the antelopes, however, was all devoured
by the wolves before they found it.
We decided to rest a couple of days at the next camp, and Tundup Sonam
undertook to conduct us to a small lake lying to the east, where the
grass was particularly good.
In the night of October 24 a horse and two mules died, so we had 38
animals. "The strongest are still living," said Muhamed Isa as usual.
To the north rose the lofty mountain system which had caused us so much
suffering, and its crests were seen stretching to the east. We advanced
over even ground, and after a short march reached a small round lake
firmly frozen over, and surrounded by yellow grassland. Water was
supplied by a spring which filled a small frozen basin; the animals
drank as much as they would from a hole cut through the ice; they had
had no water for three days. The sandy soil was frozen so hard that the
iron tent-pegs bent when they were driven into the ground. The sky was
overcast, and there was a strong wind, but the ground to the
east-south-east seemed favourable. The four tents stood in a row, mine
to windward, that I might not be annoyed by the smoke of the other
fires.
At ten o'clock at night a flock of wild geese passed over our camp in
the brilliant, silvery-white moonshine. They flew very low, and quacked
the whole time. Probably they intended to settle at the spring, but went
on when they found the place occupied. "There is plenty of light, and in
a short time we shall be at the next spring." Such, we may suppose, was
the gist of the conversation between the leading goose and the others.
No doubt it had given its orders at sunset, remarking: "To-night we will
stay at the spring on the shore of the small lake, where we rested last
spring." All were agreed, and the flock, flying in a wedge, had
gradually dipped lower towards the ground. But when they had passed over
the hills which concealed the spot from view, and saw the frozen lake
glancing like a mirror in the moonshine, the leading goose called out,
"Men! we cannot stay so near to tents and fires. Up again, and onwards."
And all the flock answered: "We can rest at the next spring in the
valley behind the hills to the south." That was the conversation I heard
above my tent when all was quiet in the camp. Perhaps the lively chatter
was about something else, but I think that I interpreted the wild geese
correctly. For it is quite certain that they hold consultations on their
long journeys, and discuss their plans. And why should they not be
endowed with intelligence? Why should they speed away at random like
soulless flying-machines? They are just as dependent as ourselves on the
earth and winds. If they can cover 120 miles on a clear, calm day, they
must take a longer time over the same distance when storm and contrary
winds prevail. Therefore they cannot every year pass the nights at the
same springs, but must adapt their arrangements to circumstances. But
the wild geese know every spring along the course they follow twice a
year, and when they are tired they settle at the first they come to. On
my travels in various parts of Tibet I have come to the conclusion that
the same parties or tribes of wild geese, which have for generations
bred at the same watercourses, follow always the same routes through
Tibet. The geese which we saw on this occasion came, let us say, from
one of the lakes along the Tarim river below Shah-yar, and intended to
spend the winter in the neighbourhood of Khatmandu, the capital of
Nepal. In spring they return to the Tarim lakes, and follow exactly the
same course as in autumn, and so on from year to year. The young ones,
which are born on the Tarim, make the journey over the mountains for the
first time in autumn, but they remember the way in the following autumn,
and afterwards the time comes when they in turn teach their young ones
the position of the sources. Thus the knowledge of the route is never
lost in the family, and the leading geese would never dream of trying
any other course. We had already on several occasions seen wild geese
flying southwards, but they had certainly taken other roads, come from
other breeding-places, and had other destinations. They belonged to
other tribes. If it were possible to draw on a map of Tibet all the
tracks of the various tribes of geese, they would form a whole system of
lines running more or less in a meridional direction. Perhaps many of
these lines would in parts merge into one another like the fine ripples
on the surface of a sand-dune. Perhaps now and then a line runs in sharp
zigzags. It may then be taken for granted that it was thus drawn in the
most remote antiquity when the patriarchs of each tribe first sought out
the way from one spring to another. Each tribe is divided into a number
of communities, and each of these into families. Probably all the geese
of one community are closely related to one another. Each community
remains together on the journey, but how do they choose a leader? It may
be supposed that the oldest goose flies at the head of the flock, for it
must be the most experienced, and if it dies the next oldest is its
natural successor. I am fond of the wild geese, and admire their
intelligence and their wonderful bump of locality; we shall hereafter
come into closer contact with them.
In camp 48 we remained fully three days inactive, and the south wind
howled continuously: "Patience! Patience!" To us the days seemed very
long, but the animals must have rest. On the first morning horse No. 39
lay dead on the ground, and was entered with the same number in the list
of the dead.
The wolves were impudent, and howled just outside our camp, but they
were more polite after Tundup had shot a brute, which ran off on to the
ice, and lay down to die in the middle of the lake. The scoundrel soon
had as companion a raven, which had taken into his head to peck the
manes of the living horses and disturb them while grazing. At nine
o'clock in the evening the thermometer indicated -6°, and in the night
-18½°.
In the morning Muhamed Isa reported that the dung-gatherers had
discovered something which they described as ruins of stone houses.
Robert and I went at once to look at them. We found that there actually
were three quadrangular walls constructed of slabs of schist, probably
of very ancient date. They rose but just above the ground, and on
digging we discovered that they went down fully 3 feet. Probably they
had been constructed only as foundations and wind screens for permanent
tents, for such walls were afterwards met with on several occasions.
There was no trace of a hearth. The Ladakis, who had travelled much in
west Tibet, thought that the place had once been the permanent abode of
some Changpas who had wished to avoid paying taxes to the Devashung, or
the Government in Lhasa.
At any rate this discovery had a very encouraging effect on us. We had
not seen men for 65 days, and now we found the first sign indicating
their proximity. We felt invigorated, and the tale-teller in Muhamed
Isa's tent in the evening was longer winded than ever. He sang a song,
all joining in the chorus. Now we must keep a sharp look-out in the
country before us, for this first sign of man must surely be succeeded
by others.
The caravan moved on towards the east-south-east on October 28 in a very
violent south-west storm. A mule had died in the night, and so we had 36
baggage animals, but since the last inspection the provisions had
diminished by nearly three loads. In this camp, also, superfluous
articles were left behind. I threw away _Sonja_, by Blicher-Clausen.
Robert and I sat at the morning fire, while the men saddled the horses,
and I amused myself by tearing out one leaf of the book after another
and throwing the whole collection into the air, where the wind swept the
flying leaves with tremendous velocity to the north-east. The ten
ravens puzzled their heads as to what new species of flying creatures
they could be, but made little effort to get out of their way, and the
dogs soon gave up the attempt to pursue the leaves; but one of Tsering's
pack-horses was so alarmed that it shied, broke loose, and rushed up the
hills, and was not caught again for a good half hour. Meanwhile Sonja
swept on, fluttering over mountain and valley, much to my satisfaction,
for I had felt annoyed the evening before because she left her
good-hearted husband. When and where would these leaves come to rest
after flying over endless stretches of unknown country? Certainly a book
has seldom had so wide a distribution.
We follow the track of the caravan in an open, flat valley between low
mountains. After riding some hours we were so perished that we had to
make a halt in a hollow way and light a fire. My small white Ladak horse
was in excellent condition; he treated the cold and other disagreeable
incidents with philosophical calmness. The tall dapple-grey which I had
ridden from Leh was usually off duty, for he showed symptoms of
exhaustion. At this day's camp there was no water, only snow in a cleft
of the mountain. Yet we were in very high spirits, for the men had seen
fireplaces built of three stones laid crossways, which were intended to
hold a kettle. It must have been a long time, however, since they were
used, for neither ash nor soot was seen among them. An iron ladle, too,
was found, such as the Tibetans use to melt lead for bullets. So either
robbers or hunters must have halted here sometime or other.
[Illustration: 83. THE AUTHOR, ROBERT, AND REHIM ALI ATTACKED BY A
WOUNDED YAK.]
CHAPTER XIV
IN THE LAND OF THE WILD YAK
We broke up our camp on the morning of October 29, after a night of 49
degrees of frost, at an early hour, so as to find water for our thirsty
animals as soon as possible. A small lake and two springs we passed were
frozen as hard as rock; beside one lay the skull of a yak, which had
evidently had its throat cut with a knife; we also saw two fireplaces on
the way, and at camp No. 50 a path, which, however, might have been worn
by wild yaks. We therefore were no doubt coming near to other men, and
we were always on the look-out for tents.
Next day the storm increased in strength, and it was only with the
greatest effort of will that I could use my hands for map-sketching. We
seemed paralyzed and could no longer think clearly. We were like the
field-mice, which run from one hole to another seeking to find shelter
from the wind and cold.
On arriving at a spring I slipped down wearily from my horse, and
thought I should be frozen before the fire was kindled. Muhamed Isa,
also, and four other men, were ill, and could not assist in setting up
the tents. When my tent was ready, I crept into bed in my clothes, boots
and all. While Robert and Tsering were covering me up with warm wraps I
was seized with violent ague, my teeth chattered, and my head ached
terribly. Robert, who had been trained in nursing in Dr. Arthur Neve's
school, now proved an excellent doctor, and took every care of me. As
soon as we were under cover he plunged into the study of Burroughs and
Wellcome's medical instructions. The Tabloid Brand Medicine Chest stood
open, as frequently happened, in my tent. Stanley, Emin Pasha, Jackson,
Scott, and many other travellers have prized this ideal travelling
dispensary as highly as myself. My case, a present from the English
firm, had been filled with especial regard to the climate of Tibet.
At ten o'clock at night Robert and Tsering undressed me. There were 47.9
degrees of frost in the night, and the storm howled dreadfully. Robert
took my temperature every two hours, and it rose to 106½°, high-fever
mark. As he told me after, he pondered whatever he was to do if I
remained for good at camp No. 51. I could not sleep, and Robert and
Tsering watched beside my bed in turn; glowing lumps of fuel were
brought in all through the night, and a burning candle was placed behind
a box, where it was protected from wind and draught. I was constantly
delirious and the men were much concerned, for they had never seen me
ill before.
Next day the fever had slightly abated, when Muhamed Isa slipped gently
into my tent to inquire how the Sahib was. He informed us that the
wounded yak was dead, and that, in cutting it up, two Tibetan bullets
had been found; also at three places hearths had been seen, which could
not be more than two months old, for ashes still lay among the stones.
So hunters had been here in autumn, and he was quite convinced that we
should soon meet with the first nomads.
It was still as the grave, only the storm howled and moaned. All the men
in the camp were afraid of disturbing me, but I gave orders in the
evening that they should sing as usual. I could not lift an arm without
help, and I lay hour after hour watching the curious lights in the tent.
Within, the stearin candle emitted a dull light, and the yellowish-red
blaze of the fire and the bluish moonlight penetrated from without. The
singing sounded melancholy and wistful, and was accompanied by the
howling of the storm.
On November 2 the storm still raged, having now continued to the sixth
day. I had slept a few hours, though the cold sank to 52° below
freezing-point. I was getting a little better, but I was still
extremely weak. Robert, who was troubled because his horse had died in
the night, read to me one of the novels we had stolen from Deasy's
depôt. Tsering and Rehim Ali massaged me in the Asiatic manner to
restore my strength. And so we arrived at the fourth evening. I had been
confined to my bed for four-and-eighty hours, the soil of Tibet seemed
determined to keep me, and perhaps I should be allowed only to dream of
the forbidden land at a distance.
Surely on November 3 the god of the winds must have said to the westerly
storm, "Six days shalt thou labour--on the seventh thou shalt become a
hurricane." Dust and sand penetrated the thin canvas and covered
everything in the tent. The men, who had led the animals to water, had
rings of dust round their eyes, and their faces were ashy grey. For my
part I felt like one of our poor worn-out brutes, which does not know
whether he will reach the next camp. Then I decided to remain here with
some of the men and some provisions, while Robert and Muhamed Isa went
in search of natives, whom they might send to fetch me. But no; I would
try to hold myself in the saddle, for I did not wish to remain in this
miserable fever-camp. I wore a whole wardrobe of winter clothes: several
trousers, my leather jersey, the ulster, fur coat, cap, and _bashlik_;
it was a heavy weight for my weak, tottering legs as I walked to my
horse and was lifted into the saddle.
We followed the shore of the small lake near our camp. But I soon
perceived, after nearly falling again and again, that the exertion was
too much for me, so we halted and lighted a fire. After a short rest we
rode on, and were delighted when at length we saw the smoke of our
caravan rising behind a hill, where it had camped by a source and had
found fireplaces erected last summer, with skulls and horns of tame
sheep around them. Yak dung was very plentiful; the source was,
therefore, a watering-place of wild yaks. A third of the men were really
ill, most of them suffered from headache, and all were more or less
indisposed. Robert alone was in good health, and he nursed us.
On November 5 the tracks of men became more frequent. A yak's skeleton
lay beside a hearth, and the ashes piled up among the stones could not
have been cold longer than the day before. We climbed up troublesome
hills and then descended into a gully leading down to a large valley
begirt with fiery red heights. A number of excavations, each with a heap
of sand beside it, attracted our attention. The sand contained gold, so
not ordinary nomads but gold-seekers had been here, probably every
summer, to dig for gold.
In the lower part of the valley warm springs burst forth with a
temperature of 57°, so that the water seems quite hot. A few yards
farther, however, it forms a large sheet of ice.
In the next valley, a hollow between precipitous terraced slopes, a huge
wild yak lay dead on the ground with twelve of our men standing round
it. Tundup Sonam had surprised a whole herd which had come down into the
valley to drink. The other animals had torn up the valley in headlong
flight, but this one, struck by a bullet, had made for the hunter, and
Tundup clambered up the edge of a terrace only just in time. The yak
remained at the foot, uncertain what to do, and received a second shot
in the heart.
I photographed him from several points of view before he was skinned. It
was not easy to raise him into a suitable posture; the twelve men had to
put forth all their strength. The raven-black coat of the beast formed a
strong contrast to the red soil; his long side fringes serve him as a
mattress when he lies down (Illustrations 68, 69).
On November 7 we skirted a lake; to the right we had steep mountains
with disagreeable cones of sharp-edged débris. Two troops of fine Ammon
sheep, numbering nine and five respectively, skipped with bold leaps
over the smooth abrupt rocks. Large numbers of hares were seen, and
frequently the holes of marmots where the inmates were still
hibernating. Two Tibetan cairns proved to us that we were on the right
way, that is, the one the gold-diggers use.
[Illustration: 84. REHIM ALI FALLS TO THE GROUND AND THUS RESCUES US
FROM THE FURIOUS YAK.]
Now we leave this part of the mountains on the right, and proceed along
the southern, open and extensive plain by the lake shore. There
grazed a herd of perhaps fifty yaks. Twenty antelopes, probably
frightened by the caravan, scampered away with elastic springs like the
shadow of clouds moving over the earth. Soon the tents and all the
details of camp No. 56 could be clearly distinguished, and we had only a
few minutes' march more, when even this short distance would have been
too far for one of us, if fate had so willed.
For close beside the tents, near our animals, a large black yak
appeared. Rehim Ali drew our attention to it, but we took no farther
notice of it. I took my last bearing of the tent, and was in the act of
laying down the ground on my map-sheet, when a shot cracked from Muhamed
Isa's tent, and the yak, evidently hit, rushed madly northwards. We
followed him with our eyes, expecting to see him fall. But no; he turned
and came running wildly towards us. Rehim Ali's face was contorted with
frantic fright, and he raised his hands to heaven, crying out, "Allah,
Allah, we are lost!" The brute drew near in a cloud of dust, his fringes
waved and flew about, and he lowered his horns for a rush. I did not
move, for I thought that he had not seen us and would turn back again,
but he held on his way and grew larger to the sight. Rehim Ali ran
screaming to the tents, but suddenly turned round, and as our horses
took fright and galloped off, he caught hold of the tail of Robert's
steed, hoping to follow us at a run. The wild chase swept quicker and
quicker over the plain, and the yak changed his course and made a
circuit towards us in a mad rage. His breath rose like clouds of steam
from his nostrils, his muzzle almost grazed the ground--he was ready to
catch his victim on his horns, toss him into the air, and stamp him to a
jelly under his forefeet. Nearer and nearer I heard him, panting and
gasping like a steam saw. Turning in my saddle I saw him about twenty
yards off, his small, fierce eyes blazing with fury and madness and
rolling so as to show the blood-stained whites. It was a question of a
second. I rode straight to the right; my horse and I would be the first
to be caught on the horns of the yak. Now the horses stretched their
legs like bow-strings. I tore off my red _bashlik_ and waved it behind
me to attract the yak and stop him, but he did not look at it. Then I
tore my belt off in order to take off my fur coat and throw it over the
yak's eyes and blind him, just when he was on the point of thrusting his
horns into the belly of the horse and stiffening the muscles of his neck
for the toss. A second more and the yak would hoist the horse, break my
back, and trample on my chest--I seemed to hear the cracking and
breaking of my ribs, and I well deserved it, for it was my fault alone
that all the animals left behind us had to suffer so much. Then was
heard a heart-rending cry of despair. As I turned quickly round, I saw
Rehim Ali with uplifted arms fall senseless to the ground, and the yak
turn and rush at him. He remained prostrate, a lifeless mass, and I saw
the yak, with lowered horns, and his purple tongue hanging far out of
his mouth, dash down upon him in a cloud of dust. Now all the horses
made off, and I had some difficulty to keep my seat on my grey Ladaki.
When I looked round again, a second later, the yak was running up the
valley with his dust cloud about him.
"Turn back and see if there is still a spark of life in Rehim Ali, and
if he can still be saved," I called out.
"Master, it is too dangerous, the yak is still near, and may come back.
Muhamed Isa and all the rest are running out of the camp to look after
Rehim Ali."
But I had already turned, and I rode to the fallen man. He lay dead on
his face with arms outstretched--both Robert and I thought, at any rate,
that he was dead. But when we had dismounted beside him he slowly turned
his head, and with a look of horror waved his hand, as much as to say:
"Do not trouble about me, I am dead as a mouse." We could not repress a
smile when, turning him over like a joint at the fire, we examined his
bones and joints, and found that the fellow was still sound, though
severely bruised. The yak had trodden upon the inner side of the left
shank, where a bloody stripe showed the mark of his hoof.
Two strong men bore the fallen hero to Muhamed Isa's tent, where he was
well tended by Robert. He seemed stupefied for several days, and we
feared that his adventure had affected his brain. He did not eat or
speak, and had to travel on horseback, and one of his fellow-countrymen
was told off to attend on him. After some time, when his head was clear
again, he was able to tell us his impressions. When he saw the yak
preparing to attack my horse, he turned round and threw himself flat on
the ground. Perhaps irritated by the red and violet _chapkan_ floating
about in the air, the yak left me, made an unexpected change of front,
and rushed with lowered horns on the fallen man. He had half
unconsciously made a quick movement to one side, and the horns had
struck the ground instead of entering his body, and so close beside his
head that Rehim Ali felt the panting breath of the brute in his face.
Then he lost consciousness, and did not revive till we came up, and then
he thought that the yak was on him again. He had intended to save
himself by this manoeuvre, and thereby had become our deliverer. After
the adventures he had taken part in lately he had an immense horror of
Tibetan lakes and wild yaks (Illustrations 83, 84).
Temperature--16½° on the night of November 28. One would expect that the
temperature would fall with the advance of winter, but it remains
constant, owing in great measure to our progress southwards. Beyond a
small pass we came to a new longitudinal valley, where the country was
open towards the south-east. Game was abundant, spoors crossed one
another in all directions, and two bold yaks awakened in us greater
respect than before. At six places we saw large herds of wild asses, and
antelopes grazed on the plains. We lost a mule here, and had now 16
animals of both kinds.
Another day's journey across flat country. We were traversing the large
white patch of unknown land, and were approaching Bower's route at an
acute angle, though we were still rather far east of it. A wild yak ran
across our path, and we wondered if it were our enemy of the previous
day. Where we pitched our camp, No. 58, we found some hearths which
could not be more than a couple of days old. Our excitement and
eagerness increased day by day; now the uttermost margin of inhabited
Tibet could not be far distant. As I let my eyes rove over these red or
black, snow-capped or bare crests, I could fancy I could perceive a
whole host of dancing notes of interrogation, some in fantastic
draperies, mocking us because we had ventured without an escort into the
forbidden land, others motioning us onwards, but all doubtful and
speculative. Step by step, day by day, with failing strength, we
approached the solution of all these questions. Any moment a troop of
mounted men might appear on the horizon, bringing orders from the
Devashung that we must immediately evacuate the country and retire
northwards.
I was still convalescent, went to bed at seven o'clock, and was not much
the better for it, for I always felt terribly languid. Tsering was very
despondent because I did so little honour to his cooking. "How can the
Sahib regain his strength if he eats so little?" he used to remind me.
He was a comical fellow, Tsering, as he marched day after day with his
stick in his hand at the head of his detachment, self-conscious and
pompous as a chanticleer.
Late at night we heard the dismal, long-drawn howling of wolves close at
hand. We could tell from the wild complaining tone that hunger had made
the brutes bolder and that the odour of fresh meat excited them. They
were on the other side of the source, and Tundup Sonam stole off to
scare them away by firing into the troop, though there was small chance
of hitting one in the darkness. The brutes retired, but in the night
chased our animals, which scampered off to the north as though there
were a fire behind them. But the men followed their trail, and found
them at dawn a good day's journey from the camp.
On November 10 we had good ground again, and saw to the east-south-east
a lake which looked like a bright white ring, the middle being deep
blue. Near this day's camp, No. 59, were clear traces of a man who had
driven five tame yaks to the lake. The footprints were at most three
days old, and excited a great stir in the caravan. We were undoubtedly
close to human dwellings, and I thought with regret of the interval of
nearly three months during which we had no cause to dread hostile
tribes. We held a council of war: should we as long as possible avoid
contact with men, and keep out of the way of their tents, so that we
need not turn back until further progress became quite impossible? Or
should we seek out the nearest nomads at once, and beg them for
assistance? At this moment Tundup Sonam ran up out of breath. He had
been scouting to the west and had descried a black tent. I immediately
sent him to it with two other men, and gave them a handful of rupees.
But the news they brought from this first meeting with human beings was
not particularly interesting.
The tent was inhabited by a woman and her three children. She had come
from the district of Gertse in the south-west, and had covered the
distance in twenty-five short days' marches. She had arrived seventeen
days before with her two husbands, but both had returned a few days ago
to Gertse, after they had filled the tent for her with wild-ass meat.
She was daily expecting her parents, who were to keep her company for
three months, during which time they would live on game--yaks, kiangs,
and antelopes. She owned a few yaks and a small flock of sheep, which
she and the oldest child tended and milked. The inside of the tent was
very wretched, but a warm fire burned in the centre. She knew that four
more tents were standing in a neighbouring valley. When Tundup Sonam
told her that we were a party of Ladakis on a pilgrimage to the holy
places, she replied that we had chosen a very bad route, and would have
done better to take a more southern road where there were men. Her
geographical knowledge was limited. The country in which we were now she
called Gomo-selung. The gold placers we had passed lay in the La-shung
country, and the lake at camp No. 55 she called La-shung-tso. My
servants, who had already been in Tibet, held that this information was
reliable, for they had heard the names before.
Now, then, the ice was broken. After seventy-nine days of complete
isolation from the outer world, some of our men, at least, had seen
human beings. But other connections would soon follow this lonely woman,
this daughter of the wilderness, this real lady of the mountains, and
again we discussed the line of policy we must adopt. The woman dwelt
alone, and no news of our approach could be conveyed through her
instrumentality to the south. We could, then, take the matter for the
present quite coolly as heretofore, and when we were surrounded on all
sides by nomads, among whom reports are rapidly dispersed, we must then
think of hastening our movements.
We granted the animals a day's rest, for the pasturage was good, and it
was pleasant to spend this day under canvas. The storm whistled and
howled through the grass and round the stones. Everything that was light
and loose was blown away, and the ground was swept clean. The sky was
cloudless and the air clear, the wild commotion was only in the layer of
air close to the ground, and the important part played by the wind in
the deformation of the surface was evident; in such a storm huge masses
of material must be removed from their original position.
In the night the storm ceased all of a sudden, and it became so still
all at once that I awoke. It was as though we had encamped by a
waterfall which in an instant ceased to roar. One starts up and wonders
what has happened, but one soon becomes accustomed to the stillness, and
finds the absence of the noise and the draught a relief.
[Illustration: 85, 86. THE FIRST TIBETANS.]
CHAPTER XV
THE FIRST NOMADS
Sad news again on the morning of November 12: two of our best horses
were dead, and a third, which had carried two boxes, made in Stockholm,
all the way from Leh, was at the point of death. All three had been
sound on the preceding evening, and they died with exactly the same
symptoms. They became giddy, lost control of their legs, fell down, and
were unable to get up again. I hoped to rescue the remnants of my
caravan, and was already thinking of the time when I could lead the poor
beasts to mangers in Shigatse full of sweet-smelling clover, and now
those that we had reckoned the strongest had broken down. Now only 13
horses were left, and the loads would soon be too heavy for the
survivors.
But it had not come to that yet, for this day, which commenced so sadly,
brought us joy before the sun went down. Following the track of the
caravan we rode among hills, and saw below us camp No. 60 in a deep
valley. I had just entered my tent when Muhamed Isa announced that
Tundup Sonam was coming from the upper valley in the company of two
Tibetans, one mounted, the other on foot. Timorous, and doubtful whether
Tundup Sonam had allured them to a robber band, the Tibetans laid their
long clumsy guns on the ground and came forward cautiously. Tundup had
needed all the fascinations of his eloquence to induce them to come with
him. He had told them that we were pilgrims accompanying an eminent lama
from Ladak to the holy places: Then they had answered that they would
come and show their reverence for His Holiness, and bring with them a
sheep's stomach full of butter, and another with goat's milk, as a
testimony of their deep respect. Muhamed Isa, who was accustomed to deal
with Tibetans, allayed their fears, taking them into his tent and
talking and joking with them. Then they were brought to me, and they
laid their presents on the ground, fell on their knees, put out their
tongues, and made a low obeisance. Instead of a holy man they found a
European, but seemed by no means displeased with the change. Muhamed Isa
acted as interpreter. They must first give us information on the
geography of the country and the character of the land through which our
route lay. The information received from the lady of the mountains was
confirmed in every respect, and they told us that we should meet with no
men for several days, but after that should pass black tents daily.
Our guests might be fifty and forty years old respectively. The elder
was quite a typical specimen, more like an ape than a man; the younger
looked as though he had already met with many adventures, and he would
have passed very well for a robber chief (Illustrations 85, 86).
The conversation now commenced may have little intrinsic interest, but
to us in our condition it was as exciting as a tale--our salvation was
involved.
"How long is it by the nearest way to Shigatse?''
"Four long, or five short, days' march."
"Will you guide us?"
"Yes, if we are paid to do so."
"How much do you want?"
"That the Bombo Chimbo (great chief) shall decide himself."
"Have you any horses you can sell us?"
"We have two, but we will not sell them."
"Have you any yaks for sale?"
"Yes, we will sell five, if we get 20 rupees for each."
"Will you give us some of your sheep?"
"You may have six, if you will pay 4 rupees a head."
"Good. Bring all the animals you are ready to sell, and if we are
satisfied with them you shall be well paid."
"The Bombo Chimbo must remain here till to-morrow if we are to do this."
It was then agreed that we should remain. But I knew the Tibetans, and
was aware that they promise much and perform little. We therefore kept
the fellows with us for the night, and they slept in Muhamed Isa's tent.
In the evening they were enraptured by the tones of our flutes, and felt
so much at home that their tongues were loosened, and rattled like
praying-mills. I heard their cackling until I went to sleep.
And this night I slept well. After eighty days of complete solitude we
again had men as guests in our tents; we had obtained fine, rich goat's
milk, and next day we should feast on well-fed mutton; we had received
information about the country and the marches before us on the way to
our far-off destination. And what was best of all, our veterans, our
caravan animals, would get help. And this help was a boon from heaven;
for this day, after we had lost three more horses at once, and when
Rehim Ali must unfortunately be reckoned among the baggage, the loads
had become too heavy for the animals. The future seemed more promising.
Certainly the ridge of the Samoma-sakcho mountains did not exhibit a
more purple colour in the evening light than the mountains which we had
seen glowing in a grand display of colours on many a lonesome night; the
blue smoke of the camp-fires danced a fairy dance on the steppe grass
just as before, and the night came down just as dark and cold over the
mountains to the east, but all around us to-day inspired us with
cheerfulness and hope.
The new day had hardly broken when our two Changpas set out homewards
with some of the Ladakis, to make preparations for the great business
transaction. Two hours later we were the fortunate owners of five fine
yaks, which, the Tibetans affirmed, could easily carry four boxes each,
whereas our horses and mules had carried only two. One of the yaks was
to take over the boat, and the horse which had carried it from Lake
Lighten was relieved of the work. I breathed freely again when I saw the
faithful animal without anything to carry. Then we bought four sheep at
4 rupees each, and exchanged our last three sheep for two fresh ones,
paying 2 rupees in addition. At the Gomo lake our last eight goats
obtained their well-earned rest, being exchanged for as many Tibetan and
a money payment of 1 rupee a head. In the evening I had three times as
much milk as usual, and richer and better than our exhausted goats had
supplied. Both parties were thoroughly satisfied with the bargain
(Illustration 88).
Good old Changpas! The wandering cavaliers of the wilderness came to us,
looking picturesquely savage with their black coarse hair hanging down
over their shoulders and back, and making their furs greasy, with long,
dark matchlocks on their shoulders, clumsy sabres and knives in their
belts, and mounted on small, tough, long-haired horses. Though wild and
dirty, they were yet kindly, friendly and good-tempered, and were
certainly not cold in their old dingy fur coats. The elder wore a small
round fur cap, the younger a _bashlik_ of fur, which covered his whole
head except the face. They had their provisions and all kinds of other
articles they wanted on their journey stuffed into their fur coats in
front, and from the belts which held their fur coats together, hung
knives, awl, flint and steel, pipe and tobacco pouch, which swung and
knocked together at every step. They wore felt boots, originally white,
but now black and worn-out, but had no trousers--it must be far too cool
to sit trouserless in the saddle with 36 degrees of frost.
As they came from Gertse, the country to the south-west, they had hardly
any knowledge of the region through which we were to travel, but they
thought that we should require at least fifty days for the journey to
Shigatse. They pass the winter in the Gomo district, living on the game
there. They could easily serve a little breakfast with which the most
exacting gourmand might be satisfied. Is not the following menu
tempting?
A bowl of goat's milk with rich yellow cream.
Yak kidneys, fried a golden yellow in fat.
Marrow from yak bones, toasted over the fire.
Small, delicate pieces of tender, juicy meat from the vertebræ of the antelope, laid before the fire and slowly browned.
Antelope head, held in the flames with the hide and hair on till it is blackened with soot.
Their taste is in general very different from ours. When they have
killed a wild ass, they cut it up and keep the pieces in the tent, piled
up around it as far as possible from the fire. The longer it has lain
there, the better it is supposed to taste. The Changpas prefer to eat
their meat raw, hard, dry, and old. They take out from the recesses of
their fur coats a yak's rib, which looks more like a piece of blackened
wood than anything edible. Then the knife is brought out, and the hard
meat is removed in strips or lumps from the bone. Chinese brick-tea is
their greatest luxury, and the thicker and dirtier it is, the better
they like it. They stir it up with a piece of butter.
Like the wild geese, they have learned by traditional experience where
the best camping-grounds are. One may be sure that their tent is always
pitched at places where there is little or no wind; that there is good
pasture at hand for their tame yaks, sheep, goats, and horses, if they
have any; that good hunting-grounds are to be found not far from the
tent, and that water is always to be had. At the Gomo lake they have
excellent table-salt cost free. When their domestic animals have eaten
up the grass around, and the game has been frightened away, they
transfer their camp to another district. The tents are set up at the
same spots where their forefathers have pitched them for innumerable
generations, and where frequently old votive cairns have been erected of
loose stones to propitiate the spirits that rule over mountain and dale.
To the Changpas, or "inhabitants of the north," who spend the winter in
the north, the chase is the chief resource, and cattle-breeding is of
secondary importance. The Tibetans in Gertse and Senkor, on the
Bogtsang-tsangpo, or in Naktsang, who own large herds, do not move
northwards in winter, for with them hunting is an occasional occupation.
The hunting tribes pursue the yak, the kiang, and the antelope. In hilly
country they stalk them against the wind. Constant life in the open air
has wonderfully sharpened their intelligence. They know the
peculiarities and habits of the yak as well as he does himself, and
know how far they may go without overstepping the limits of his
acuteness. They know that his senses of sight and hearing are not
particularly well developed, but that he soon scents the huntsman, so
that the attack must be made from the lee side. Though he goes on the
chase in his thick fur coat, the huntsman creeps as noiselessly and as
lithe as a panther till he approaches within range of his prey. Then he
lays his gun on the rest, strikes fire from the flint with his steel,
catches it in tinder, sets light to the end of the match, and sees that
the hammer brings the fire at the right moment into the touch-hole. All
is done so quietly, so deliberately and carefully, that the hunter has
every prospect of bringing down the game.
Another time he watches for hours together behind a wall which he or his
forefathers, perhaps his great-great-grandfather, has built beside a
spring, and waits with angelic patience for a troop of wild asses, which
come at sunset to quench their thirst. But the antelopes, wild sheep,
and gazelles are too wide-awake to be caught by the most skilful hunter.
Yet the antelopes do not always succeed in escaping his cunning toils.
He lays nooses for them on the old established antelope paths; among the
hunting nomads in the interior of Tibet, the quantities of antelope meat
garnishing the sides of the tents are astonishing.
[Illustration: 87. SMOKING CAMP-FIRES IN THE HEART OF CHANG-TANG.]
[Illustration: 88. OUR YAKS, BOUGHT FROM THE FIRST TIBETANS.]
While the men are away, the women look after the yaks and sheep, and
when the hunter returns at sunset he sees the former chewing the cud in
front of the tent, while the latter are shut up in a pen-fold of stone.
The yaks remain at night near the tents, and hence the dung, the only
fuel of the nomads, has not to be carried far. When it is dark, all
gather round the fire on which the tea-kettle boils. Then they talk of
the monotonous incidents of their life, of the day's bag, the condition
of their herds, and the work of next day. One mends his soles with sinew
and an awl, another dresses a yak hide with his hands, and a third cuts
straps from the skin of a wild ass. Their life seems void and
uneventful, but they have no wants--they know nothing better. They have
a severe struggle for life in this unproductive corner of the world,
which is called the Chang-tang, or the north plain, where it has been
their fate to be born. Amidst poverty and danger they live victorious in
God's free Nature; the awful storms are their brothers, the lordship of
the valleys they share with the wild beasts of the desert, and at night
the everlasting stars twinkle over their black tents. If they were given
comfortable huts down south in the shade of walnut trees, they would
always be longing for the grand solitude of the mountains, for the icy
cold, the drifting snow, and the moonlight of the peaceful winter nights
in Tibet.
Then Death comes one day and looks in through the tent door; in vain is
the constant prayer "Om mani padme hum" repeated; vain are all attempts
to conjure or propitiate the evil powers that are inimical to the
children of men. Bent, wrinkled, and grey the old hunter finishes his
course, and is borne on strong shoulders to some shallow cleft near the
mountain crest, and there abandoned to the wolves and birds of prey.
When his grandchildren are grown up, they do not know whither he has
been taken; in life he had no abiding dwelling-place, and after death he
has no grave. And no one asks where the bones of the dead are bleaching,
for the place is haunted by evil spirits.
November 14. Calm! In the night there were again 49 degrees of frost,
but it was fairly warm riding southwards towards the sun. The two horses
of the Tibetans had stampeded. But if this were a trick contrived to
give them an excuse for making off themselves, it did not succeed this
time; for I sent off one of them with two of my men to look for the
horses, while the other had to accompany me and tell me the names of the
places we passed. We did not know our men yet, and therefore did not
dare to let them out of our sight, or they might have despatched mounted
messengers to give information to the authorities in Gertse. Then we
should have been ordered to halt sooner than it suited us. Now we could
feel easy, at least till we came to the next tent. But the horses were
recovered, and the old man stumped after us leading them by the bridle.
Then we rode together between the hills and over small passes. Here,
too, gold occurred in two places. Men come every summer, dig up the
sand, throw it into the air, and collect the grains of gold on a cloth
spread out on the ground. If the output is abundant, the number of
gold-diggers is doubled the following summer.
In camp No. 61, also, the Tibetans showed no desire to desert us; they
were friendly and attentive, helped us in unloading and setting up the
tents, collected fuel, and undertook to be answerable for the horses.
They seemed not to have the slightest suspicion that the country was
forbidden to us, and not an echo of any especial orders had reached them
from the south. I could not learn how matters stood. The plan of my
journey had been alluded to in the Indian press, and there was nothing
to prevent tidings being carried to Lhasa through Darjiling or Pekin;
and I knew also from experience how soon an order against a European is
handed on among the nomads. I had counted on hurrying on, like a thief
in the night, as soon as possible after the English mission to Lhasa,
and appearing on the scene before the Tibetans had quite made up their
mind about the political state of affairs. But perhaps I was wrong,
perhaps stricter regulations than ever had been passed.
The western shadows move over the plain; only in the east are the hills
deep crimson, in the west they show a pitch-black outline. Another night
spreads out its dark-blue pinions, and rises up to the zenith, driving
before it an expiring reflexion of the setting sun. When the stars begin
to shine we are out of doors examining the animals, which rejoice at
being more lightly loaded on the march. At seven o'clock I am massaged
and go to bed. At nine o'clock Robert comes with the hypsometer, and we
talk for an hour. Then the light is allowed to burn till it flickers
out. I lie a long time awake, watching the shadows come and go, as the
wind shakes the canvas. I gaze at them till they turn into monsters and
wild yaks, dancing mockingly round my prison. Now it is striking
midnight in the towns of Siberia and India which lie on our meridian,
and at length comes the deliverer sleep and drives away the
shadow-pictures: they melt away and vanish on the horizon, which
recedes more and more into the distance, no longer bounded by the thin
web of the tent. Now a low murmur seems to call to mind forests,
meadows, and small rocky islands. I dream that a strong hand leads me to
a parting in the ways. It points to a road, and a voice tells me that
this will lead me to a land of peace, hospitality, and summer, while the
other leads to dangers and privations among dark lofty mountains. When
Tsering brought the brazier in the morning, I was glad that I had in my
dream chosen the latter road without hesitation.
We penetrated further and further into this mysterious Tibet. During the
next day's march we passed a succession of deserted fireplaces, and in
some places saw rows of stone cairns to entice the antelopes into
snares. Then we ascended a valley, in which a small strip of ice
gradually expanded into a cake, filling all the space between the firm
slabs of greenstone. The Seoyinna came in sight--a dark mountain to the
south, which would remain visible for a couple of days longer.
Our Tibetans are already as intimate with us all as though we had been
friends from childhood, and say that they have never met with such
decent people. The elder is called Puntsuk, the younger Tsering Dava. We
sit for hours together at Muhamed Isa's fire and talk pleasantly, and I
take notes as they describe to me in detail all the routes in Tibet they
are acquainted with. Tsering Dava has accomplished the pilgrimage to
Tso-rinpoche, or the holy lake Manasarowar, which I long to reach, and
which has been the subject of my dreams for many a day. The two men were
to accompany us only three days more; they had left their yaks and sheep
to the care of their wives and children, and wolves were extraordinarily
numerous; otherwise they would have travelled any distance with us. They
had arrived from Gertse nineteen days before, and intended to stay six
months; forty or fifty parties come every year from Gertse to this
country.
They told us that the Tokpas, or gold-diggers, when they go up to the
goldfields for two or three months, take as provisions meal and meat,
which are carried by their sheep and yaks. When the provisions are
consumed they return home, passing the salt lakes, where they load their
animals with salt, which they barter in inhabited districts for barley.
Thus they make a twofold profit on their journey, and can live the rest
of the year on their gains.
In the evening a dead horse, emaciated and wretched, lay on the ice in
our valley. I had procured him for 70 rupees from a dealer in Leh, who
in December 1901 had bought my last nine camels. Next morning a mule
died just as unexpectedly. He looked brisk and sound, and allowed
himself to be loaded as usual, but had not gone a hundred paces when he
fell dead. The two small Tibetan horses, which travel with us, take a
great interest in their fellows; but they do not seem quite sure that
the animals, so thin and wretched, are really horses. At this day's
camp, No. 63, we saw them run up to their masters for two large pieces
of frozen antelope flesh, which they eagerly ate out of their hands like
bread. They are just as fond of yak or sheep's flesh, and the Tibetans
say that this diet makes them tough and hardy. We cannot help liking
these small shaggy ponies, which live to no small extent on the offal of
game, are at home in the mountains, and bear rarefied air with the
greatest ease; their lungs are as well adapted to it as those of the
wild asses. The cold does not trouble them in the least: they remain out
all through the night without a covering of any sort, and even a
temperature of -22.7°, which we had on the night of November 17, does
not affect them. Though they are not shod, they run deftly and securely
up and down the slopes, and the men on their backs look bigger than
their horses. We notice with great amusement how heartily they greet
each other at every camp. Puntsuk, who shows Muhamed Isa the way, rides
a small bay pony, which is already grazing when we appear. As soon as
the pony catches sight of his grey comrade with Tsering Dava he neighs
with delight, cocks his ears, and runs up to him; and the grey one
exhibits just as much satisfaction. This is very different from the
conduct of our dogs, which fight wildly as soon as they see each other.
Now we passed the Seoyinna mountain; one flank was dotted over by
numerous wild yaks engaged in feeding, and Tundup Sonam shot two. My men
took the best joints with them, the rest of the meat our guides would
fetch on their way home. They were evidently much impressed by Tundup
Sonam's skill, but Dava Tsering declared that he had shot more than
three hundred yaks in his lifetime, which was probably no exaggeration,
seeing that these men live on the products of the chase.
Now we ascend rapidly to the Chak-chom-la pass. Tsering Dava rides in
front. His little pony trots up the ascent. When we have still a good
distance to cover, we see the profile of the man and his horse on the
summit, sharply defined against the sky. There stands a cairn of granite
blocks, and many trails of gold-diggers run at a height of 17,825 feet.
Sitting beside a fire, rendered necessary by the cold and the wind, we
gaze southwards over a vast extent of country, a chaos of yellow,
reddish, and black crests. No plains appear between them, and we suspect
that we have troublesome ground before us. Near at hand, towards the
south-south-east, a flat basin with a small lake occupies a large
expanse. We ride down a very steep path to the camp where the Tibetans
proposed a day's rest on behalf of the yaks we had purchased.
In the course of the day we settled accounts with our guides, who had
been so friendly and helpful, and who now wished to return to their bare
cold mountains where the winds and wolves howl in rivalry. They received
each 3 rupees a day as recompense, and a sheath-knife from Kashmir, and
a whole heap of empty tin cigarette-boxes, which seemed to please them
more than the money. And then they vanished, swiftly and lightly as the
wind, behind the nearest hills, and we were alone again.
With 36 degrees of frost our nine Mohammedans celebrated their "Aid"
after Ramazan with flute, dance, and song, and with a freshly
slaughtered sheep. In the night the thermometer fell to -23°. The ink
was always freezing in my pen, even when I sat bending over the brazier;
after a few minutes my washing-basin contained only a mass of ice.
After a few hours' march we descried from a pass 22 grazing horses, 300
sheep, and some evidently tame yaks, and these were near a tent. Farther
to the west 500 sheep and a number of yaks were feeding. Five more tents
were pitched in a sheltered place in a deep valley, and a troop of
snarling dogs ran out to meet us. Men, women, and children turned out to
see what was the matter. The caravan encamped near, on the western shore
of the lake Dungtsa-tso, and presently received a visit from four
Tibetans. These, too, came from Gertse, had arrived ten days previously,
and intended to stay three months. The six tents contained 40 inmates,
who possessed together 1000 sheep, 60 yaks, and 40 horses. The oldest of
our new friends was a lame man of fifty-three years of age, and was
named Lobsang Tsering. He presented to me a dish of sour milk and a
bundle of joss-sticks, such as are used in temples. He was willing to
sell us three large yaks for 23 rupees, and we took them without a
moment's hesitation.
When the caravan had set out next morning two other Tibetans presented
themselves, very eager to sell us two more yaks. When I told them that
our money was on in front, they asked permission to go with us to the
next camp, where the purchase might be completed. That evening, then, we
were the fortunate owners of ten excellent yaks, and Tundup Sonam was
appointed to be their chief and leader. Our remaining mules and horses
now carried only very light loads, and I was rejoicing that I could keep
them all alive. But at this very spot another mule was frozen to death;
true, there were 59.2 degrees of frost.
Our day's march ran round the lake and into a broad valley extending in
a south-easterly direction. Some 150 kulans were peacefully grazing
among the tame yaks of the nomads. A youth acted as guide to the
caravan, and old Lobsang Tsering rode like a herald before me, mounted
on a fine yellowish horse, which he would not sell at any price. As he
rode he muttered prayers at an incredible pace--it sounded like the
buzzing of a swarm of midges about a lime tree on a summer evening. I
myself rode my dapple-grey from Yarkand again, in order that my small
white Ladaki might have a couple of days' rest.
The camp was pitched beside a pool of fresh water, where the most
wonderful sounds were emitted from the firm ice all night long. It
cracked and clappered, gurgled and snorted like camels and yaks, and one
might fancy that a bevy of water-nymphs were dancing under the icy roof.
The dogs barked furiously at the ice till they at last perceived that
this noise must be put up with like everything else.
At the evening fire Lobsang Tsering asked Muhamed Isa whether we had met
with Changpas at the Gomo. But Muhamed Isa had promised Puntsuk and
Tsering Dava not to betray them. Then Lobsang winked an eye and said
that Islam Ahun had already told him that we had not only seen nomads,
but had bought yaks from them and had taken them as guides for several
days. Muhamed Isa tried to turn the affair into a joke, and answered
laughing that Islam Ahun had concocted the story himself. But the old
man was sharp; he smiled cunningly, and seemed to regard the first
version as the more probable. It was a great advantage to us that we had
first come into contact with Gertse nomads, who were themselves
strangers in the country we passed through. They had received no orders
from Lhasa concerning us, and were beyond all comparison better disposed
and more friendly than the eastern Tibetans, who on my former journey
had sent off messengers at once to the south. But we now found that the
Gertse nomads were afraid of one another; the first had begged us to
tell no one that they had helped us, and had turned back at the right
moment in order not to be seen by their fellow-tribesmen from Gertse.
Lobsang Tsering did not seem to be of a timid disposition; he led us to
other tents, gave us instructions about the way to Bogtsang-tsangpo, and
was able to give us much interesting information. He told us, for
instance, that nearly four thousand sheep and several hundred yaks are
yearly employed in transporting salt from the lakes we had lately
passed, and that the salt was carried to Shigatse and Lhasa. From these
towns came most of the gold-diggers, and in the north were many other
gold-placers which we had not seen.
We soon perceived that Lobsang was a man of importance, for all showed
him the greatest respect, and we could see from his camp that he was
rich. He spoke with dignity, and with an educated, refined accent. In
his appearance he reminded me of a decayed actor, without a trace of
beard, and with an animated expression in his dirty, copper-coloured
face. Unlike the rest, who wore sheepskin caps, he sported a red turban,
and his fur coat was trimmed with red woollen stuff. In the front of his
coat all sorts of things were stuffed, among them a vile
pocket-handkerchief--a thick, coloured, square rag, constantly in use,
but never washed. There also he kept his snuff-horn, which he could
handle even in a wind with a certain dexterity. The fine yellow snuff
was scooped up on the tip of the forefinger under the protection of the
thumb-nail, and conveyed to its destination somewhat noisily.
Every evening Muhamed Isa made his report. This time he presented
himself with the following statement: "Sahib, Rehim Ali is still bad,
and he begs permission to offer a sheep to Allah."
"Very well, if he will be any the better for it."
"Oh yes, certainly, Sahib."
"I think it is all humbug, but it will do him no harm and the
Mohammedans will get an extra meal. I will give the sheep then."
"No, Sahib, that will not do; then the sacrifice would have no effect."
"Indeed. Can I have the kidneys for dinner to-morrow?"
"No, Sahib, only Mohammedans may eat of a sheep offered in sacrifice."
"Just so; of course in your opinion I am a _kaper_" (heathen).
He laughingly protested, but changed the subject. "Now we have 13 mules
and 11 horses, or 27 animals altogether, of the original caravan."
"Thirteen and eleven make only twenty-four," I replied.
"Oh! then I must count them again," said my conscientious caravan
leader, and he gave himself much unnecessary trouble to make the figures
agree. At last it proved that we had still twenty-five animals beside
the yaks.
CHAPTER XVI
OUR FORTUNES ON THE WAY TO THE BOGTSANG-TSANGPO
During the preceding five days we had covered forty-two miles in a
direction 33 degrees east of south, and on November 22 travelled a
little farther on the same course. We are now on a great, easily
recognizable road, consisting of about fifty paths running parallel to
one another, which have been worn by the sheep of the salt caravans and
the yaks of the gold-diggers. In the country Kebechungu, where nomads
were encamped, our new friends turned back. In this part of Tibet the
sharply-defined configuration of the mountains occurring farther east,
where longitudinal valleys alternate with lateral ranges, does not
prevail. Here one travels day after day among crowded hills of gentle
outline, and small, level expanses are much less common. No lofty
commanding mountain masses rise above this maze, and the eye searches in
vain for the isolated, glaciated summits seen in East Tibet.
The weather had been quite calm during the season of severe cold, but
when the storms returned at night, the temperature fell only to -4.7°
Next day it was hard riding. We marched to the south-south-east in a
strong south-west storm, and were almost suffocated in the gusts of
dust-laden air which swept along the ground. We suffer greatly and
cannot use our hands, the map-sheet is torn in pieces, and we wonder if
we shall live to reach the next camp. Our faces are distorted and assume
quite a different expression, for we involuntarily draw the facial
muscles together in the wind, to protect the eyes, producing a quantity
of fresh wrinkles which are filled with white dust. The eyes are
bloodshot and water, tears run down the cheeks, catch the dust, and
freeze. The lips swell and burst, and the skin round the nails cracks so
that the finger-tips bleed.
At last, more dead than alive, we reach the camp, where the men have,
with great exertion, set up Muhamed Isa's tent, and after many attempts
have induced the fire to burn, which, now that it has caught, blazes
with flickering tongues of flame and scatters sparks all round into the
gyrations of the whirlwind. We hasten to restore our circulation, but
that takes time. By degrees our facial muscles recover their elasticity
and return to their proper position, and we regain our former aspect;
there is no longer a twitch at the corners of our mouths when we laugh,
though, indeed, we have precious little cause for laughter. Half-a-dozen
of our remaining mules come up, attracted by the warmth. Sonam Tsering
wishes to drive them away, but I let the poor frozen creatures stay. The
fewer they become, the more carefully we look after the survivors, and
are always hoping to reach more hospitable country. There is, indeed,
little hope of it; the barley and maize are almost consumed, and there
is only one sack of rice left.
In such nights one longs for a warm bed. The noise outside is as though
artillery waggons were racing over a pavement of undressed stones. The
wind comes in gusts as though driven by pulsations. A gust is heard
whistling through the grass and dying away in the distance, only to be
followed by another which rushes down the mountains like a waterfall,
and seems determined to carry away the tent with it in its headlong
flight. One does not look back with regret on the day now drawing to a
close, but longs to get away--away from the Chang-tang.
November 24. In a month it will be Christmas Eve. Shall we remain
together so long? At the former camp the animals had no water, and at
to-day's camping-place also we found nothing but hard ice at the mouth
of a very narrow gorge, and consequently two mules passed away in the
night, and a third followed them in the morning. My dapple-grey was
suffering; I now rode a tall, yellowish horse which had carried the
boat, and afterwards the box of cooking utensils. The latter was
transferred to a mule, but he died before the next camp and a horse had
to fetch the box.
Four mules in one day! We had now only eight. The yaks, the splendid
yaks, carried all the baggage. When we left the bodies a troop of wolves
sneaked out of the ravines. Islam Ahun, who had travelled with Robert
and myself since Rehim Ali's adventure, tried to frighten them away, but
in vain. Four great vultures had already mutilated one of the corpses;
they must have begun early, for they were already satiated, and
staggered slowly away as we rode past. The ravens waited at some
distance for their turn to come.
Of 58 horses and 36 mules, 12 and 8 respectively now remained. The ratio
between the survivors was therefore nearly the same as between the
original numbers. It would, however, be hasty to infer that mules are as
efficient as horses in the highlands of Tibet. Had we had small, tough
Sanskar horses in the place of the Yarkand horses, the result would
certainly have been in favour of the horses. On the other hand, our
mules came from Poonch. Had we had Tibetan mules, they would probably
have held out better than the horses. But Tibetan mules are seldom to be
found in Ladak.
Lower down the valley we came to a _mani-ringmo_, a stone cist covered
with _mani_ slabs, and our men became quite lively at the sight, for it
reminded them of their home. We rode up a height with an extensive view.
To the south-east appeared rather a large lake, begirt with white fields
of gypsum and terraces. Crossing three rocky ridges running out to its
western shore, we reached the southern bank, where we encamped. This
must be the Rinakchutsen ("The hot spring of the Black Mountain"), for
every detail agreed with the description given us by Lobsang Tsering.
The date is November 25, the day I had fixed on, when with Colonel
Dunlop Smith, as the most likely date of our arrival at the
Dangra-yum-tso. The post must therefore be at the lake long before us.
The post? We did not know whether we should find on the shore a
hospitable tent or an impenetrable wall of soldiers and horses and a
fence of matchlocks.
This is the lake which Dutreuil de Rhins discovered in 1893 and named
"Lac Ammoniac." We did not cross his route, for he skirted the lake on
the east, we on the west side. But just to the south of the lake we
crossed Bower's route of the year 1891. We shall again remain for some
days in unknown country until we intersect Littledale's track of the
year 1895, mine of 1901, and Nain Sing's of 1873.
In the night the temperature sank to -27.8°, the greatest cold we had
hitherto experienced. We were, however, advancing southwards to lower
regions. Though the winter still continued, it could scarcely bring us
lower temperatures. For four days we travelled towards the noonday sun,
slowly marching over passes and through winding valleys, over small
plains, where kiangs enjoyed their free delightful life, over a
hard-frozen river, and by springs, round which emerald-green ice
glittered in the sun, past a flock of sheep and four tents, and finally
we emerged on to an open plain, enclosed by mountains, which sloped
towards the south and contained in the middle a lake nearly dried up,
where the crystallized salt and gypsum emitted a brilliancy like that of
fresh-fallen snow.
The country was called Mogbo-dimrop; at the foot of the red mountains we
descried six black tents surrounded by stone walls. Namgyal and Tundup
Sonam found only eight inhabitants, children, boys, and old men, for the
strong men and women had gone out with the cattle. These nomads belonged
to the province of Naktsang, and were under the rule of the Devashung,
the Government in Lhasa, and therefore could give us no information
about the country near the Dangra-yum-tso, where the nomads are under
the administration of Tashi-lunpo. They would be very glad to sell us
yaks and sheep if we would be so good as to wait here till the next day.
Then Muhamed Isa went off to the tents, and came back full of gloomy
forebodings. An elderly man from a neighbouring group of tents had come
to warn the others. He had declared in sharp commanding tones: "We know
that you have a European with you, and to such our land is closed. We
cannot stop you at present, but we shall take care not to sell you yaks
or sheep, and we cannot give you any information. It would be better for
you to make haste back again, or you will get into trouble."
"We are on the way to the Tashi Lama, who is expecting us."
"Here we have nothing to do with the Tashi Lama; we are under the direct
rule of the Government in Lhasa."
Tundup Sonam, who had also gone to the tents, noticed that two youths
were absent, and was convinced that they had been despatched as express
messengers to the nearest _Bombo_ or chief, in the south. We must
therefore make all haste to reach a district which was under the control
of Tashi-lunpo.
Later on a wanderer came to our camp. He was ragged and miserable, and
said that he was one of a party of 35 pilgrims from Nakchu, who with 600
sheep and 100 yaks had visited the holy lake and mountain in
Ngari-korsum, and were now on their way home to Nakchu, where they would
arrive in three months. The pilgrimage takes two years or more to
accomplish, for the people remain for days, and often weeks, together
where there is good pasturage. They followed the north side of the
Chargut-tso along an old established pilgrim route.
[Illustration: 89. "WHERE ARE YOU GOING?" THEY ASKED ME.]
We broke up our camp early on December 1, with a temperature of -24.2°,
which cost us the loss of another mule. He was at once devoured by the
wolves, which were so bold that they did not go away when we rode past.
When we had accomplished about half our march we came to a tent of which
two snappy light yellow dogs seemed to be the only masters. But no doubt
the inmates were afraid to show themselves, and examined us only through
their spy-holes. Near this day's camp there were more tents, and my
usual dealers obtained two yaks, three sheep, and a can of dirty milk.
Before the Tibetans would deal, they first inquired whether there was
not a _Peling_ (a European) in our party, and declared that they would
visit our camp to convince themselves that such was not the case. The
answer given them was that the principal personage in our company was
a _Kalun_, or high official, from Ladak, and that we had several
dangerous dogs. On that they gave up their visit. But when we started
off two of them were present, one of whom Muhamed Isa took as a guide.
The other remained standing by us and looked at me, trying to find out
whether I was a _Peling_ or a _Kalun_. He was certainly doubtful, for he
looked exceedingly disturbed as we rode off.
This day Robert and I lost our way. We had taken the Hajji as guide, but
he lost the trail, and stupidly wandered about aimlessly. As he had to
seek for the track again, we settled down on an open space beside a
fire, while the storm roared above our heads and dark threatening
snow-clouds swept over the mountains to the north. At last Muhamed Isa
became uneasy and sent out scouts, who at length found us out.
Camp No. 77 was situated in the higher part of a lateral valley, where a
spring was frozen into huge clumps of ice. At the fire we encountered
two strangers in red turbans, round which their locks were twisted, with
ivory rings, silver image cases, and fur coats trimmed with red and
green ribands; they were armed with sabres encased in silver-mounted
scabbards, richly encrusted with inferior coral and turquoise; they wore
new coloured felt boots, and had their black muskets hanging from their
shoulders. They belonged to the troop of pilgrims from Nakchu. Our
Ladakis, however, were convinced that they were come to spy upon us. If
we seemed too strong for them, they would only ask--as, in fact,
happened--if we had anything to sell; otherwise they would steal our
horses. Meanwhile they behaved very civilly, were exceedingly friendly,
and promised to return next morning with some yaks and sheep, which we
might buy.
"We will remain near you till it is dark and will return before
daybreak, for if any one saw us trading with a _Peling_, we should pay
dearly for it."
"You need not be afraid, we shall not betray you," I said.
"Even if you did betray us, Bombo Chimbo, we should not be easily
caught. There are many pilgrims on the way to the holy mountain
Kang-rinpoche (Kailas)."
"You may be quite at ease. Come with your animals, and you shall be well
paid."
"Good. But tell me, are you not the _Peling_ who came five years ago
with two companions to Nakchu, and was compelled by the Governor to turn
back?"
"Yes, that was I."
"We did not see you ourselves, but all the province was talking about
you, and you had Shereb Lama as a guide. You had also a large caravan
with camels and several Russians in your service."
"How can you remember all that?"
"Oh, it was repeatedly said that it would be a marvel if you escaped the
robbers."
I clearly perceived from this not very flattering popularity that, if
the common people were so well informed of my doings, the authorities
would find it easy to follow my track. Now the Tibetans knew that it was
I, and no one else, who was penetrating to the heart of the forbidden
land. How speedily this fact would be transmitted to the south! How
quickly would the Devashung bring us to a halt! Where would our grand
progress come to a standstill, checked by a peremptory "Thus far and no
farther," backed up by muzzle-loaders and sabres? Ah, where would my
dreams again be shattered and my aspirations cease to pulsate?
In the morning, when the pilgrims had returned, I was waked early and
went out to view the market that had been created in the wilderness as
by an enchanter's wand. The sun had not yet risen above the mountains,
the camp lay in icy-cold shadow, and the air was dull and raw. The smoke
circled round the fires in suffocating density, and through it I saw six
splendid yaks with wooden saddles. The Tibetans in their picturesque
costume, with sabres jingling at their sides, knives and amulets,
gesticulated vehemently, and in a torrent of well-chosen words extolled
the exceptional qualities of the grunting oxen. The result of the affair
was that all six yaks passed into our possession, and we also bought two
packets of brick-tea, a bag of Bhotan tobacco, and a couple of bladders
of butter. Robert piled up the shining silver coins in rows at the door
of my tent, and the eyes of the Tibetans shone with delight at the
sight of so much money, and at hearing the ring of the silver. An empty
tin and a tin cigarette box found their way, as usual, into the front of
their fur coats.
"Do you know the way to the south?" I asked.
"Yes, we know it well."
"If you are disposed to accompany us, you shall receive three rupees a
day."
"We should like to, but we dare not."
"What are you afraid of?"
"We have heard that to the south of this pass the country has been
roused and that soldiers are being collected to render your further
journey impossible. We must go quickly northwards. Our people are
already ahead."
"Where do you think that the soldiers are waiting for us?"
"That no one knows, but it is certain that they are gathering together."
"What, in your opinion, do they mean to do with us?"
"They will prevent you going farther southwards, but will do you no
harm."
"How do you know that?"
"Because the Bombo Chimbo was friendly last time, and did not refuse to
march westwards when he was required to do so."
"Which way will they ask us to take this time?"
"Probably the same as before, to Ladak."
The silver money rattled in the tin boxes as they mounted and
disappeared down the valley, while we, now owners of eighteen fine yaks,
struggled laboriously up the small steep pass overlooking camp No. 77.
We had a wide view southwards over side ranges separated from one
another by broad valleys. But it was not long before heavy snow drove us
away. Numbed with cold, we rode down to the level country.
From the plain the Hajji pointed back to the pass, where three riders
showed black against the snow; they rode down at a smart trot and soon
overtook us. Their black, snorting horses steamed, they carried guns at
their shoulder-belts, and sabres in their girdles. Their reddish-purple
mantles were rolled up on the saddle behind them, and they rode in
sheepskins, black and greasy from the soot of camp-fires, and the blood
and fat of slaughtered game, which in the course of years had hardened
into a smooth crust intersected with cracks. As we were the object of
their ride, they followed at our heels, slackened their pace, and rode
up to my side. A coarse fellow asked shortly and boldly (Illustration
89):
"What are you?"
"Pilgrims."
"Where do you come from?"
"From Ladak."
"Whither are you travelling?"
"To the Dangra-yum-tso."
"People from Ladak never come from the north."
"That is quite possible, but we come from the north. Where have you been
yourself?"
"With relatives who are camping to the east. We have two more days'
journey before we reach home."
Then they spurred their horses and rode after the caravan, which was
encamped at the foot of a rock. Here they let their horses graze,
behaved as though they were at home, and subjected Muhamed Isa to the
same cross-examination. Shortly before sunset they rode off westwards.
We had an uncomfortable feeling that something ominous, something
decisive, was brewing, and that our fate might perhaps be settled next
day. For it was clear as day that the men must have been spies. They
were a patrol of the numerous express messengers sent into all the
valleys by orders from Lhasa to beat up the men fit for military
service. Soon these incorruptible riders would crop up like mushrooms
from the ground.
The camp No. 78 and the weather were in harmony with our mood as we
awaited our fate. There was no pasturage, only ice, and the fuel was
scanty. Opaque clouds obscured the sky, snow was falling on the
mountains, the north-west storm moaned round the corners, and whirled
the ashes and scraps of dung about so that they found their way into my
tent, where the dogs lay rolled in a corner to keep themselves warm.
Again, on December 4, we left a mule behind. The land was covered with
snow, and the ride was fearfully cold, icicles hung from my moustache,
and my right foot lost all feeling. Hundreds of antelopes and kiangs
were grazing to the left of our road; the dogs dashed at them, but soon
came back again, for the animals would not move an inch. No men
appeared, and we thought that the real opposition would be encountered
at the Bogtsang-tsangpo, that is, where I had last time been forced to
turn westwards.
The next day's march took us over rather tiring hills where small points
of weathered porphyry cropped up here and there out of the ground.
Spoors of wild animals ran in all directions, and cattle and sheep
tracks were equally numerous.
But not even at the Bogtsang-tsangpo did anything suspicious appear. We
calmed down again and rested here on the 6th. Our store of rice and
flour was consumed; there was only a little for me, so that I had my
freshly-baked bread every morning and evening. The others had to live
exclusively on mutton, so that every day one sheep at least was needed.
Just as Tundup Sonam and two other men returned from a foray, bringing
with them six fat sheep, we saw six men on foot coming to our camp. Our
grand vizier, Muhamed Isa, received them before they were brought before
me. The principal among them thus introduced himself:
"I am the _Gova_ (District Chief) of this country, and have received
tidings from the north that you are on the way southwards. You passed
through here five years ago with twenty-five camels. I am now come to
inquire your name, how many servants and pack-animals you have, and
whither you intend to go."
"Why do you put these questions?"
"Because I must forward information to the Governor of Naktsang; if I do
not, he will cut my head off."
He was given the particulars he wanted, and then he asked:
"Will the Bombo Chimbo be so kind as to wait here until the answer comes
back?"
"Where is the Governor of Naktsang?"
"In Shansa-dzong on the Kyaring-tso."
"How long will it take a messenger to reach him?"
"Ten days."
"Then the answer will be here in twenty days. No, thank you, we have no
time to wait so long."
"But you must wait three days, until I have sent for a man who can
write."
"No, we are off to-morrow."
So far all had passed off well. Instead of encountering an armed force,
we found the country open for twenty days longer. But after that things
would be different; the Governor of Naktsang would not let me take
another step farther southwards; I knew him in the year 1901 and found
him inflexible. The least we could expect was that he would detain us
till the answer of the Government was received. Like Dutreuil de Rhins
and Grenard, I should have to wait one, perhaps even two, months.
Our chief, however, pursued a little private policy of his own, and said
that the relations of the Devashung and India were now friendly, and
therefore he would treat us as friends. He dared not sell us baggage
animals or provide us with guides without the consent of the Governor,
but he would gladly impart to us all the information we desired. He
mentioned some names according with those given by Nain Sing, and
showing how conscientiously the celebrated Pundit had performed his
task. The conical height to the north of our camp he named Tugu-lhamo;
the Gobrang is a ridge to the north-east of it, and a side valley is
called Ragok. Nain Sing gives the names Dubu Lhamo, Gobrang, and Ragu.
He reckons the distance to the Dagtse-tso, the salt lake by which I
encamped in 1901 at the mouth of the Bogtsang-tsangpo, at nine days'
journey. It is easily explained how Nain Sing fell into an error here,
and also represented the river as flowing into the Chargut-tso, for he
was not there himself and trusted too much to the frequently unreliable
information of the chiefs.
In the course of the evening the chief became still more friendly, and
proposed to travel with us for three days under the pretence of keeping
an eye on us. He would, however, keep some distance from us, and, like a
night-owl, join us only when it had become quite dark. In the night he
pitched his chieftain's tent, green above and white below, beside ours.
We passed quickly eastwards along the Bogtsang-tsangpo in only five and
a half short marches, partly close beside the river, partly along
parallel valleys which skirt its southern bank. On December 7 we lost
sight of it, but in the district Pati-bo it again emerged from a narrow
transverse valley. Eastwards the fall is extremely slight, and the river
winds in most capricious curves, so that the path touches the bank only
at the southern bends. A quantity of hearthstones and fenced-in
sheepfolds show that many nomads spend the summer on the
Bogtsang-tsangpo. The volume of water is very insignificant, for the
river is principally fed by sources which are called into existence only
by the autumn rains, and fail in winter. Thick ice lies over it all, and
is deeply hollowed by the constant fall of the river. The ranges on both
sides run in an east and west direction, and frequently three such
crests are seen at the same time towards the south. One is often
astonished at the whim of the stream in turning sharply to cut through a
rocky crest, whereas it would seem much easier to flow on along the open
longitudinal valley. But, like most mountainous countries, Tibet
presents many such puzzling problems, difficult of solution. At a place
where comparatively warm rivulets flow in on our side there is a short,
wide reach of the river where Robert caught fish, a very welcome
variation in our monotonous diet.
In the night we had 54 degrees of frost, and on December 12 the
thermometer sank to -24.7°. The caravan now consisted of 11 horses and 4
mules, besides the 18 yaks. The yaks are not accustomed to long day's
marches, so we proceeded very slowly eastwards. We could not hurry our
marches, much as we should have liked to do so. There were several men
sickly, and the medicine chest was in great demand. Muhamed Isa
especially suffered from headache, and many a time as we passed by he
was lying on his back on the ground. He was dosed with antipyrine and
quinine, and I advised him to walk as little as possible.
The chief became more and more at home with us, and no longer observed
his former caution. He sometimes called on nomads on the way, but his
tent was always set up among ours. Every day he brought to me one or two
nomads, who gave me information about the country and sold us milk and
sheep. Several were from Ombo, a village and district on the north shore
of the Dangra-yum-tso, where a couple of stone huts stand and barley is
cultivated. The pasturage round the lake is said to be so poor that the
inhabitants of its shores have to migrate northwards with their flocks
in winter. Unfortunately they had not heard of a post messenger from
Shigatse, but they were equally ignorant of any order directed against
us.
On December 12 we left the Bogtsang-tsangpo and directed our steps
towards the south-east. At night a violent storm arose, but the minimum
temperature was only 13.5°; the night before there were 56.7 degrees of
frost.
Another mule died in the night, and the surviving animals had to be
carefully guarded from the wolves, which were unusually daring. We
started on December 13 to the pass La-ghyanyak (16,932 feet high), where
a pyramidal cairn marks the divide between the Bogtsang-tsangpo and the
Dangra-yum-tso. The former can be seen meandering along its valley to
its termination in the lake Dagtse-tso; the latter is not yet visible,
but we can guess where its basin lies among the huge mountain massives.
Yonder lay the holy lake Dangra-yum-tso, which had long been our aim,
and whither I had requested Colonel Dunlop Smith to send my letters. To
the south-west arose two dominating snowy peaks above a sea of
mountainous undulations, and in the same direction lay a small round
lake, the Tang-yung-tsaka, already seen by Nain Sing, and named by him
Tang-yung-tso (Illustration 90). The country seemed desolate and
uninhabited, and no riders spurred through the valleys to block our way.
Farther down we passed two tents, where the inmates told us we were on
the wrong way if we wished to go to the Dangra-yum-tso, for it could be
reached in a direction due south in four short marches. All Naktsang
knew, they said, that a _Peling_ was coming, a report that, however, had
probably spread from the north, not from the south. If the mail-runner
had actually reached the lake, he would hear that we were not far off,
and would look out for us.
Now the thermometer sank to -24° again, and we let the animals rest a
day. Meanwhile I, with Robert and Shukkur Ali, made an excursion on foot
through a singularly wild romantic valley, which was little over a yard
broad in some places, and was cut out between vertical walls. Often the
bottom is filled with fallen blocks, which obstruct the way, but
elsewhere it is occupied by a brook, now frozen up. The rapids and
waterfalls of this brook are also congealed into glassy ice, and shine
with a bluish-green tinge in the depth of the valley, where the summer
flood has excavated curious caves. Here the wind is confined as in a
pair of bellows, and roars and whistles round the cliffs. In an
expansion of the valley we kindle a fire and take a rest. Along the
precipice above us six proud eagles soar with motionless wings.
According to previous arrangement Rabsang came to meet us with some of
our yaks, so that we could ride back. He brought us disturbing news. At
the tents we had seen farther up the valley on the day before, twelve
armed men had collected to waylay us. An express messenger had, it
seems, brought word from Shigatse that we must be driven back to the
north. I did not question him further, and we rode home in silence. It
was a bitter experience now, when we had looked down from La-ghanyak on
the great unknown country crossed only by Nain Sing's route of the year
1874, which we had intended to intersect at one point only, to see all
the grand discoveries, of which I had dreamt so long, blown away like
mist. And it was especially irritating to think that others might come
here later and rob me of these conquests. Reminiscences of the past
autumn and early winter came into my head; we had successfully executed
an immense traverse over the Chang-tang, and at the critical moment the
nomads had come to our assistance. It had been a splendid bold journey
hitherto, but I had always considered it only as a prologue to the grand
plans which kept me awake at night and had occupied my thoughts during
the long weary ride. And now they would receive their death-blow. Now my
dreams of victory would be resolved into blue haze, like the smoke of
the camp-fire which marked the southernmost point of our advance into
the forbidden land.
CHAPTER XVII
CHRISTMAS IN THE WILDS
Much depressed but outwardly composed, I dismounted from the yak and
entered my tent just as Tsering brought in the brazier. The tent seemed
more dismal than usual, the brazier made me feel weary, and at this
moment I seemed to realize how lonely and dull my life had been all
through the winter; but Tsering was as tranquil as usual, and raked the
fire with the tongs to remove some still smoking dung.
"Now you see that I was right; how often have I told you that we should
be ordered to halt at the Bogtsang-tsangpo?" I said.
"Ordered to halt?" exclaimed Tsering in astonishment.
"Yes, now we are stuck fast, but I will not move a step from the spot
until the Tibetans have provided me with a new caravan, though I have to
wait all the winter. Then we will go north-eastwards, look for the
Mongolian pilgrim road, and hasten to Pekin. I will force the Mandarins
to allow me to see the parts of Tibet where no European has yet been."
"I do not understand what the Sahib means; hitherto no one has hindered
us, and the country southwards lies open before us."
"What are you talking about? Have they not come this very day to stop
our further progress?"
"No, on the contrary, three Tibetans are sitting with Muhamed Isa, and
they are most civil and friendly."
"Has, then, Rabsang played a trick on me and the Babu Sahib?"
"Ah," replied Tsering, laughing, "now I understand the matter. Rabsang
was up at the tents this morning, and allowed himself to be frightened
by a Tibetan, who told him that we should be forced to remain where we
are, for we had no right to travel southwards to Naktsang. But that was
only the Tibetan's own notion, and Rabsang, who had to go immediately
after to the valley with the yaks, had not heard how matters really
stood with us."
"Bravo, Tsering, slay the fattest sheep we have got, and invite every
one to a feast. I will have the kidneys fried in their own fat."
Now the storm-beaten tent seemed more comfortable and the brazier sent
out a pleasant kindly heat. I sat buried in thought, wondering whether
this were a good omen, when Muhamed Isa announced a visit of the three
Tibetans. I invited them to take a seat at the fire. Turning to the
chief man, who wore a blood-red fur coat and a brick-red fox-skin cap, I
asked him who he was.
"I am Karma Tamding from Tang-yung," he answered; and I was astonished
that he gave his name at once, for the Tibetans are generally shy of
doing so, lest they should bring upon themselves retaliation on the part
of their superiors when their names are known.
"We are, then, in the province of Tang-yung?"
"Yes, Bombo Chimbo, the pass you crossed yesterday is its northern
boundary; to the west Tang-yung extends for three days' journey, and as
far to the east, and southwards to the Dangra-yum-tso."
"Why have you come to my tent, Karma Tamding? Has one of your superiors
sent you?"
"No, but idle rumours have been current here for some time. First it was
an old woman, who would have it that two hundred men were coming down
from the north. Large bands of robbers from Nakchu have plundered the
nomads in the north, and we felt sure that they were robbers who were
coming into our country. The day before yesterday we heard that it was
only a peaceful European, who took, indeed, yaks, sheep, butter, and
milk from our people, but always paid well for them. I am now come to
see our guests with my own eyes, and I am very glad to find you instead
of a robber band."
"You have not heard, then, that any messenger from Shigatse has been
inquiring about us?"
"No, not a word. But this very day I have heard that an express has been
sent from the Bogtsang-tsangpo to Shansa-dzong, and that messengers will
travel thence to Lhasa."
"Will you be so good as to sell us yaks, Karma Tamding?"
"Yes, willingly. I saw you five years ago at the Bogtsang-tsangpo. Then
you were conducted over the frontier by a large escort and two officers,
but now Europeans seem to be privileged to pass through the country."
"Will you procure us guides?"
"Certainly; but which way do you think of taking? If you wish to go to
the Dangra-yum-tso, you must cross the Kam-la, which lies a little
farther up this valley. But if you prefer the route to the Ngangtse-tso,
you must travel on eastwards. It is all the same to us which way you
take, but I must know for certain. I will ride back to my tent and fetch
parched meal, which you can buy when I overtake you in a few days. The
yaks I will send to-morrow morning."
Karma Tamding seemed so trustworthy that I handed him half the purchase
money in advance, and the next day we bought 3 yaks at 20 rupees a head,
and received a guide, who conducted us over two difficult passes,
eastwards to the Rara country, and on December 16 over the Pike-la, a
gap in a longitudinal valley running parallel to the Bogtsang-tsangpo.
We were compelled to camp early by one of our three mules, which could
not travel any farther. He came up to the fire with trembling legs and
laid himself down. "The news of his death will be the first I shall hear
in the morning," I thought, but I had not to wait so long, for before
the stars had begun to twinkle he lay stiff and cold in the smoke of the
camp-fire. Only two of the Poonch mules were left.
Then Karma Tamding rode up with twelve other Tibetans, two of them
women. They sat down by the fire and looked at me; and I looked at them.
The older woman had a fine sheepskin, and on the forehead an ornament of
pendent coral and silver coins from Lhasa. The younger was similarly
dressed, and had a huge lambskin cap. Little could be seen of her, but
the little that was visible was dirty beyond belief. The men were
strongly built and well proportioned--one could perceive that, when they
drew off the right sleeve and exposed their breasts to the heat of the
fire.
When we had gazed at one another long enough, and I had learned that the
small lake near by was called the Tarmatse-tso, the whole party crawled
into Muhamed Isa's tent to offer their edibles for sale. And there
parched meal and barley was bought to the value of 68 rupees; it was
quite a pleasure to see with what an appetite our last twelve animals
emptied their bags of barley; they had so long had to put up with the
execrable grass of the desert.
Next day we took leave of honest Karma Tamding. "On the boundary of
Naktsang you will meet with an elderly man, named Chabga Namgyal, who is
just as nice as I am," were his last words. We continued our long winter
journey through Tibet eastwards along the same convenient longitudinal
valley, and bivouacked in the district Neka, an ominous name (it means
in Swedish to refuse), which might perhaps have brought us bad luck had
the supreme chief of Tang-yung, whose headquarters are here, been at
home at the time. Fortunately he had a short time before set out with
his wife and children to Tashi-lunpo for the New Year festival, and had
consigned his large herd of yaks and flock of sheep to the care of his
servants and his herdsmen. They sold us milk and butter, but disapproved
of my disturbing the gentle fish in a neighbouring pool. Within an hour
I had twenty-five on dry land, which were a great treat at dinner.
Robert had been unwell for some days, and now developed high fever,
which confined him to his bed. Sonam Tsering suffered from a curious
mountain sickness, in consequence of which all his body swelled up and
assumed a livid hue. Two others were unwell, and the medicine chest
stood open again. Sonam Tsering's tent was like an hospital, where all
the sick found shelter as soon as they were incapacitated. Only old
Guffaru was still healthy, did the work of two, and had at present no
use for the shroud he brought from Leh. His large white beard had turned
yellow in the smoke of the fires, and his hands, frost-bitten in winter,
were dark and hard as iron. We stayed two days in camp No. 90, to give
the invalids a rest. My dapple-grey from Yarkand was nearly drowned in a
spring; fortunately he was seen from the camp, and ten strong men pulled
him out of the mud. Then he was dried at the fire, rubbed well down, and
covered with cloths. But his days were numbered.
On December 20 we ride on along the longitudinal valley parallel to the
Bogtsang-tsangpo, and encamp at the mouth of a transverse valley, which
belongs to the southern mountains, and is called Kung-lung. Frozen
springs are seen on all sides; the farther we advance southwards the
more the country is fertilized by the monsoon rains. The ground is
honeycombed by millions of mouse holes; they are so close together that
there is no room for more. The field-mouse here does the work of
loosening and ploughing up the ground that the worm does in our soil.
But the herbage derives no benefit from it, for the mice subsist on the
roots and destroy the grass.
When we had passed the boundary between Tang-yung and Naktsang, and had
just pitched our camp at the source of the brook draining the Kung-lung
valley, three riders with guns suddenly appeared, who were making for
the same spot, and behind them came a dark group, perhaps soldiers.
Probably they were about to arrest us here, at the first camp in
Naktsang. No; another false alarm. They were simply peasants from the
Bogtsang-tsangpo, who had been to Naktsang to barter salt for _tsamba_
(parched meal) and barley, and were now on their homeward journey. The
troop consisted of members of several tent villages, among which the
goods would be distributed. The _tsamba_ and the barley were carried by
yaks, horses, and sheep, and seemed sufficient to last many households
all the winter.
Here I heard for the first time of the lake Shuru-tso, but I little
thought that I should bivouac on its shore next spring. The range on the
north, in which the Keva is the highest summit, is the water-parting
between the Dagtse-tso and the Kung-tso, a lake visible to the east. On
the south we had the range which we had first seen at the
Dangra-yum-tso, and which afterwards skirts the south side of the
Tang-yung-tso.
In the night the continued westerly storm increased to a hurricane,
which blew down my tent. It was fastened up again, but at dawn I was
awakened by a report like a gunshot, for one of the strained tent ropes
broke, and another tore itself out of its iron cap, which fell with a
sharp clatter against the tent. A shower of stones and coarse sand beat
about my airy dwelling, so that it required a certain amount of
resolution to issue forth in weather worse than we had experienced in
Chang-tang.
"How much longer will the storm last?" I asked our guide, as he joyfully
and thankfully pocketed his 18 rupees after he had handed us over to
another guide of the Naktsang tribe.
"Six months," he replied.
We marched eastwards, gradually diverging to the south, and thus passed
round the chain which had hitherto lain on our right. On the way we
found Adul in a hollow, and asked him how he was.
[Illustration: 90. NEAR THE DANGRA-YUM-TSO. IN THE VALLEY BELOW IS SEEN
THE LITTLE LAKE TANG-YUNG-TSO.
Sketch by the Author.]
"I am dying," he answered, without moving a muscle. I sent one of his
comrades and a horse from the camp to bring in his corpse, but next
morning he was as lively as a cricket. Such weather is certainly not
enjoyable, but it is no use to complain of wind and weather. My horse
staggers about as if he had drunk too much. At the opening of every
lateral valley we may be sure of a buffet that will make us reel in our
saddles. We bend sideways against the wind to help the horse in
maintaining his equilibrium, and we draw ourselves together so as to
present a smaller surface to the wind--indeed, we are like a sail that
must always be set according to the direction of the wind, and we
have to trim ourselves just as one would handle a sailing-boat in a high
sea. We rested awhile in the shelter of a rock, to recover our breath,
and when at length we reached the camp in Nadsum we had suffered as much
as we were able to bear. To the north-east, beyond the mountains, lies
the Dagtse-tso, which Bower, Dutreuil de Rhins, Littledale, and I have
visited; on the way thither a lake is passed, called the Goang-tso.
On the 22nd we took our way to the south, where a range of considerable
height bars the road to the Ngangtse-tso. We followed the river
Sertsang-chu upwards; a little water still bubbled and trickled down
under its thick covering of ice. In the evening we received a visit from
eight Tibetans, two of whom had lost all their yaks by a kind of
cattle-plague. We ascended the same valley for another day's journey,
and found five tents in an expansion of the valley which was called
Torno-shapko; at several spots we saw large flocks of sheep guarded by
dogs as snappy and impudent as the nomads themselves. Some of these
fellows came into our camp and used very rude language, daring even to
say that we must not remain here but must pack off with all speed. To
buy milk and butter was out of the question. Muhamed Isa drove them away
and threatened to report their conduct to the Governor of Naktsang. Our
guide, a boy of fifteen, was frightened, but was persuaded to accompany
us a day longer.
December 24. When I woke an old mendicant lama sat singing before my
tent. He had a little withered woman with him, and their small light
tent was pitched quite close to us. In his hand he held a staff bedecked
with coloured strips and with brass plates, coral, shells, tassels, and
other ornaments, which he made to spin round as he sang. The old man had
in his lifetime wandered far and wide, begging his way from tent to
tent, but when I asked him to accompany us and to bring in the Christmas
festival with song at our camp at night he declared he was too tired.
The road led us higher up the same valley, soon leaving the sources
behind. We passed two _manis_ with prayers inscribed on the slabs, one
of which was 23 feet long. Two tents stood at a spot where two large
valleys converged. The unfriendly men we had met yesterday had gone on
before us and had warned the people not to sell us anything if we asked
them. Two of our men tried to trade, but met with a refusal, whereupon
Muhamed Isa laid his riding-whip smartly across the backs of the
mischief-makers. Then the whole company fell on their knees, became
remarkably civil, and brought out at once all the butter and milk they
had on hand.
Our valley now runs eastwards, and at last rises in a south-easterly
direction to a pass. Evidently no great road runs over it, for there is
no cairn on the summit. It turned out later that the youth had led us
astray, omitting to turn aside through a southern valley to the pass
Gurtse-la. However, it was of no consequence, for the view from our pass
was grand, and below us lay a lake not marked on Nain Sing's map. The
valley descending from the pass is so deeply eroded that we had to keep
for some distance to the heights on the right side. Islam Ahun led my
tall dapple-grey, which was weak and sickly; he took only a few steps at
a time, but he could still graze. We had made a long march, and the camp
could not be far distant, so he would perhaps reach it. I therefore only
stroked him as I passed, while he held his nose to the ground and
plucked up the grass. But when I left him to his fate and rode on, he
raised his head, sighed heavily, and gazed after me. I was deeply
grieved afterwards that I did not remain with him. He had carried me
faithfully on the long dreary journey from our departure from Leh until
his back became one great sore; then he was not worked till his back was
healed. Afterwards he was degraded to a pack-horse, but when our caravan
was reinforced with yaks, he was exempted from work of any kind.
Latterly we had had abundance of barley for the animals, but he had
shown no signs of recovery. This day, however, he had managed to climb
the pass, and would surely be able to get over the short remaining
distance. But Islam Ahun came into camp alone. The horse had stumbled on
a very steep descent, rolled over several times in the débris, and then
remained lying. Islam, who had received strict orders to be careful of
the dapple-grey, stood and waited, but the horse did not move again, and
died where he was. Why did I not understand him when he so plainly said
a last good-bye? I was much grieved at it, and for a long time could not
forget the troubled expression of his eyes as he saw me ride away. The
remembrance haunted me when it grew dark at night and the winter storm
howled in cold dreary Tibet.
Down below in the valley basin lay the Dumbok-tso asleep under its ice
mantle, out of which rose a small rocky ridge, the Tso-ri or "Lake
Mountain." Up above the heights were still bathed in sunshine. The
Dumbok-tso was the most important discovery of the day. The watch-fires
burned in front of the tents and threw a yellow light on the
surroundings.
Then the day's notes were filled in, and Robert, as usual, labelled the
rock specimens we had collected. "Dinner is ready," says Tsering, as he
brings in fresh fuel, and the _shislik_ and sour milk are served and
placed on the ground before my bed. Then I am left alone with a thousand
memories of Swedish Christmas feasts, and the words: "Christmas is now
under every roof," and "Frozen is the limpid lake, it waits for the
winds of spring," from the poet Topelius' Christmas song, rings in my
ears. The Christian community in our camp consisted only of Robert and
myself, but we determined to celebrate the Christmas festival so that
the heathen also might have their share in the enjoyment. For some time
we had kept all the candle ends, and now had forty-one pieces of various
lengths. We set up a box in the middle of my tent, and arranged the
candles on it so that the largest stood in the middle, and the others
became smaller and smaller towards the corners. That was our
Christmas-tree. When all the candles were lighted we threw back the
flaps of the front of the tent, and the Ladakis, who meanwhile had
assembled outside, gave vent to a murmur of astonishment. They sang
softly in rising and falling tones. I forgot for a time the solemnity of
the moment, and gazing into the flickering flames of the candles let the
minutes of the holy night glide slowly by. The sentimental air was now
and then interrupted by a thundering _khavash_ and _khabbaleh_ in which
all joined, howling like jackals. The flutes performed the
accompaniment, and a saucepan served as a drum. Lamaist hymns at a
Christmas festival under the constellation of Orion! Dimly illuminated
from the tent, and flooded by the silvery light of the moon, my men
presented a weird appearance as they turned themselves round in their
native dance, keeping time to the noise of the saucepan. The Tibetans of
the neighbouring tents perhaps thought that we had all gone mad, or
perhaps that we were executing an incantation dance, and had lighted
sacrificial lamps to propitiate our gods. What the wild asses, grazing
on the lake shore, thought of it, no one can tell.
Our young guide, who had been placed in the middle of the tent door,
caused us much amusement. He stared, now at the lights, now at me,
without uttering a sound, sat like a cat on the watch with its fore-paws
on the ground, and did nothing but gaze. He would have wonderful stories
to tell his fellow-tribesmen, which would certainly lose none of their
effect by the embellishments added by himself and amplified in the
course of repetition. Perhaps the memory of our visit still survives in
the country, in a legend of singular fire-worshippers who danced and
bellowed round an altar adorned with forty-one burning candles. When the
youth was asked how he liked the illumination, he made no answer. We
laughed till our sides ached, but that did not disturb him; he continued
to glare with eyes full of astonishment. When he had somewhat recovered
his senses next morning, he told Tundup Sonam in confidence that he had
had many experiences, but that he had never met with anything so
extraordinary as the evening's entertainment. He would not sleep with us
that night, but went off to the tents of his people, and on the first
holiday he begged permission to return home.
The lower the candles burned down, the brighter the stars of Orion shone
into the opening of the tent. The corner lights had long gone out, and
only a couple in the middle continued to flicker. Then I distributed a
small sum of money among the men, beginning with Robert and Muhamed Isa.
That was the only Christmas present. After this the men retired to
their fires, which had in the meantime gone out. Two had to stay behind
to explain to me one of the songs in which the word Tashi-lunpo had
repeatedly occurred. It was more difficult than I expected to translate
the song. In the first place, the men did not know it well themselves,
and, secondly, they did not know the meaning of some of the words it
contained. Other words they understood well enough, but they could not
translate them into Turki or Hindustani. First we wrote out the hymn in
Tibetan, then Robert translated it into Hindustani, and I into Turki,
and finally from the two translations we concocted an English version
which had no sense or meaning. But by repeatedly taking the song to
pieces and analyzing it, we at last made out what the subject was--it
was a glorification of the monastery Tashi-lunpo, which was the goal of
our hopes. The learned who happen to be acquainted with ancient Tibetan
hymns will be very much amused if they take the trouble to read the
following translation. It certainly has the merit of forming a record in
poetic license.
Now rises the sun shining in the east,
From the eastern lands over the heights of the east.
It is now the third month that the sun mounts up,
Pouring forth floods of heat.
First fall the beams on the temple,
The house of the high gods, and caress
The golden battlements of Tashi-lunpo,
The roof of the venerable cloister temple,
And with threefold brilliance glitter the pinnacles in the sun.
On the highest meadows of the temple vale
Shy antelopes graze in thousands.
Hard is its crumbly soil, but still
Rich is the vale and green and lovely,
And grass thrives on its poor land,
And brooks ripple down with cool water.
The highest, ice-covered mountains glitter
Like transparent glass. The nearer summits
Rise like a row of lofty _chhortens_,
And close at their feet beat the blue waves
Of the Yum-tso, playing on the holy strand.
Take water from the lake and fill
The sacrificial bowls of the holy idols,
Moulded of brass. Then decorate with silk cloths
Of every kind and colour, which from Pekin come,
And adorn also with veils the tall golden images of the gods,
And fill the temple halls with hanging standards.
Take _kadakh_ cloths, holy and dear,
Of best silk from the town of Lhasa,
And lay them on the forehead of Buddha's image.
So ended our Christmas Eve in the wilderness, and while the glow of the
Christmas fire sank down in the ashes I read the old Bible passages
relating to this day, put out my light, and dreamed of Christmas
festivals in the north, and of Tashi-lunpo down in the south behind the
mountains, the goal towards which we had been struggling amid suffering
and privation all through the cold winter, and which was still far off
and perhaps even beyond our reach.
CHAPTER XVIII
TEN DAYS ON THE ICE OF NGANGTSE-TSO
From the Christmas camp we travelled southwards over two passes, of
which the second, called Laen-la, forms a watershed between the
Dubok-tso and the Ngangtse-tso. The great lake itself we do not see yet,
but a distant bluish background of mountain chain which rises from the
southern shore of the lake. A yak was lost; he was not exhausted, but
his fore-hoof had split so that he had become lame. When once he had
laid himself down no power on earth could induce him to get up again;
tugging at the rope, which was passed through his nasal cartilage,
availed nothing. We therefore left him behind, and gave him to the
natives nearest to our camp. Several yaks and the surviving veterans
from Leh were in need of a thorough rest, so we decided to remain a
fortnight at the great lake. It was certainly risky to linger so long at
one place in Naktsang, where I had met with such determined opposition
in the year 1901, for we should give the authorities time to make their
preparations. But we must rest; we had no choice.
After a night temperature of -24.20° we marched down the longitudinal
valley to a point immediately above the place where the valley emerges
into the lake-plain, and bivouacked near a group of tents containing six
households. The whole country is corroded with mouse holes, and
sometimes they lie in stages one above another. If one reckoned in the
central parts of Tibet only one field-mouse to the square yard, the
resulting total would be marvellous. At camp No. 97, for instance, it
was impossible to lay down my bed without covering several holes, and I
was awaked in the morning by the mice, which were making a noise and
squeaking beneath my bed, and wondering why they could not get out of
their house door.
The nomads of the district were friendly disposed, and sold us sheep,
butter, and milk. They said that the high road to Shigatse skirted the
east side of the lake; another to the west of the Ngangtse-tso was much
longer and more difficult. The highway to Lhasa runs eastwards through
Shanza-dzong. Thus far it had been followed by Nain Sing, whose route we
crossed here; for from the Marku-tso, a small lagoon on the north shore,
the road he took passes to the west-north-west. Many nomad communities
winter on the extensive plains of the lake shore, especially on the
south side. The nomads never travel over the lake, the most direct and
quickest way, for they mistrust the ice, and our last guide would on no
account accompany us over the lake, but warned us of the thin ice. His
statements seemed to me more probable when he said that the lake was
salt, that the water was not fit for drinking, and that there were
neither fish nor plants in it.
The long period of rest must be utilized somehow. It had, moreover, been
one of the aims proposed in the original scheme of my journey, to
investigate the country round the central lakes discovered in 1874 by
Nain Sing, and to execute soundings in several of them. If the ice held
firm we could go over the lake, and sound through holes. Two men were
therefore sent out to examine the ice: 100 paces from the bank the ice
was 11 inches thick, at 200 paces 10¼ inches, and even at 300 paces
10 inches; so I determined to commence at the nearest point to our
headquarters.
Robert and Muhamed Isa were to remain behind to watch over our animals
and attend to them. It might, indeed, be risky to split up our caravan
just at this time, but I could not remain idle for a whole fortnight.
There was everything we needed at the headquarters--nomads, pasturage,
water, and fuel; the place seemed to be of some importance, for a round
_mani_ stood in the valley, and Robert found on a ridge a _samkang_, a
hermit's cave, with a small stone wall in front of it. There the lama
Togldan was wont to dwell in summer, earning his bread from the
neighbouring nomads by murmuring formulæ to conjure evil spirits, and
offering up prayers for the prosperity of their flocks. We had an hour
and a half's journey to the northern shore, and there innumerable
camping-places indicate summer visits of nomads. There the tents are
situated among excellent pasture lands, exposed to the noonday sun, with
the great lake, often agitated by boisterous storms, in front of them.
We got ready provisions for ten days for myself and half a dozen
Ladakis. Two live sheep were taken. The men were to take Robert's small
tent, but I intended to sleep under a half of the boat, which was to be
pushed over the ice as a sledge, laden with all the baggage, bed, furs,
and instruments. The boat would also be a source of safety should we at
any time venture on to too thin ice. The white puppy was to go with us
to keep me company. During my absence Robert occupied my tent, where the
barograph and the thermograph ticked on my boxes.
On the afternoon of December 29 I rode down to the Ngangtse-tso, where
camp No. 98 was pitched on a lagoon under the shelter of a shore
embankment. Towards the east-south-east the country is open as far as
the sight can carry; the eastern shore of the lake is scarcely
perceptible, the western not at all; in the south-west snow mountains
rise up, which, I said to myself, must be Nain Sing's "Targot Lha Snowy
Peaks." Rabsang was my valet, Bulu my cook; they arranged my improvised
hut, and the building material consisted of half of the boat, the stand
of my photographic camera, and a frieze rug. For dinner I was given leg
of mutton, sour milk, bread, orange marmalade, and tea; and then I
smoked an Indian cheroot and gazed at the lake, which was to be
thoroughly investigated during the succeeding days.
The 30th of December, a Sunday, began brightly with 45.2 degrees of
frost. Puppy had kept my feet warm. It was rather tight work washing and
dressing in my den, but when at last I was ready, I could enjoy the
fire, the sight of the sun and of the great lake. The baggage was
quickly packed, and the boat was dragged on to the ice and kept in
equilibrium by two runners, while six men pushed it forward. But the ice
gave us much trouble. The salt separated out on freezing had collected
on the surface like dry potato flour, sometimes forming continuous
sheets, sometimes swept up into banks, ridges, and drifts, in which the
runners and keel stuck fast. However, in spite of it, we worked our way
on in a direction 9° east of south, where I had selected a small dark
cliff on the south shore as a landmark. The first hole was cut out; the
ice was 8½ inches thick, and the depth of the lake, reckoned from the
edge of the ice, only 13 feet.
After we had wandered on for some time we held a council; I saw that we
could not go on as we were. We took off the runners and put together
three simple sledges, on each of which a third of the baggage was tied.
And in this way we struggled on a short distance farther, while I went
on foot. At the next hole the depth was 18.7 feet; probably we were on
one of those extraordinarily shallow salt lakes, such as I had often met
with in north-eastern Tibet. Again we held a consultation; our sledges
made such slow progress that we should never get over the lake at all,
far less traverse it several times. When two of the baggage sledges,
which had lingered far behind, came up, I sent a message to Robert to
send me more men and all the pieces of old boxes that were in the
caravan.
[Illustration: 91, 92, 93. ON THE NGANGTSE-TSO.]
Meanwhile we took off the two zinc runners, which were screwed into the
gunwale and into which the mast thwart was fitted. They were then
fastened as sledge cheeks to two benches bound together; to the sides of
this singular vehicle two long poles were attached, meeting at an angle,
through which the towing-rope was slung. A Caucasian _burkha_, which I
had bought at Trebizond, was laid in several folds on the benches. For
the sounding apparatus, the field-glass and other articles, we stretched
a hammock between the poles. When the structure was complete it
astonished us; for we had only to give this newly devised sledge a push
and off it ran a good way by itself. Now the boat was contemptuously
discarded, and when Rabsang with the towing-rope over his shoulder
hurried off southwards over the ice unaided, the boat soon diminished to
a black speck and disappeared. The others had orders to follow the track
of the runners at their leisure; they would soon get help when the other
men came (Illustrations 91, 92, 93).
Wrapped in my large sheepskin I sat cross-legged on the sledge, which
glided merrily over the ice by the hour together, while Rabsang had no
need to over-exert himself. The sledge cut through the salt ridges as
though they were nothing, and bumped with a pleasant rumbling noise over
the places where the ice was lumpy; it jumped over cracks and fissures,
where the edges of the ice shone green, and clear as glass, and on
smooth patches shot noiselessly forward, so that its point reached
Rabsang's heels if he did not jump on one side just when the line became
slack.
It was really not dangerous on the ice, which was nowhere less than 7
inches thick. So the Tibetans' dread of drowning was exaggerated. But
they have always the greatest respect for the spirits inhabiting the
lakes, and would rather go all round a lake than cross it, mistrusting
the winter repose of the raging storm-beaten waves.
Many singular effects of congelation may be observed, which change their
forms in various parts. Sometimes they are innumerable vertical figures
in perfectly clear dark ice; seen from the side they have the form of
oak leaves, but looked at from above they resemble stars with four arms
thin as paper. At other places you find blocks of white porous ice
embedded in clear ice, the result of a storm which has broken up the
first ice-sheet of early winter, whereafter the blocks are enclosed in
new ice on the final freezing over. Water is squeezed out through long
narrow cracks, and is congealed into screens sometimes a yard in height,
forming fantastic sheets and domes, and edges and points often as sharp
as a knife. Rabsang has only to give them a kick to clear a passage for
the sledge, but these thin ice-fences are very misleading, and render it
difficult to estimate distances.
We sounded in eight holes, and the greatest depth was only 32 feet. The
bottom consists of dark clay mud. It took a good quarter of an hour to
cut out a hole in the ice with axes and crowbars. As soon as the last
blow drove through the bottom of the ice, clear, cold, dark green water
welled up and filled the cavity, and then the sounding weight was let
down by its rope.
The first line of soundings had occupied far too long a time, chiefly
owing to the interruptions and repeated rearrangement of the baggage at
starting, and we were still far from the nearest shore when the sun set
in clouds of red and gold. But the full moon shone in the heavens, the
rocky promontory was sharp and clearly perceptible, and we made all
haste we could. The ice was uncomfortably lumpy, so that I had to
traverse long stretches on foot. Cold, white, and desolate the ice
mantle of the lake extended on all sides; all was silent and quiet, only
the crunching sound of our own footsteps could be heard. If nomads had
pitched their tents on the shore we were approaching they would be much
perplexed by the black specks moving out on the lake. But no fire
illumined the night and no wolves howled. In the darkness we could, of
course, gain no notion of how much further we had to go. At the last
hole the promontory had not appeared much larger. And so we marched
onwards until Rabsang suddenly came to a halt with the information that
we were only a few hundred paces from dry land.
There we left the sledge and advanced to the outlying mountains, where
several fallen blocks of stone lay at the foot. Under one of them we sat
down to wait. Then Rabsang collected as much fuel as he could in the
dark. We must light a signal fire to guide the others. At length they
tramped up, Tashi, Ishe, Bulu, and Islam Ahun, all heavily laden, for
they had preferred to leave the sledges behind and carry the baggage.
Two hours later some dark points were noticed out on the ice; it was the
reinforcement, and now I had ten men with me. They had seen from the
lake fires at four places; we were therefore surrounded by nomads on all
sides, but we had no need of them, so we did not trouble ourselves about
them.
Profiting by experience, we made the most practical arrangements
possible for our next day's wanderings. Islam Ahun was to return to
headquarters, collecting all the things we had dropped on our way, and
was to see that the boat was fetched. Rabsang and Tashi drew my sledge,
the others carried the baggage. At first they followed a road along the
shore before taking to the ice and making for the goal for the day, in
the north-west. We keep them in sight all day. They march in Indian
file, trotting, swaying, and singing, and sometimes sitting down for a
rest. Then they use the firmly tied bundles as back-rests. But they
cannot get up again without help; it is very easy for six of them, but
the seventh, that is, the one who has to get up first, finds it more
difficult. He rolls over on to his stomach, wriggles up with the help of
a stick, and when he has at length accomplished the feat, he helps the
others to get on their feet.
The ice was excellent, far better than on the first traverse. Also the
salt was less abundant, owing to the westerly storms which sweep it
eastwards. For long distances the ice lay pure and smooth in front of
us, and had a dark green colour. I did not know what to make of it when
we tramped over the dark patches. Were there warm springs at the bottom
which prevented the lake from freezing over in parts? But we soon became
accustomed to the sight, the ice was firm and at least 6½ inches thick,
while the greatest depth amounted to 31¾ feet. I sat like a statue of
Buddha cross-legged on my toy sledge, smoked, took observations, made
notes, and rejoiced that I could keep New Year's Eve on the ice of
Ngangtse-tso. About mid-day a south-westerly wind arose, and I had to
ride backwards so as not to get frozen. A lead running north and south
puzzled us greatly. It was 5 feet broad, and ran in either direction as
far as the eye could reach; open water lapped between the margins of
ice. Probably it had come into existence during a storm, when the whole
ice-sheet was slightly disturbed towards the east, and had left behind
it a yawning channel. After a long search we found a place where fresh
ice was being formed below. Using the sledge as a bridge we crossed over
dry-footed. How the others got over the difficulty I do not know, but
they were not afraid of wetting their feet.
We went ashore rather early, at a place where 19 horses were grazing on
the wide plain and a youth was watching 500 sheep. He scampered off in a
hurry when he saw us coming, and I was not surprised that he was afraid
when he saw ten great fellows stealing like ghosts over a lake that had
never been trodden by human foot. The Ladakis sat round a large fire,
sang, and blew their flutes, and the moonlight poured down a cold,
peaceful flood of light over the unknown strand where a party of
wandering strangers were passing a single night of their lives. It was
the last night of the year 1906, and the camp was our hundredth.
A splendid New Year's morning in 1907! With joyful hopes for the new
year and its work I began the third line of soundings in a direction
south, 19° E., towards a dark spur lying between two valleys where
ice-clumps glistened in the sun. The spur seemed to fall steeply to the
lake and the distance seemed tremendous, but it was an illusion: the low
plain extending from the foot of the mountains to the lake could not be
seen from the ice. We had to cross the fissure of the day before, but it
had frozen over in the night. But water stood in many other fissures and
spurted up as we passed over. This day our porters kept up with us, and
their songs resounded far and wide over the ice-fields. At every new
hole they settled down and awaited the result of the sounding with
genuine interest. Singular men, always cheerful and contented, never
down-hearted and complaining, taking everything as it comes, and calm
and composed in all kinds of wind and weather.
Puppy has had enough of running over the ice, suffers from cold feet,
jumps on the sledge as soon as it comes to a halt, but has a decided
objection to riding.
A conical summit to the south of camp No. 99 dominates the whole lake
like a lighthouse. Nain Sing, who touched the north shore of the
Ngangtse-tso, has drawn the outline of the lake on the whole correctly,
but has made the south-western part too broad. There also the sheet of
water narrows down to a point, and the whole has the form of a
half-moon. The mountains, which the Pundit has inserted in his map on
the south side of the lake, are very erroneously portrayed, and no
wonder--for he saw them only from a great distance, and could not
possibly, in these circumstances, obtain any proper notion of their
configuration. It is just as hard to form an idea of a lake by viewing
it from the shore; this is possible only from a pass or a crest.
We wondered whether we could reach the southern shore before twilight,
for the distance seemed still enormous. About noon the wind began to
blow strongly, whirled up white clouds of dry salt, swept them along the
ice, and obscured our view. Sitting on the sledge I was exposed to its
full onslaught, and had to be careful not to open my mouth. Here and
there the ice rose in undulations, as though it had been formed in a
high sea; the ice-waves also have a steep slope towards east-north-east,
the way of the wind. In the troughs between them the salt-dust driven by
the wind collects, and lends to the ice-field a curious appearance like
watered silk. All the eastern half of the lake is concealed by the rocky
promontories near which our camp, No. 99, is pitched. We penetrate more
deeply into the southern bay. Yaks graze on the slopes, and towards
evening are driven down by a man. To the south also we catch sight of
tents, yaks, and groups of kiangs. From our low point of view they seem
to be moving in the midst of the lake; the acuteness of the angle of
elevation deceives us. At the last sounding-hole the axe and crow-bar
bored deeper and deeper into the ice without breaking through. Not till
a depth of 17¼ inches was reached did the water burst violently up,
full of the usual small red crustaceæ--the salinity of the lake cannot
therefore be very great. Somewhat further the ice was found to lie
directly on the clayey bottom without a layer of water beneath it. Then
we came to the sterile shore, and were glad that we were this day
independent of vegetation. We found fuel and obtained water by melting
lumps of ice. The greatest depth on this line was 30.8 feet, or a little
less than on the others.
We had another boisterous storm towards evening. The lake ice, only a
couple of yards distant, vanished completely from sight, and the
dung-gatherers suddenly emerged from the mist when they were only a few
steps from the fire. I could not understand how they found their way in
such a thick atmosphere. They erected a shelter from the wind with the
sledge and three sacks of fuel, and sat behind it by their fire, the
flickering flames almost singeing their faces. The group was exceedingly
picturesque in the dark night and the struggling moon-beams. And how it
blew! I could scarcely keep my feet when I read the thermometer, and my
cap flew in all directions. In the night the men slept huddled up
together in the shelter of the tent.
The temperature on January 2 was -8°. To-day the fourth line had to be
executed; it was short, it is true--barely five hours, but trying. We
had to march south-westwards, straight in the teeth of the wind.
Moreover, the ice proved rough and heavy, doubtless in consequence of
the slight depth of the lake. The maximum depth was 10.6 feet. In my
diary, this day is described as one of the worst, if not absolutely the
worst, day of the whole journey. But we always think that what is
present is the worst, forgetting the horrors of the past. The storm
drove the salt before it in thick clouds, which scoured the ice with a
swishing sound and dashed into my face. When I ordered my two "towing
horses" to keep the direction, a quantity of salt flew into my mouth,
and I had the greater difficulty in getting rid of the disagreeable
taste that the powder also made its way into my nose. My eyes became
red, watered, and ached. My hands, from constant contact with the
sounding-line for several days, were encrusted with salt, and the skin
cracked so deeply that the blood ran. Sometimes my hands turned blue,
were stiff, and lost all feeling, so that it was only with the greatest
difficulty that I managed, holding the pen in the fist like a chisel, to
jot down the results of the soundings, the times, and distances; other
notes were not to be thought of. Rabsang and Tashi at all events kept
themselves warm, for they had to put forth all their strength to drag
the sledge against the storm. Where the ice was smooth they could not
get firm foothold, slipped and fell; once Tashi was thrown into my lap,
capsized by the gale. Often the wind was so strong that sledge, and team
were driven backwards, and the men could only stop themselves by sitting
down and planting their feet against a ridge of salt. I became so
benumbed and helpless that I could not rise, and had to remain sitting
while the holes were hacked out. But at one hole, which was broken in a
field of ice as smooth as a mirror, the wind seized the sledge and
myself and carried us in a dizzy race over the lake like an ice-yacht. I
tried to put on the drag with my feet, but I had no power in them, and
my boots of soft felt glided lightly and jauntily over the ice mirror
without reducing the speed in the least. The runners were too short, and
the sledge revolved in a circle, but still it moved onwards, and if the
ice had been all smooth, the storm would have blown me back in a few
minutes all across the lake to camp No. 98. Then my vehicle fortunately
tilted over in a fissure, I was thrown out, shot a little way farther
over the ice, and landed on a salt ridge. Rabsang hurried sliding after
me, picked up me and the sledge, and drew me back to the hole unharmed
(Illustration 94).
Our appearance was enough to frighten one another. We looked like
swollen disinterred corpses, dried in the sun and daubed with white oil
paint. Faces, hands, and clothes were white with salt. I could not wear
my sheepskin again; it was stiff, had given way at the seams, and had to
be thrown away with other clothes.
We had not yet covered half the distance. The men exerted themselves as
though they had to struggle through water 3 feet deep. Oftentimes I
could not see through the clouds of salt, and nothing was visible of the
ice beneath the sledge; it seemed as though we stood still while a
foaming white flood poured down on us ready to swallow us up. I wondered
whether we should ever reach the shore alive. There was very little life
in me when we at length landed. The sledge was anchored to prevent the
storm carrying it away, and then we climbed five terrace banks, one
after another, to seek shelter behind the wall of a sheepfold erected
on the sixth. Fortunately we found dry yak dung there in great
abundance, and soon had a roaring fire, at which I had to sit a good
hour before my limbs became at all supple again.
From camp No. 102 to the southern extremity of the lake the distance
measured 3260 paces. There large herds were feeding, and six tents were
set up at the mouth of the valley. About five o'clock the storm ceased
as suddenly as it had sprung up, and it became strangely calm. When I
took the meteorological observations at nine o'clock all my men were
lying in a row, with their heads against the wall, their foreheads on
the ground, and their legs drawn up, and as close to one another as
sardines in a tin. They slept well; that I could tell from the tunes
their nasal organs emitted.
There were shells of freshwater molluscs on the strand, and a quantity
of goose feathers in a bank formed of decaying algæ. At present the
water of the lake is not fit to drink, but the Ngangtse-tso was a
freshwater lake formerly, that is, when it still discharged into one of
its neighbours.
Wearied by our exertions on the previous day we slept till late, and
then started off in a north-easterly direction towards the red porphyry
mountains which jut out into the lake to the west of camp No. 99. We had
no storm, but a brisk wind, and when it blew at our backs we glided like
oil over the ice. I had a pole to steer with.
[Illustration: 94. IN A SNOWSTORM ON THE ICE OF THE NGANGTSE-TSO.]
Beyond the promontory we encamped in a deep hollow to obtain shelter
from the wind. A shepherd was feeding his sheep on a slope and tried to
make his escape, but Rabsang overtook him. He thought we were robbers.
He had nothing to sell, for he was in the service of another man. But
Rabsang requested him to bring his master to us. Meanwhile the others
had arrived, except Ishe, who had fallen ill, and was left lying in the
middle of the lake. Two of his comrades fetched him in the evening. All
were tired out, and begged that they might make a short march on January
4, and that suited us well, for the shepherd's master came and sold us a
sheep, butter, sour milk, and a bag of tobacco. It was high time, for
the provisions were almost consumed. The tobacco was quite a godsend
to the men, for latterly they had been reduced to smoking yak dung! The
old man gave much interesting information about the Ngangtse-tso, and
told us that there were then fifty to sixty tents pitched in the valleys
of the southern shore. So far all was well, but the day was not yet
ended.
CHAPTER XIX
DRIVEN BACK
A dismal, inauspicious day was January 4, 1907. Towards noon Islam Ahun
appeared, half dead with weariness. He had left headquarters on the
morning of the 2nd, and searched up and down the lake for us; had been
on the west and on the south shore; and at last, following the most
recent track of the sledge, had found us in our dell. He brought me a
letter from Robert:
Yesterday, on January 1st, six armed men came to the camp, made a few
inquiries, and went off again. To-day, the 2nd, they returned with
some other men, and said the Governor of Naktsang had ordered them not
to allow us to proceed further, because we had no passport from the
Devashung, and that we must remain where we are. They wanted an answer
from Master, in order to report to the Governor, who would communicate
immediately with Lhasa. They are waiting impatiently for a reply, so I
am sending off this letter.
After Islam Ahun had rested and eaten, he had to take back a letter to
Robert at camp No. 97. Robert was to inform the ambassadors that I would
not give an answer until I had seen them in person; if they were so
anxious to hear it, they might come on the afternoon of the 5th to the
northern shore at a distance of three miles from camp No. 98. If they
did not, they must be answerable for the consequences. Muhamed Isa must
come with them as interpreter.
Now matters were coming to a head. This time it was not a false alarm.
Tidings of our journey had been sent to Lhasa, and we were in the hands
of the Governor of Naktsang. I had put off the decisive moment in order
to get time for at least one more line of soundings. If I could advance
no farther in Naktsang, at any rate I would complete my investigation of
the Ngangtse-tso. Afterwards the great retreat might commence. The
intense excitement in which we had lived during the past months had now
reached its culmination, and the Ngangtse-tso was to be the
turning-point of our journey. I heard distinctly the creaking and
grinding of the hinges as the great gates of the land of holy books, the
forbidden land in the south, were slammed in my face.
At length we set off to camp No. 104, which was situated on the southern
shore to the east of camp No. 99.
January 5. Every blade and stalk was covered with rime in the early
morning when we marched over the ice in a direction north, 19° E. The
day was fine and calm, the air pleasant, almost warm. Was the spring
coming? Did spring set in so early in these more southern regions? It
had seemed so far off that we had not thought of looking forward to its
mild air while the long winter of Chang-tang still lingered in our
limbs. We needed more warmth to thaw properly. The ice cracked and
groaned wildly in the night, but it was not on that account that I slept
badly.
Here the ice-fields form long waves; banks of water pressed up and then
frozen, brittle as glass, came in sight every minute. The greatest
depth, 32.9 feet, occurred when we were 6.6 miles from the shore, and
was the deepest we sounded in the Ngangtse-tso. The lake is, then,
deeper in the east; the west wind silts up its western half with sand
and dust.
Half way across we saw a small dark speck on the ice in the direction of
the Laen valley. It was the Hajji with a letter. The envoys had received
fresh orders from the Governor of Naktsang. In four days he would appear
in his own exalted person, and meanwhile his representatives were to
watch us closely. Consequently they remained with the caravan, but they
had allowed Robert and Muhamed Isa to transfer our headquarters to a
place south-east of camp No. 97, where the pasturage was better. We had
therefore freedom for a couple of days longer. The Governor of Naktsang!
It was he who in 1901 had made me halt at the south side of the
Zilling-tso. I could expect no mercy from him. On the contrary, I had on
the former occasion given him so much trouble and annoyance that he
would be furious at my return to his province.
On January 6 Ishe was so ill that the Hajji was obliged to take him
home. Now we crossed the lake again in a direction north, 49° E. We had
just arrived at our second sounding-hole when three men, who had
followed our track, came in sight behind us. They made signs that we
should stop, so fresh news must have arrived. We were able to cut out
our hole and take a sounding before they came running up to us. They
were Muhamed Isa with two other of my men, perspiring and breathless,
and I invited them to make themselves comfortable on our lawn.
"What is the news?" I asked.
"Sahib, twenty-five Tibetans have pitched their tents round about ours.
We wished this morning to move our headquarters to the shore, in order
to be nearer to you. All the animals were laden, and we were about to
set out, when the men came out of their tents and forced us to unload
the animals again, and ordered us to stay where we were."
"Have you heard anything more of the Governor?"
"He is to be here in three days. Mounted messengers are coming and going
daily, often several in one day, and they seem to ride fast. They are in
constant communication with the Governor and send him reports."
"What do they say to my remaining away so long?"
"They are exceedingly astonished at it, and repeatedly ask us what the
Sahib is doing out on the ice. They have had spies on the shore, and
believe that the Sahib is dredging up gold through the holes from the
lake bed."
"Are they civil to you?"
"Yes, but determined and immovable. They say that the Governor himself
will decide our fate. Their number has been greatly increased during the
latter days, they have provisions brought to them, and they expect
further reinforcements."
"What is their intention, do you think, Muhamed Isa?"
"Ah, the outlook is not bright. They certainly intend to render our
further progress impossible, and to force us to go northwards."
"We have to thank for this that ill-omened fellow on the
Bogtsang-tsangpo, who has despatched an express messenger to Naktsang.
If we come to a deadlock here, they must provide us with a new caravan,
and we will travel to Pekin. There I will procure permission from the
Chinese Government to travel through Tibet. How is the caravan?"
"All's well. A mule died the day before yesterday, and my black
saddle-horse yesterday. Eight horses and a mule are left. The yaks are
in splendid condition."
"We shall have plenty of time to rest at this lake, for if we have to
negotiate with Lhasa, it will be a couple of months before the question
is settled. Now, go back and remember me to the others."
We went on with our sounding and found a maximum depth of 27.4 feet. On
the shore old banks were plainly perceptible; they have here been
exposed to the breakers of the western storms. The highest might be
about 50 feet high. There paced a solitary wolf, farther back 25 kiangs
were grazing; they looked at us inquisitively for a long time, and then
darted away as lightly and swiftly as the wind. We saw no sign of our
porters, and on the shore, where we walked along the highest bank, we
did not find a track. Why did they not signal by lighting a fire? At
last we caught sight of them far off in a northerly direction. They were
tired and lay down to sleep as soon as they reached land. I did not
scold them, but Rabsang seized the first he could get hold of by the
hair, and then gave them all a thrashing in turn, which, however, did
not prevent them singing as merrily as usual in the evening.
Now my work on the Ngangtse-tso was finished, after marches over the ice
aggregating 66 miles.
On January 7 the porters with all our belongings, except my tent, set
off for headquarters. I waited for my riding horse, did not allow my
mind to be disturbed, and was in no hurry to give myself up to the
Tibetan militia--those horrid black riders who had so often interfered
with my plans. No news came from Shigatse, no post from India. I had
ordered it to arrive at the Dangra-yum-tso on the 25th of November, and
now it was January 7. Had Ganpat Sing lost the letters, or had they
never reached Leh? Was it, perhaps, impossible, for political reasons,
to send me my letters from India?
I had to wait a long time. It was not till one o'clock that a man
appeared with my horse, and at the same time a caravan of 50 yaks
appeared on the inner terrace embankment, driven by Tibetans. We
supposed that it was the Governor's baggage train, but the Tibetans said
that they were natives of Laen, and had been attending the market in
Naktsang.
We were three hours from the camp. Seven wild asses trotted in front of
us for an hour; the wind was strong against us. Clouds of sand and dust
swept along the bank, the icy surface became invisible, and the wild
asses disappeared like ghosts in the mist. The light was curious and
confusing, the ascent became steeper, and fresh hills continually
appeared out of the dense air, which was like muddy water. Often a small
troop of Goa gazelles sprang lightly past. We did not see camp No. 107
until we were close upon it.
A deep erosion channel running towards the lake. On its right flank are
our four tents, looking eastwards. Muhamed Isa stands at his fire, his
hands in his pockets, his pipe in his mouth (Illustration 66). All the
others come out. The Tibetans peer out of their tents like field-mice
out of their holes. Robert reports: "All quiet on the Shipka pass." The
day before our horses, chased by wolves, had stampeded and had taken the
Tibetan horses with them, but they were all found again in scattered
groups along the shore.
I entered Muhamed Isa's tent; when I was seated the principal Tibetans
were summoned. They presented themselves immediately, bowed low, and
thrust out their tongues as far as possible; this time this original
mode of salutation seemed to me a mockery. A man with a red turban,
dark-blue fur coat, and a sabre in his belt, had been in 1901 in Hlaje
Tsering's camp on the eastern shore of the Chargut-tso, when we encamped
together, and he reminded me of that time.
"Is Hlaje Tsering still ruler of Naktsang?" I asked.
"Yes, it is he who is coming the day after to-morrow."
"Is he bringing with him as large a following as last time?"
"No; he perceived then that the troops of mounted men did not frighten
you, and he trusts that you will be amenable to his wishes."
January 8 was spent in repacking the baggage, and on the 9th the
Tibetans set up another tent, intended, they said, for the Governor's
kitchen. At dusk two riders arrived, who announced that the Governor
begged to be excused for not arriving at the stated time. He was an old
man, had had the storm against him on the way, and could only travel
slowly, but he would certainly be here on the evening of the 12th.
Then I sent for the chiefs of the Tibetans, and told them that they
would not be admitted to my presence again if they did not speak the
truth this time.
"Bombo Chimbo," they replied, "if the Governor is not here in three days
you may cut off our heads."
"That is not necessary; it will suffice if you bind yourselves in
writing to pay me a fine of ten horses if the Governor is not here in
three days."
"We will give you twenty horses."
"No, ten are enough." And now the contract was drawn up and signed.
"Have you any fresh information?"
"Yes; the Governor has brought only his own twelve servants. He knows
that the Bombo Chimbo is come back, for he received a letter from the
Bogtsang-tsangpo, saying that the same traveller who had been there five
years ago with a camel caravan was there again. Then he sent an express
to Lhasa, and waited ten days for an answer, but at length decided to
come himself."
Our patience was put to the trial again, as though we had not had
already occasion enough to exercise it. At last, on the 11th, a small
group of cavaliers appeared against the hills, and soon after a
blue-and-white tent stood in the camp of the Tibetans--they had now
seven in all. Then followed a party of mounted men, one of whom sat very
much bent, wore a red _bashlik_, and was carefully wrapped in furs.
"That is Hlaje Tsering," we were told. His followers carried guns decked
with red pennants. They seemed very starved, quickly withdrew into their
tents, and we heard nothing more of them.
January 12. All too soon a messenger came to ask if I would go to the
Governor's tent, or whether he should first pay me a visit. I sent an
answer that I would let him know when I could receive him. My poor
storm-beaten tent was made as fine as circumstances allowed; there was
no room for more than two guests, but frieze rugs and cushions were laid
down for them, and between these seats and my bed a large brazier was
placed, so that the old man might get a good warm. My messenger was just
gone, when two horses were led up to the blue-and-white tent, and the
old man mounted one, a young lama the other; the horses were led by the
bridle, the other Tibetans fell in on foot, and the procession moved off
slowly to our tents.
[Illustration: 95. HLAJE TSERING AND HIS TRAVELLING COMPANION, A LAMA,
AT MY TENT ON THE NGANGTSE-TSO.]
Hlaje Tsering, for it was really my old friend, came in a parade costume
of Chinese cut, with a Chinese cap, decorated with two foxes' tails and
a white glass button, and in boots trimmed with velvet and with thick
white soles. On his silken robe with wide hanging sleeves he wore a
short collar of otter skin, and in the lobe of the left ear a large
earring of pure gold studded with round turquoises. When he appeared I
went to meet and salute him. We at once recognized each other, exchanged
warm greetings, nay, almost embraced, and remarked how singular it was
that we should meet here again in the midst of the wilderness after five
long years. Holding his hand in mine, I conducted him to the modest seat
of honour, and invited the lama, his secretary, a son of the Yunduk
Tsering of 1901, to take a seat. I sat cross-legged on my bed beside
him, Robert and Muhamed Isa in the tent door, while the rest of the
space framed by the opening was filled with a mosaic of Tibetan heads.
Muhamed Isa, the interpreter, wore a robe of ceremony presented to him
by Younghusband in Lhasa: it was made of thick, cerise-coloured Tibetan
woollen material, and was confined round the waist by a coloured girdle;
on his head he wore a tall gold-embroidered turban from Peshawar. He put
us all in the shade with his finery (Illustrations 30, 95.)
After I had taken out a box of Egyptian cigarettes, and Hlaje Tsering
had for a time examined everything in the tent, he said with a solemn,
troubled manner:
"In my capacity as Governor of Naktsang I cannot allow you to proceed
further, to Shigatse or in any other direction within the boundaries of
Naktsang. Soon after the English expedition to Lhasa I received orders
from the Devashung to allow no European in future, as formerly, to
travel about in Naktsang. My instructions are that if any European
forces his way into Naktsang it is the duty of my office to stop him and
force him to turn back."
I replied: "It is impossible that the conditions remain the same as five
years ago, when you held up my caravan with your militia of 500 men.
Since then the Indian Government has concluded a treaty with the
Devashung in Lhasa, and now the two Governments are on most friendly
terms."
"Hedin Sahib, you will remember what took place last time. You were then
so kind as to turn back at my request, but you do not know what befell
me. All the expenses of the levy raised against you I had to pay, and
the Devashung demanded from me 2000 rupees in addition. I was ruined,
while my colleague, Yunduk Tsering, enriched himself by exploiting the
people, and now lives, a wealthy man, in Lhasa. We are old friends, but
I cannot expose myself to new vexations on your account."
"It is true, Hlaje Tsering, that we are old friends, but you cannot
expect me to undergo another journey through Chang-tang on your behalf.
I owned 130 animals when I left Ladak five months ago. Now, as you can
see yourself, I have only 9. I will not be persuaded to return by the
same way, and by the treaty of Lhasa you have no means of compelling a
stranger by force."
"The treaty of Lhasa was concluded with England. You are not an
Englishman but a Swede-_Peling_."
"You have the more reason to show me hospitality. England forced a war
on you against your wishes; my country has not done so."
"You are right; your people has never injured us. But in my instructions
no distinction is made between different nations. I shall certainly not
force you to retrace your steps to Ladak by the long troublesome route
by which you came; I know that this is impossible without a large strong
caravan. It is of no consequence to me whether you succeed in reaching
Shigatse or not, but you must not travel thither through my province. In
Naktsang there is only one road open to you, namely, the one by which
you came. I do not mind what road you take afterwards, and if you can
force your way to Shigatse from the northern and western shores of the
Dangra-yum-tso, that is not my affair."
"You know that the Tashi Lama was in India a year ago, and how well he
was received there. He expects me in his capital, and no one else has
the right to hinder me on my journey to him."
"Naktsang is under the Devashung, not under the Tashi Lama."
"The Dalai Lama took to flight when the English troops drew near to
Lhasa. The Tashi Lama is now, therefore, Tibet's foremost Grand Lama."
"Quite right; we do not understand the action of the Dalai Lama, and do
not approve of it. He should have been the first to protect his country
from its enemies. But that has nothing to do with the question. I
receive my instructions solely and only from the Devashung."
"And I shall not leave Naktsang until the Tashi Lama has confirmed your
statement that the way is closed. I will, then, forward a letter to the
representative of the Indian Government in Gyangtse, Major O'Connor, and
if he replies that the political situation forbids my travelling
further, I will leave Tibet. I will await his answer here, at the
Ngangtse-tso. And I have another reason for this resolution. I am
expecting letters from India, which are to be forwarded through Major
O'Connor. You will understand that I am not disposed to leave Naktsang
before the arrival of my letters, which will doubtless be sent on by
order of the Tashi Lama."
"That is all very fine, but have you any proof that the Tashi Lama will
assume the responsibility of forwarding your letters? You have no
passport from the Devashung. Have you one from the Tashi Lama? It is not
my duty to serve your pleasure. If I send your letter to Gyangtse on my
own responsibility I shall lose my head."
"I will send two of my own Ladakis with the letter."
"No; the land is closed to them as much as to you. And, besides, how
long do you expect to have to wait here for the answer? Several months?"
"Oh no; it is 165 English miles to Gyangtse, and the journey will not
take more than twenty days, even with short marches."
"I shall not leave this place till you have started northwards and
passed the frontier of Naktsang."
"And I will not start till I have received an answer to my letter from
Gyangtse."
"You cannot possibly remain here long. You cannot feed your men; there
are no nomads here, and those who dwell in the neighbourhood are poor as
rats."
"I saw many tents on the southern shore and large flocks. At the worst
we can live by hunting; there is plenty of game here. As I ask nothing
but that you will allow me to wait here for an answer, you might oblige
me so far."
"There you make a mistake. In my position neither Shigatse nor Gyangtse
has anything to do with me. When the English had evacuated Tibet the
Devashung sent a proclamation round to every _dzong_ (governor's
residential town) in Tibet that we had certainly been beaten, but that
we had lost none of our territory and were still masters over it, so
that the old regulations with regard to European travellers were still
in force. I will try to meet you as far as I can, and will now withdraw
to my tent to take counsel with my people."
At the same time I held a council of war with Robert and Muhamed Isa. It
was perfectly evident that we could not continue our journey southwards.
On the other hand, it seemed possible that, making a detour to the
Dangra-yum-tso, we might penetrate into the country on its west side,
which was governed, Hlaje Tsering said, from Saka-dzong. Were we driven
from there, we would direct our course to Pekin. Why? I am certainly
very optimistic, but I had a conviction that I could befool the Chinese
Emperor as Marco Polo did, and obtain his permission to travel about
freely in Tibet, with some kind of special mission as a pretext. Muhamed
Isa thought it was an enormous distance to Pekin, but Robert was
enthusiastic about the journey. We would only take our best men; for the
others I could procure permission to return to Ladak through Gartok. We
should have a hard journey at first, but through Southern Mongolia we
should fly on Bactrian camels like wild deer over the steppe. I would on
no account return home vanquished. I tried to infect the two others with
my enthusiasm, and depicted our camel ride as a fairy tale and a
romance.
Now two of Hlaje Tsering's men presented themselves, bringing a dish of
rice and a lump of butter as a present from their master. The secretary
lama sent an apron full of rice. In return I sent Muhamed Isa with a
whole piece of _pashmina_ cloth and a knife from Srinagar for the
Governor, and a similar knife and a turban bandage for the secretary.
I returned the visit about three o'clock, accompanied by Robert and
Muhamed Isa. Hlaje Tsering's tent was large and handsomely fitted up,
and all his secretaries and servants were sitting round the fire, which
blazed up towards the upper opening. At the sides lay sacks of rice and
_tsamba_, and several whole slaughtered sheep; everything showed that
the old man was prepared for a long stay. Guns with rests and pennants,
sabres and lances, harness, bridles, saddles and saddle-cloths, lent a
picturesque and warlike aspect to this chieftain's tent. Along the
shorter side, opposite the entrance, thick cushions were piled up, and
covered with small Lhasa rugs, and round cushions laid upon them served
as supports for the back. I was invited to take my seat there beside
Hlaje Tsering; a small red lacquered table was placed in front of us. On
our right stood an altar shrine with gilded images of gods and _gaos_,
small silver cases with figures of Buddha, which on a journey are
suspended by a red strap from the shoulder. And before them flickered a
wick, fed with butter, in a bright brass bowl.
A servant brought cups of Chinese porcelain on copper saucers and with
silver covers. Another poured out of a picturesque tea-pot the thick tea
mixed with butter which the Tibetans are so fond of, and which I now
drank apparently with pleasure, though to me it tasted horrible--but
Hlaje Tsering had lately praised my English tea.
The conversation was carried on calmly and agreeably as in my tent. But
the negotiations made no progress, but rather the contrary, for Hlaje
Tsering now said:
"I can on no account let you go to the Dangra-yum-tso; the lake is holy,
and, besides, watchmen have already been posted there."
"The road to the east is also barred?"
"Yes, the country is entirely closed to you on the south, west, and
east, and I cannot, as I now perceive, send you back to the north."
"Am I, then, to travel through the air, or sink down to the lower
regions?"
"No, but you must wait here."
"And you will send my letter to Gyangtse?"
"No, I will not do that, but I will not prevent you from sending two of
your men on your own responsibility."
"Will you sell me some horses for them?"
"No; then it would be said that we were in the same boat, and that I had
allowed myself to be bribed."
"You are a fine governor, Hlaje Tsering; you cannot even sell me a
couple of horses. I shall consequently have to send my men on foot, and
they will take twice as long."
"Well, I will sleep on it, and let you know my decision in the
morning."
Rub Das and Tundup Galzan received their instructions in the evening.
They were to take a letter to Major O'Connor in Gyangtse, and a sum of
money was given them, which was sewed up in their girdles for safe
keeping. They were to start on their adventurous journey the following
evening as soon as it became dark.
CHAPTER XX
ONWARDS THROUGH THE FORBIDDEN LAND
January 13. Again this ominous number, which is regarded by so many
people as unlucky, and is surrounded by a cloud of superstition! Would
the 13th be unfortunate for us also?
The sun had scarcely risen when Hlaje Tsering sent to announce a visit.
Accompanied by his private secretary, the lama Lobsang Shunten, and all
the rest of his retinue, His Excellence the Governor of Naktsang came to
my tent on foot. They took their seats on the cushions, and Hlaje
Tsering opened the conversation with the following remarkable
declaration:
"Hedin Sahib, we have, neither of us, time to stay here for weeks and
months, waiting for an answer from Gyangtse. I cannot help you in your
correspondence with Gyangtse. I have thoroughly considered the
situation, and have discussed it with my secretaries, who, like myself,
are responsible to the Devashung. We are of the opinion that all you can
do is to pass southwards into the territory of the Labrang
(Tashi-lunpo). I beg you to set out the day after to-morrow."
What did this most unexpected change of front mean? Yesterday I was not
to be allowed to take a single step southwards, and to-day I was
requested to start as soon as possible to the forbidden land. Had Hlaje
Tsering received secret orders from Lhasa? Had he been informed that the
Tashi Lama was really expecting me? He said nothing on the subject, and
I cautiously refrained from asking him. Or were we the victims of a
ruse, and when we had been induced to travel with all speed to
Gyangtse, should we be compelled to return thence to India through
Darjiling? For there the Devashung could appeal to the terms of the
treaty, in which it is emphatically stipulated that only those who are
in possession of a passport from Lhasa have a right to travel about the
country, and so my journey would be speedily ended.
Might it not be better to make for the unknown country west of the
Dangra-yum-tso, which after all was the main object of my journey? Hlaje
Tsering's change of front was so absolutely at variance with my former
experiences in Tibet, that I had some misgivings, and wondered whether I
was about to fall into the jaws of the English, Chinese, and Tibetan
authorities, and should shortly be delivered unconditionally into their
hands.
But this opportunity must on no account be lost. Between the
Ngangtse-tso and Shigatse stretches the eastern part of the great white
patch north of the Tsangpo, which no European, no pundit, has trod, the
land of which not even hazy and uncertain reports at second-hand have
ever found their way into geographical text-books. Even if I had an
opportunity of making only a single traverse over it, my labour would
not be in vain. Nain Sing has two rivers on his map, which flow east and
north-east to the Kyaring-tso, and their upper courses he places in the
country south of the Ngangtse-tso. At present I knew nothing of them,
but I should learn everything if I accepted Hlaje Tsering's proposal.
But I had already perceived that the mountains on the south side of the
lake were quite fanciful and arbitrary as inserted in Nain Sing's map.
At any rate, I must not now betray my satisfaction, so I answered very
calmly and thoughtfully:
"Well, I will march southwards the day after to-morrow if you will
provide me with horses by then."
"I have sent men into all the valleys in the neighbourhood with orders
that all the available horses are to be brought here. Two roads lead
from here to Shigatse. If you travel by the west side of the lake you
will be in four days in the territory of the Labrang, but by the east
side you will reach it in two days. You may choose yourself which way
you will take, but I shall be better pleased if you decide on the
eastern, for with me the main thing is that you should clear out of my
province as quickly as possible."
"No, I will fix on the western road, that I may be able to make an
excursion to the Dangra-yum-tso; for I wish to see the lake, and also I
must go there because I have given it as my postal address, and the
messenger of the Tashi Lama is awaiting me there."
This was a very undiplomatic utterance. I ought to have avoided
disclosing my plans. Hlaje Tsering bristled up at once and exclaimed:
"To the Dangra-yum-tso? Never! The lake is holy; the mountain
Targo-gangri on its southern shore is holy, and there lies the great
monastery Sershik-gompa, in which influential intriguing monks dwell.
Your visit to the lake would lead to complications. No, if such is your
intention, I will leave only one road open to you, namely, that along
the eastern side of the Ngangtse-tso. I cannot and will not compel you,
but I implore you to give me your word of honour that you will not go to
the Dangra-yum-tso."
Thus I lost the holy lake a second time; but I gave my word of honour,
that I might not lose the important route still open to me. My premature
candour vexed me at the time, but I was soon to have reason to be
thankful for it. Had I gained an opportunity of visiting the holy lake
at this time, I should certainly have been arrested on its shore; but
that is another story which will be related in a later chapter.
"Tell me, Hlaje Tsering, do you think that I shall be stopped in the
territory of the Labrang?"
"As you have not been arrested here, in Naktsang, probably you will not
be there. I do not know how I shall get on, but I have been Governor for
seven years, and my term of office expires in five months, so it is of
no consequence if I lose my post. The Devashung has plundered me so
thoroughly that I have few cattle and little other property left. Now,
for instance, I am travelling in my province at the expense of the
people; the nomads have to provide me with baggage animals and
provisions for the whole time."
"The Devashung must be a nice institution. How glad you must be that
your time of service will soon expire."
"Yes, but I must settle down in some place where I can live cheaply."
"Does the Devashung know that I am here?"
"I have not heard anything from it up to the present, but I despatched
another report on your affairs yesterday by express messenger. How they
will treat you I do not know; I have gone as far as I could for old
friendship's sake."
After that we again paid him a return visit. Some of Hlaje Tsering's men
had seen us engaged in rearranging our baggage, and this caused him to
ask me if he could have an empty chest. Four of the best were given him,
and also all kinds of other superfluous articles.
[Illustration: 96. SERVANTS OF HLAJE TSERING.]
[Illustration: 97. MESSENGER WITH LETTERS FROM HOME, AND HIS TRAVELLING
COMPANION.]
[Illustration: 98. HLAJE TSERING SETTING OUT.]
January 13 was a memorable day in our chronicles, and the 14th was to
bring with it still more wonderful incidents. Our life during the past
months had passed rather monotonously, but now the facts of our daily
experience were stranger than fiction. The alt-azimuth had been placed
on its tripod near my tent, and I had the chronometer, an aneroid, and a
thermometer close at hand. There I stood for fully three hours,
observing the phases of the eclipse of the sun. About nine-tenths of the
sun's disc were obscured. Shortly before the maximum the temperature of
the air was 16.7°, and soon after the maximum 11.5°. The violet line of
the thermograph fell sharply, and a slight breeze swept along the
earth's surface. Some Tibetans had betaken themselves to Muhamed Isa's
tent to sell us horses, but when the singular darkness fell, they shook
their heads and returned to their tents. The Ladakis are outside,
sitting at their fire and murmuring prayers. The ravens are quiet and do
not move. An eagle circles with heavy pinions close above the ground.
Our sheep come in of their own accord from the pastures, just as they
are wont to do in the evening, and yet the vanishing sun stands at its
mid-day altitude. The puppies break off their play, creep timidly into
the tent, and lie down on my bed. Only the horses graze on and display
no surprise that the day is so short. All is strangely still and
quiet.
But then the small sickle of the sun, which has not been extinguished in
interstellar space, increases again. It becomes lighter, and the shadows
that have just before shown a double outline, become sharp again. The
sheep stand a moment irresolute and then go slowly back to the pasture.
The dogs return to their play, and the Tibetans, one after another, peep
out of their tent doors. The ravens shake themselves and fly off
croaking to a hill. The prayers of the Ladakis are heard no more, and
the eagle is borne aloft by swishing beats of his wings to the sun,
which again shines out in all its splendour.
Then old Karpun came to visit us, and was given some tea, tobacco, and a
piece of cloth.
"Does the Bombo Chimbo remember that I tried to detain him five and a
half years ago with a large levy?"
"Yes, on the north shore of the Selling-tso (Zilling-tso). I gave you a
great deal of trouble then, and you could not induce me to stay."
"The trouble is all forgotten, and I am very glad to see you again in
good health and brisk."
"We did not expect then that we should meet again. You, too, are looking
well. But tell me why you are come just now."
"I have brought a message to the Governor from Shansa-dzong. The
officials remaining there have ordered me to call out the people. Now
all the militia must stand under arms to----"
"You surely do not intend to detain me again?"
"By no means. But news is come from the black tents on the middle course
of the Bogtsang-tsangpo that a large band of robbers has pillaged ten
tents and driven off all the owners' cattle and all the flocks of
sheep."
"When?"
"A few days ago."
"Then we may thank our stars that we did not fall into their hands, for
we passed along the middle course of the Bogtsang-tsangpo for five days,
and we have a large quantity of silver money in our boxes."
"The Bombo Chimbo is a friend of the gods. No harm can befall you."
"In which direction have the robbers retired with their booty?"
"They are still in the territory of Naktsang. We shall pursue them,
catch them, and cut off their heads."
Then I visited Hlaje Tsering with the corner pillars of my caravan. He
sat at his lacquered table drinking tea, and had his long Chinese pipe
in his mouth.
"Why is it that it has just been so dark?" I asked him. "The gods of the
Dangra-yum-tso are angry because you will not allow me to visit their
lake."
"No, certainly not. A big dog roams about the sky and often conceals the
sun. But I and the lama Lobsang have prayed all the time before the
altar, and have burned joss-sticks before the images of the gods. You
have nothing to fear; the dog has passed on."
"Very fine," I cried, and made a desperate attempt to explain the
phenomenon. Robert held up his saucer to represent the sun, and I took
two rupees to represent the earth and moon crossing each other's orbit.
Hlaje Tsering listened attentively to Muhamed Isa's translation of my
demonstration, nodded approvingly, and finally expressed his opinion
that all this might do very well for us, but that it did not suit Tibet.
At this moment the flap of the tent was thrown back, and Rabsang entered
panting and calling out to me:
"The post is here!"
Muhamed Isa and Robert jumped up as though there were fire under their
feet, and exclaimed, "We must be off." I sat quite still, and thrust my
feet against the ground so as not to show that I was trembling with
excitement. Was it possible? Letters from home, from India, from
Gyangtse, and perhaps from the Tashi Lama!
"Who has brought the mail?" I asked, as if nothing had happened.
"A man from Shigatse, accompanied by two others," answered Rabsang.
"Where is he? Let him bring the mail-bag."
"We have already told him to come, but he replies that he has strict
orders to hand over the letters to the Sahib himself in his own tent.
He refuses to do so in the tent of the Governor."
"What is the matter?" asked Hlaje Tsering, astonished at the general
commotion.
"I have news from the Tashi Lama," I returned very coolly. It was now
Hlaje Tsering's turn to look disconcerted. The news made a very deep
impression on him. He quickly gave an order, two men hurried out and
returned with a confirmation of my statement. Then he gave me a friendly
clap on the shoulder and said, smiling:
"Hedin Sahib, this news is of much greater importance to me than to you.
It is of no consequence what kind of tidings you receive, but the
arrival of the post from the Tashi Lama is, in itself, a proof that His
Holiness is actually expecting you, that Labrang is open to you, and
that I acted rightly when I told you that you might continue your
journey. If I had not already granted you permission yesterday, I should
do so now."
"I have always said that I should receive my letters from the Tashi
Lama."
"That is true; but now I have for the first time tangible proof, now I
am perfectly satisfied, and do not intend even to wait for your
departure. I shall travel back to Shansa-dzong the day after to-morrow."
Now I could no longer curb my impatience. I took leave and hurried to my
tent, whither the post-messenger was summoned. He was a young powerful
Tibetan, a servant of Kung Gushuk, one of the highest officials in
Shigatse, and younger brother of the Tashi Lama. Lieutenant Bailey, who
had taken the place of Major O'Connor, absent on furlough, had,
according to orders from India, sent the carefully packed post-box to
the Tashi Lama with a request that he would forward it to me. The
forbidden Dangra-yum-tso appeared in the Tibetan address also. By
command of the Tashi Lama the man was furnished with an open passport
from the Labrang, the Vatican of Tashi-lunpo, which empowered him to
demand horses and provisions along the route. The men with him were the
nomads who had last supplied him with horses at the Dangra-yum-tso, and
now that they were sure of tips would not leave him. He had taken
eighteen days to travel to the holy lake, and had looked for us there
for three days, when he heard by chance that we were encamped on the
Ngangtse-tso. Then he had hastened to us in order to execute his
commission. But why was he so late? I had arranged for November 25. Yes,
but Kung Gushuk had let the box lie for forty days, and Kung Gushuk is a
blockhead. But this was a piece of good luck. Had Kung Gushuk done his
duty, the post would have arrived at the right time, while I only
reached the place agreed upon at the end of December. A higher
providence had overruled the whole affair, and everything turned out
well (Illustration 98).
Now the box was broken open. What excitement! It contained packets of
letters from my home, from the Government House in Calcutta, from
Colonel Dunlop Smith, and many other friends. I first ascertained from
the last letter that all were well at home, and then read all the
letters in chronological order with the most eager interest. The letters
were the more welcome that they contained nothing but good news. I
received a quantity of Swedish newspapers; they were old as the hills,
but I should now have no lack of reading on my way to Shigatse.
The caravan did not see much of me that evening. I lay on my bed engaged
in reading, and made my men heat the tent well. The Ladakis, too, were
merry, kindled a large fire, danced and sang. I was invited to go and
look on at their merry-making for a moment, and availed myself of the
opportunity to make a short speech, in which I told them that they had
all served me well and faithfully, and that hitherto we had met with
good fortune. Now the road to Tashi-lunpo was open to us, and they would
attain their wish of making a pilgrimage to the holy town. There they
would rest after their exertions. Then I returned to my letters, and
read on till the day dawned in the east, till long after the brazier had
grown cold, and there were 45 degrees of frost in my tent. But I was
well wrapped up in furs and did not feel the cold. Near my tent a troop
of wolves made such a noise that Tsering had to go out and silence them
with a few shots.
On the 15th I still lay down and read. On the 16th Hlaje Tsering paid me
his farewell visit. We talked very pleasantly together, joked, and
wondered whether fate would ever bring us together again. Then I
attended him to his horse, which was snowy white, had a crimson
saddle-cloth, and was bedecked with ornaments of shining brass and a
chest-cloth with jingling bells. He mounted into the saddle, gave me
both his hands at parting, and disappeared with his small retinue behind
the hills. Then I again went back to my letters, but I felt a dull void
now that the amiable Governor of Naktsang was gone (Illustration 97).
January 17. What did it matter if the day were gloomy, if freshly fallen
snow veiled the surrounding mountains, and heavy greyish-blue clouds
rolled over the lake as though to hide it from our sight at the moment
of our departure? To us everything seemed bright, cheerful, and smiling.
A powerful governor had come to prevent us from travelling further, and
yet the route to the south was as free to us as the uninhabited
Chang-tang had lately been. But now we were much better off. We should
pass black tents daily, be able to buy all we wanted, and have no cause
for alarm because we had provisions for only five days longer. We
enjoyed unlimited freedom, and had not a single man with us as escort or
watchman. Before us lay a country which might be said to be the most
interesting in the world from a geographical point of view, and in which
every day's journey might lead to discoveries of the highest importance.
What did we care if the air was raw and cold? Spring must come sometime.
We could count on warmer weather for three reasons: we were advancing to
more southern climes, we should soon reach districts at a lower level,
and the spring was daily approaching. And for three reasons the
Ngangtse-tso would ever be memorable in the diary of my reminiscences:
there freedom of movement had been unexpectedly accorded to us, there
connection with the outer world had been again established, and there I
had an opportunity of determining the depth of the lake by a complete
series of soundings, and of drawing its contours in a map.
We had obtained three new horses fairly cheaply, on which Robert,
Muhamed Isa, and Tsering rode, while I kept to my small Ladak white.
Accompanied by the post-messenger and his two comrades, we rode in a
south-easterly direction down to the lake, and along the eastern shore
to the southern part, where we bivouacked near two black tents. Kiangs
and wolves were frequently seen. A kiang had been torn in pieces by the
wolves, and the white puppy and the Pobrang dog remained by the body to
enjoy a good feast. We were terribly starved during the long march of
13.2 miles, and in the night the thermometer marked 61.9 degrees of
frost, the worst cold of the whole winter.
The next day's march took us up a transverse valley of the mountains
which rise on the south shore of the Ngangtse-tso. It was rather narrow,
and a small source murmured under its covering of ice. We followed a
plainly marked path, leaving a couple of tents behind us, and passed
sheepfolds, grassy plots, and dark spots where tame yaks had lain and
worn off the grass; everything was black, the tents, the Tibetans, the
half-naked children, and the dogs. At length the gully turned westwards;
just at the bend was a waterfall congealed into milky white ice. Far up
the valley we encamped on a plateau, where we had a very interesting
view to the north-east. We could see almost the whole of the lake which
Nain Sing left at some distance to the south of his route, and which he
called Daru-tso. I cannot dispute its correctness, but none of the
Tibetans whom I questioned had ever heard this name for the lake; they
called it Marchar-tso, and it now figures in my map under this name. It
often happens that a lake has different names among different nomad
tribes. In camp No. 109 it lay just below us as on a map; its form is
not so simple as on Nain Sing's map, but abounds in peninsulas and bays,
and it is extremely narrow in the middle. The isthmus between the
Ngangtse-tso and the Marchar-tso is only a few miles broad; at the
highest point the old shore terraces of the two lakes touch one another.
At the time when the water stood higher the two lakes were therefore
connected. The Marchar-tso is said to be as salt as its neighbour, but
its ice was smooth and blue, and we saw no fields of free salt on its
surface.
We had seen nothing of the white puppy and the Pobrang dog after we had
left them behind, so I sent the Hajji back to the lake. But he came back
without having found any sign of them. We never saw them again, and I
sorely missed the white puppy, who had been a faithful friend in the
tent and on the march. Either they had had a fight with wolves and got
the worst of it, or they had lost our track and had been adopted by
nomads. The former was the more probable, for the Hajji when he came to
the lake saw a troop of wolves careering over the ice.
On the 19th we surmounted the neighbouring pass, the Chapka-la (17,474
feet), on which a stone pyramid is erected in honour of the gods. As a
watershed it is only of secondary importance, for the water from both
sides flows to the Ngangtse-tso. The valley leading down makes a curve
to the south; in the Lamblung valley we had eleven tents as neighbours,
and were able to provide ourselves with all we needed for several days.
The country was still in the Naktsang territory, but the nomads were
subjects of the Labrang, and paid their taxes to Tashi-lunpo.
We remained here two days, which we ought not to have done, and we would
not if I had properly considered the matter. It was not the furious
snowstorm which caused us to waste forty-eight hours, but Ngurbu Tundup,
the postman. I had intended to keep him with us as long as possible, for
it would evidently be an advantage to us, and would increase our
dignity, to have with us a servant of one of the highest officials of
Shigatse. He was our living passport; if he were not with us, we might
perhaps again be regarded as freebooters, and be ordered to stop by some
despotic chief. But Ngurbu Tundup was deaf to our entreaties, and
declared that he had strict orders to return immediately his task was
accomplished, and give in his report. He had already disobeyed his
orders and had lost several days, but he consented to remain with us if
we would rest in the Lamblung valley. I had great need of the time to
get all my huge correspondence ready. On January 20 I wrote for sixteen
hours, and by noon of the 21st the mail was ready and packed up. Ngurbu
received a present of 82 rupees for his excellent service, and if he
handed over the packet of letters to the British commercial agent in
Gyangtse he was to receive further especial reward, when we met again at
Shigatse. But he was to make all speed, changing his horse several times
a day. If he loitered and covered only 18 miles a day, that is, reaching
Gyangtse in ten days, he was to expect only 10 rupees. If he completed
the journey in nine days, he was to receive 20, and if he accomplished
his task in eight days, I would give him 30 rupees, and so on, at the
rate of 10 rupees for every day saved. He actually arrived in eight
days. I really committed a blunder in making this arrangement, for I
gave notice of our approach to the south, and it might have happened
that the Tibetans might have conceived evil designs against us. Nay, had
the Chinese received news of our march, we should most certainly have
been very soon stopped.
When Ngurbu had ridden off over the hills, we were again cut off from
contact with the outer world, and were left to ourselves.
The following morning we ascended eastwards along the valley in which we
had encamped, and where some _mani_ cists stand, the longest of which
measures 33 feet, and is covered with slabs of sandstone bearing the
holy formula in incised letters. Continual snowstorms and huge masses of
cloud with or without snow--that was the characteristic weather in
January.
The Pongchen-la (17,621 feet) is a low threshold, like the preceding of
secondary importance. On its summit stands a votive stone heap, with a
bundle of rods, on which pennants, cloth rags, and ribands flutter.
Smaller cairns radiate out from it. Here we had a last glimpse of our
dear old Ngangtse-tso, and to the north-east a valley ran down to the
Marchar-tso. To the south-east rose a dark range with several snowy
peaks, which is called Pabla. The valley we traversed is broad and open,
and is enclosed in low mountains. We saw no tents all the day, but
numerous traces of summer encampments. Namgyal, however, who is a quick
intelligent man, spied out two tents in the neighbourhood of our camp
No. 111, which was pitched in a district called Namachang, and there
bought some sheep, parched meal, barley, milk, and sour milk. He also
brought a young Tibetan with him, who was good-looking, honest, and
gentle, and did all we asked him willingly and pleasantly. His accent
was so soft and refined that it was a pleasure to hear him speak. He
gave me a quantity of credible information and promised to accompany us
a day's journey.
It snowed so thickly all night and the following day that I frequently
could not see Rabsang, who marched with the Tibetan guide just in front
of my horse. The snow enveloped us, whirled about us, and piled itself
into small drifts on the sheltered side of every stone, grassy hillock,
and hollow. The valley slopes gently to the south-east, and its frozen
river is called Buser-tsangpo, and is a tributary of the Tagrak-tsangpo,
which debouches into the south-western corner of the Ngangtse-tso. We
are therefore still in the basin, of which the lake occupies the lowest
part, and of which the border on the north-west and east lies close to
the lake, but on the south is removed many days' journey from it. The
camping-ground this day is called Kapchor; eastwards extends an open
longitudinal valley, through which runs the road to Shansa-dzong; on the
north side also of the Ngangtse-tso and Marchar-tso a road runs thither,
and by this Hlaje Tsering had reached our camp in twelve days. This road
is known from Nain Sing's journey in 1873-74.
On the morning of the 24th we were nearly blinded on going out of our
tents, so brilliant was the reflexion from the thousands of small facets
of the snow crystals which had spread their white cloak over hill and
valley in a thick continuous sheet. The sky was clear, and blue as the
purest turquoise from Nishapur, but the wind swept bitterly cold over
the snowfields a night old. Our route ran south-eastwards to the exit of
the narrow valley where the Tagrak-tsangpo, now frozen to the bottom,
rested mute and motionless in the arms of winter. We followed the river,
the largest watercourse that we had seen since the Chang-chenmo,
upwards. At some places small nomad communities had their winter
pastures, and there large herds of yaks and flocks of sheep roamed over
the slopes. The name of the valley is Kayi-rung, of the spot where camp
113 was pitched Kayi-pangbuk, and of the district Tova-tova. Nain Sing's
Dobo Dobá Cho, from which he brings the river Para-tsangpo to the
Kyaring-tso, was not known to the inhabitants. The Pundit makes the
water drain eastwards, but as a matter of fact it runs westwards and
north-westwards to the Ngangtse-tso. This is due to his not having been
here himself, for the statements of the natives are usually very
unreliable.
Immediately beyond the camp we crossed on the 25th a small saddle, where
we obtained an instructive insight into the lie of the land. The eyes
swept unhindered over all the wide plain, with the three streams forming
the Tagrak-tsangpo meandering over the level ground in capricious curves
and bends like silver ribands in the brown and grey country. Close to us
on the south-east is the Kesar-tsangpo, which receives the Naong-tsangpo
at the foot of our gap, and then cutting through our mountain begins its
course in the Kayi-rung valley. Farther off to the north-east the
Naong-tsangpo has already absorbed the waters of the Kung-tsangpo, and
with them makes its way to the Kayi-rung valley and the Ngangtse-tso.
The great plain is enclosed by moderately high, rounded mountains and
hills.
After crossing the Kesar-tsangpo we follow the right bank, upwards as
far as Toa-nadsum, where we bivouac. A quadrangular wall of earth marks
the spot where the _bombo_, or chief of the district, usually erects his
tent; now he is in Tashi-lunpo to pay his tax. In the adjoining valleys
there are at the present time twenty-two tents, but only four near our
camp, and in these beggars are wintering in great poverty. The country
is said to be noted for its cold, raw climate even in summer. It rains
in June and July, but the fall varies very much from year to year. If it
rains hard for a long time, all the rivers swell, draining water from a
thousand valleys, and the Tagrak-tsangpo is then sometimes unfordable.
When we started on the following day in a twilight caused by heavy
clouds, the poor natives came up holding out their hands for _tsamba_ or
money, and each received a coin. Our way ran to the east-south-east, to
the Naong-rung valley, traversed by the Naong-tsangpo, now frozen to the
bottom. We now ascended gradually, and at camp No. 115 found ourselves
at a height of 16,844 feet.
Two large black nomad dogs fell in love with the brown puppy, and
followed us as though they belonged to the family. One limped, having at
some time hurt his leg; he was old and shaggy, and was received with
stones and abuse. Yet he clung to us faithfully, and put up with hard
words from the men and the offal from slaughtered sheep. He was at last
admitted a member of our travelling company, and hobbled, with drooping
head and tongue hanging out, over lofty passes and through deep valleys,
and answered to the name of "Cripple." As he was old he often lagged
behind, but in spite of his slow pace he always turned up and took his
place before Muhamed Isa's tent. He was the grand dog of our tent court,
and was much concerned about us when danger threatened. Naturally he
became a friend of us all, was allowed to eat as much as he liked, and
acquired a position in the caravan. Then we would gladly have forgotten
we had had the heart to beat him, and to greet him with stones and
whips--he, our Cripple, who had come to us of his own accord to defend
us and guard our tents, only asking free board in exchange; for free
lodging of course he had under the everlasting stars in great desolate
winterly cold Tibet.
CHAPTER XXI
OVER THE TRANS-HIMALAYA
January 27. Storm as usual. We march in a south-easterly direction,
guided by the river system of the Tagrak-tsangpo, which branches off
into smaller and smaller ramifications, and no one interferes with us or
takes the slightest notice of our advance. From a small pass we look
down on the two tributaries of the Naong-tsangpo, the Pupchung-tsangpo,
and the Kelung-tsangpo, and follow the latter. It conducts us to a
second saddle with a stone cairn and prayer streamers; from a pole in
the middle strings radiate out to the four cardinal points, bearing rags
and ribands, and fastened to the ground by small stones. From a third
watershed of secondary rank the guide points out a pass of the first
order in the Pabla mountains which we shall cross to-morrow. We now find
ourselves in a high alpine region without herbage; only moss grows among
the pebbles. Camp No. 116 is pitched in the valley of the
Pupchung-tsangpo. The brook descends from the Pupchung-ri, a part of the
main crest. To the south-east we see the two mountains Tormakaru and
Sangra covered with snow. Here nomads never encamp, for the elevation is
too great. Only when officials from Tashi-lunpo travel here on duty are
the nomads living nearest obliged to set up tents for them.
[Illustration: 99. THREE TIBETANS SALUTING.]
The wind sank in the evening, and the sound of the flutes echoed clearly
and sweetly in the valley. The moon rose high, and poured down its light
over the peaceful wondrous land. The night advanced cold and silent, and
the thermometer fell to -29°. At such a temperature there is no need
of draughts through the chinks to cool the sleeping-tent. The cold wakes
me up, and I have to wrap myself more closely in my blankets.
January 28 was a great day in our records. We knew that we had a trying
way before us, and therefore we made an early start. The horse that bore
the number 22 on the label attached to his mane lay before my tent
frozen hard, with his legs stretched out; he had served us faithfully
for nearly half a year. Seven horses and a mule were left. They carried
nothing but the cloths that protected them from cold in the night. The
new Tibetan horses were in splendid condition: they were fat and sleek
compared to our old horses, which had passed through the winter on the
Chang-tang.
Even at ten o'clock the wind is icy cold, and not the smallest cloud
floats over the earth. Dull weather is much better if the air be still.
Now the sun looks down sneeringly on our sufferings and makes no attempt
to lighten them. We march towards the east-south-east, over an endless,
slightly undulating plain, where the ground consists of troublesome
moss-grown stones and sharp débris. On our right is the Sangra peak and
other parts of the Pabla crest, whence short transverse valleys descend,
and are continued over the plain in insignificant furrows of erosion. To
the left the land is undulating, where the affluents of the
Naong-tsangpo wind among softly rounded hills. Higher hills and ridges,
lying to the north of the right bank of the Naong-tsangpo, intercept the
view in this direction.
So we mount slowly up till a deeply eroded valley suddenly and
unexpectedly appears on the right side of our route. It is not included
in the Ngangtse-tso basin. I am about to leave the isolated hydrographic
region, and puzzle my head about the surprises that await me. The valley
is called Sangra-palhe, runs south-eastwards, and receives the southern
transverse valleys of the Pabla, which are just as deeply excavated. To
the south-east we see the dark extremity of a spur of the Pabla, round
which the great main valley and its stream bend towards the south and
pass on--but whither? On this point the guide could give us no
information; we were to find out later. Farther on we reach a valley
running in a northerly direction, and therefore connected with the
Naong-tsangpo. Northwards the country slopes gently, but steeply, to the
south, and we ascend to the low pass forming the watershed. Immediately
beyond the hill Sereding we march up a steep ascent towards the conical
mountain Serpo-tsunge, which we afterwards leave close on the right of
our road. From its western and eastern sides, and also from the gap
where we now stand, a number of deep erosion valleys run down to the
Sangra-palhe. To the left of our route a valley, which still belongs to
the system of the Naong-tsangpo, slopes to the north-west. We are
therefore on the water-parting ridge. The Serpo-tsunge is a geographical
boundary pillar, and marks where the domain of the Ngangtse-tso ends.
The whole configuration is singularly complicated.
Here we left one of our yaks, which could not be induced by coaxing or
scolding to move a step farther, but lowered his horns and rushed at
those who attempted to drive him on. He was abandoned, the second animal
of his kind. He had here abundance of yak-moss, snow, and fresh air, and
would probably fall into the hands of the nomads some time or other.
A little higher and we stood on the very summit of the pass, marked by a
pole with streamers, which flap and flutter in the wind. It was quite
time that we made a small fire, for we were half dead with cold. It was
not easy to make the hypsometer boil. Robert sat on the ground and
improvised a tent round the instrument with furs and a rug, while I lay
on my stomach on the lee side and read the thermometer through a small
opening. The temperature was 15°, with a west-south-west wind No. 8,
that is, half a gale. The valley leading down, the Sele-nang, lay now,
at mid-day, in dark shadow. Through its opening appeared a vast sea of
rigid mountainous undulations, steep cliffs, and deep valleys, no level
stretches, no vegetation, only a labyrinth of mountains, a much bolder,
more marked, and wilder relief than we had seen in Chang-tang. The
nearer parts of the Pabla ridge intercepted the view to the west.
The pass, where we now were, is called the Sela-la, and attains the
great height of 18,064 feet above sea-level. I perceived clearly that it
must be situated in the main chain, which, farther east, bears the
well-known peak Nien-chang-tang-la on the south shore of the Nam-tso or
Tengri-nor, and has been crossed by a few Europeans and pundits. It is
one of the greatest and grandest watersheds of the world, for from its
northern flank the water flows down to the undrained lakes of the
plateau, and from its southern flank to the Indian Ocean. The course of
this watershed and the configuration of the mountain system crossed by
our route between the Ngangtse-tso and Yeshung on the Tsangpo was till
this January of 1907 as unknown to geographers of European race as the
side of the moon turned away from the earth. On the other hand, the seas
and mountains seen in the full moon have been known from ancient times
much better than the region of the earth's surface whither it is my good
fortune to be able to conduct my readers. I venture to describe this
geographical problem that I have succeeded in solving as one of the
finest, perhaps the most striking, of all problems connected with the
surface of our earth that awaited solution.
But on the Sela-la we crossed the immense watershed only at a single
point. I will not anticipate events. We must first muster our
acquisitions in order, and then we will draw our conclusions from the
material collected. And now we will continue our arduous passage through
the unknown world of mountains which still separates us from the great
river.
After I had hastily sketched the panorama with hands turned blue with
cold, inserting the names the guide was able to give me, we hurried down
the slopes of detritus, partially covered with snow, on the south side
of the pass. In the valley bottom, with its patches of ice, we mounted
our horses again, and met three mounted Tibetans driving before them
eight loose horses. As soon as they caught sight of us they turned aside
and made a great detour to avoid us. We supposed that they belonged to a
band of robbers, who wished to escape with their booty by untrodden
paths.
It was delightful this evening to sit at length in the warmth of the
camp-fire. In silent meditation my eyes swept from the rocky crests,
brightly lighted by the moon, down to the dark shadowy depths of the
valley, where there were only wolves crouching in their holes. It seemed
as though all belonged to me; as though I had marched into this land a
conqueror at the head of victorious legions, and had crushed all
opposition. Oh, what splendid legions! Five-and-twenty ragged fellows
from Ladak, ten lean jades, and about twenty worn-out yaks. And yet I
had succeeded! Marius could not have been prouder of the triumphs he
achieved in the war against Jugurtha than I was when I had won my first
victory over the "Trans-Himalaya" at the Sela-la, that Sela-la which,
now bathed in moonlight, seemed to us the extreme outpost on the limits
of boundless space.
Our march on January 29 was pleasant. We were sheltered from the wind in
the deep valley, travelled towards the sun, and felt the first touch of
the approaching spring. We rode at first towards the east-south-east,
but gradually made a curve round to the south. Just at the bend the
valley Tumsang runs in, and in the background we again caught a glimpse
of a part of the great range we crossed at the Sela-la. Innumerable
valleys such as ours must descend from the crest more or less parallel
to it. The valley becomes broader, and the ice strip of the Sele-nang
winds along the middle. We see no tents, but places where they are
pitched in summer, and some _manis_ are erected for the edification of
travellers. Camp No. 118 is pitched in an expansion of the valley called
Selin-do.
During the past days we had often remarked how desirable it would be if
we could hire some yaks from the nomads. Our own were exhausted and kept
us back, and in the high country with its abundant detritus, where we
were now travelling, their hoofs became sorer every day. As long as the
land lay open before us we must make all haste we could. Delay might be
dangerous, but the yaks marched as though they had a log at their heels.
We saw no tents in Selin-do, but Namgyal came in the evening with two
Tibetans he had met in a side valley. They were willing to provide us
with 25 yaks, if they were paid a _tenga_ (about 5½ d.) for every day's
march, and they reckoned eight days' march for the journey to Yeshung on
the Tsangpo. They would accompany us themselves only for one day, and
insisted that other men should take their place when they turned back.
We could not do any better; we should spare our own animals, make longer
marches, and obtain good guides as well.
In the evening we received a visit from seven well-armed riders in
search of a band of robbers who had stolen several horses from them. We
informed them of the party we had met the day before and they rode off,
thanking us warmly, up the valley.
January 30. In the morning our new friends turned up with the yaks; when
all was in order we found that we possessed only eighteen loads of the
heavy baggage with which we set out from Leh. Our last two guides were
paid, and immediately set out for the Sela-la.
Immediately below camp No. 118 the Selin-do valley unites with the
Porung valley, along which we again ascended to the south-east. I was
surprised that our guides tramped up to higher ground again, but they
followed a plainly marked path, while the valley that we left on the
right seemed to slope down to the west-south-west and south-west. They
said that it debouched into the valley of the My-tsangpo, a northern
tributary of the Yere-tsangpo (the upper Brahmaputra). I had afterwards
an opportunity of ascertaining that their statements were correct. But
now, on first crossing the country, the arrangement of the mountain
ranges and watercourses was ill-defined and confusing to me. At every
camp I interrogated Tibetans who seemed reliable, and made them draw
small maps with their fingers in the sand, which I copied into my diary.
But the map changed every day, even if the chief lines remained the
same.
From the point where we began to ascend again a desolate chaos of
mountains is visible towards the south-west. On the right bank of the
Porung several warm springs well up from the pebble bed, containing
sulphurous water at a temperature of 127.9° and filling basins in which
the hot steaming water simmers and bubbles. The place is called simply
Tsaka-chusen, or "The Hot Salt Water." The terraces of the valley
indicate powerful erosive action. Side valleys run in on both sides;
sometimes we cross the frozen stream, sometimes pass over steep mountain
spurs. At a bend in the way we meet a party of armed riders who are on
the way to Chokchu, a country west of the Dangra-yum-tso.
We come to an expansion in the valley, a very important spot, for here
several valleys converge to a gigantic focus of erosion in this sea of
wild mountains. The largest is the Terkung-rung, which, joined by a
whole series of side valleys, descends from the main crest of the Pabla
in the north-east. The track through the valley passes several large
summer pastures. I made a long halt on a broad rocky projection with a
_mani_ to get my bearings in this extremely interesting country. Here,
too, we met a mounted party, which was in pursuit of a freebooter who
had eloped with another man's wife--just as with us. The injured husband
was in the party and looked very furious. Then we met a caravan of 55
yaks laden with great bales of Chinese brick tea from Lhasa, which they
were carrying to the Chokchu province. A dozen dark bare-footed men
followed the animals, singing and whistling, spinning woollen thread
with the help of vertical rotating spools, or engaged with their prayer
mills. They hired their yaks, and were to exchange them for fresh
animals at Selin-do. They had also 50 sheep with them, carrying small
loads of barley. The farther we advanced the more lively became the
traffic.
Small footpaths from the side valleys join our road, which is now broad
and shows signs of considerable traffic. All our guides tell us that
this is the great highway to Shigatse, and is also a section of the main
road connecting Chokchu with the capital of the country. The road is a
collection of parallel footpaths, and where it crosses slopes and steep
declivities appears like stripes on the ground.
We continue our ascent in a south-south-easterly direction, and find
ourselves about 100 feet above the valley bottom, which is occupied by
a huge ice-belt of uniform breadth resembling a great river; we could
fancy ourselves transplanted to the Indus valley in its winter dress as
seen from Saspul. But the resemblance is only apparent, for after we
have passed some rather large side valleys we reach the abundant springs
of Mense-tsaka with warm freshwater at a temperature of 118°, which
farther down forms pools where small fishes dart about among slimy
weeds. The water gradually cools down and forms ice, and runs down over
it farther and farther until, as now in the end of January, it has
filled the whole valley bottom from the foot of one flank to the other.
From the great meeting-place of the valleys we have passed four _manis_,
in general not more than 10 feet long, but covered with unusually
well-dressed slabs of red, white, or green sandstone and slate. On the
former, the letters in the weathered crust stand out bright red against
the chiselled intervals with their white surface. We are tempted to take
away some specimens, but we shall probably have later opportunities of
committing sacrilege.
In front of us stands the trough up to the pass; surrounded by the
concave crest, where the caravan is seen on the top, the pass seems
unpleasantly steep. Above the valleys Shib-la-yilung and Chugge-lung the
ascent is difficult, and the horses often pause on the slopes of
detritus. At last, however, we are up at the votive cairn with its
streamer pole amongst smaller pyramids of stones. This is the Shib-la,
which has a height of 17,549 feet. The view is magnificent and is free
on almost all sides, for no summits in the foreground obstruct it. Down
in the valleys we were sheltered from the wind, but up on the summit it
sweeps unhindered over the agitated sea of crests.
The guide points south-westwards to the next pass we have to cross.
Between it and the Shib-la stretches a deep boldly eroded ravine,
sloping to the west-south-west. Its river, or rather its ice-belt,
unites with all the watercourses we have crossed this day--with all,
indeed, that we have met with since the Sela-la. We have therefore
crossed a number of tributaries, but the main stream, which receives
them all, lies to the west of our route and is not visible from any
point. It is the river called My-chu, My-tsangpo, or My-chu-tsangpo.
We had still a fairly long march to the camp. It grew dusk. We descended
the steep slope on foot, stumbling over the rubbish and the mouse-holes.
Darkness came on, but a white streak was seen in the valley, the ice of
the river. The light of the camp-fire looked tempting in the cold and
darkness. But nothing is so deceptive as a blaze of light in the
darkness; you go on and on, but the fire seems no larger. At last,
however, tired and starved, we arrived at the camp and sat as close as
possible to the glowing _argol_, and the conversation with Muhamed Isa
began--cheerful and animated, as usual.
Four of our spare yaks were thoroughly exhausted and must have a day's
rest. Had I known what was coming behind in our track, I would have left
them and hurried off next morning. But we knew nothing, and spent the
last day of January quietly in camp No. 119. The thermometer fell to
-29.9°: the third time we had recorded the same reading.
I spent the leisure day in studying the maps I had drawn, and
endeavouring to form a clear conception of the mountains and valleys
among which we had been wandering. This much was evident, that the great
watershed between the isolated lake basins of the Chang-tang and the
Indian Ocean ran along the main Pabla range, and that this was the
immediate western prolongation of the mighty chain Nien-chen-tang-la. We
had crossed the Pabla mountains at the Sela-la, and were now in the
wide-stretching intricate river system of the My-chu. Nearly parallel to
the My-chu flows farther east the Shang-chu, and along its valley the
Pundit Krishna (A. K.) travelled in the year 1872 and Count de Lesdain
in 1905. Between the My-chu and the Shang-chu there must therefore be a
secondary watershed and a considerable mountain elevation, which is
really nothing else than an offshoot from the main range of the Pabla.
All the watercourses we had crossed from the Sela-la onwards flow
westwards, and the secondary watershed, where they take their rise, lies
to the east of our route. It is, however, possible that between the
My-chu and the Shang-chu another, or perhaps several valleys lie, equal
in importance to the valleys of these rivers.
The Pabla is only a part of the main chain of the "Trans-Himalaya," and
the Trans-Himalaya is not only a watershed of the first rank, but is
also a geographical boundary of exceptional importance. I have now and
then wandered through mountain regions of awful grandeur, but have never
seen anything to equal the country to the south of the Trans-Himalaya.
In Chang-tang the predominating lines of the landscape are slightly
undulating and horizontal; now we had reached the peripheral regions,
having a drainage to the sea, and immediately vertical lines came into
prominence. On the south side of the Trans-Himalaya the valleys are much
more boldly excavated in the rock masses than in any part of the plateau
country. And why? Because the precipitation from the monsoon clouds is
incomparably more abundant on the south side of the Trans-Himalaya than
on the northern flank. It is the same in the Himalayas, where the south
side, facing the west monsoon, catches the lion's share of the
precipitation, and is irrigated by much more abundant and more
continuous rains than the northern. Now we found springs, brooks, and
rivers in every valley, while not very long before we were always in
danger of finding no water. In climatic relations, then, the
Trans-Himalaya is a boundary line equalled in magnitude and importance
by few on the earth's surface.
My excitement and expectation were constantly increasing; every day I
saw plainer indications of the proximity of a religious
metropolis--votive cairns, _manis_, travellers, caravans were all signs
of it. My Ladakis were inspired by the same feeling of exultation which
the pilgrims of Islam experience when they approach the Arafat mountain,
and remember that from that elevation they will behold for the first
time the holy Mecca.
Early in the forenoon fresh men with fresh yaks presented themselves to
take over our loads on February 1. I could not understand why the nomads
were ready to serve us without the slightest suggestion. Certainly the
highway is divided into stages, and fresh yaks are kept in readiness
for the transport of baggage and goods, but these advantages are
intended only for Tibetans, not for a European caravan, which had not
even a passport. At any rate Ngurbu Tundup had done us no harm; on the
contrary, it was known everywhere that I was coming, and that he was a
messenger sent to me by the Tashi Lama. At every halting-place we were
told how many days ago he had passed through the place. The readiness of
the nomads to provide us with yaks was due in no small degree to the
good pay and kind treatment they received. Now our own yaks travelled
without loads, and also the seven Ladak horses and the last surviving
mule. But we were prepared for any emergency. We had agreed that if we
could not at any time find transport animals, I, with Muhamed Isa and
Namgyal, would ride on our three Tibetan horses in forced marches to
Shigatse, while the caravan would follow slowly under Robert's command.
[Illustration: 100. PASS OF LA-ROCK. _MANI_ HEAP WITH FLUTTERING
PRAYER-STREAMERS.]
[Illustration: 101. ON THE BANK OF THE TSANGPO (BRAHMAPUTRA).]
We had 58½ degrees of frost in the night, and the morning was horribly
cold, dull, and stormy. We ascended to the next pass along a new valley.
We had not gone far before we were half dead with cold; Robert wept, he
was so frozen. When it was warmest, there were still 27½ degrees of
frost, and a biting wind blew in our faces. Our faces, and especially
our noses, would have been frost-bitten if we had not constantly put
them in the openings of our long fur sleeves, where, however, the breath
turned so quickly to ice that the sleeve froze on to the moustache. It
is not easy to do map work under such circumstances. Before I have taken
my observation and looked at the watch my left hand is dead; and,
however much I hurry, I have not recorded the result before my right
hand has lost all feeling. It is impossible to march on foot in face of
the storm up a steep ascent and in the rarefied air if one has the least
respect for one's heart. We crept into a cave and crouched down on the
sheltered side; we thrust our hands between the horse and the
saddle-girth to thaw them; we stamped our feet, and looked intensely
miserable when the muscles of our faces were so benumbed that we could
hardly speak. "Let us ride on; we will light a fire up above." And so
we struggled painfully up through sharp-edged detritus and among stones.
At last we are up on the flat arch of the Chesang-la at an absolute
height of 17,599 feet. This pass is therefore a little higher than the
Sela-la, but nevertheless it is only a pass of the second rank, for it
separates two of the affluents of the My-chu. When we came up, there
were three large grey wolves on the pass, but they quickly took to
flight. Here the storm raged in uncontrolled freedom, and we could
scarcely keep on our feet. Robert and I crouched on the ground on the
sheltered side of the large cairn, while Rabsang and our Tibetan guide
collected dry yak-dung. We set it alight with the help of flint and
steel, and then we all four cowered over the fire. We opened our fur
coats to let a little heat penetrate our clothes and took off our boots
to warm our feet, but we sat an hour and a half before we felt anything
like human beings again. Then we hastened down in a south-south-westerly
direction and encamped in the Sham valley near some wretched stone
huts.
CHAPTER XXII
TO THE BANK OF THE BRAHMAPUTRA
The Sham valley narrows like a pear, and at the entrance of this funnel
huts stand at three different spots, and large herds graze on the
mountain slopes. A _mani_, 148 feet long by 5 feet high, was covered
with clods to protect the upright stones sculptured with prayers. At
length the Sham valley enters a large valley coming from the east, which
occupies a prominent place in this river system. It is traversed by the
Bup-chu-tsangpo, the largest river we have yet seen. Immediately below
the place where the two valleys unite is the confluence of a third
river, which is called Dangbe-chu and flows from the south-east. Thus
three considerable streams meet in this small expansion of the valley.
The explanations of my guide made this complicated river system of the
My-chu-tsangpo clear to me. The sources of the Bup-chu-tsangpo lie two
long days' march to the east, and are of course to be found in the great
offshoot of the Pabla which forms on the east the watershed of the
My-chu-tsangpo. From the confluence where we now stood the
Bup-chu-tsangpo continues its course for two short days' journey
south-westwards, and then at the monastery Linga-gompa enters the
My-chu-tsangpo, which has its source in the main range of the Pabla.
The Bup-chu-tsangpo was at this season converted into a huge sheet of
ice, but had an open water channel. We crossed dry-footed at a place
where the ice formed a bridge all across the bed of the stream, and then
marched in a south-easterly direction through the narrow Dangbe valley.
At camp No. 121, on February 3, we left Tundup Sonam and Tashi behind
with our own yaks, which were so exhausted that they could be driven
only very slowly. The men were given money for their keep, and were
ordered to move on towards Shigatse at a very slow pace. The rest of the
caravan set out early, in good weather and at a minimum temperature of
only 11.3°.
Our course is south-south-east and afterwards east. All the valleys are
full of ice, which we strew with sand as the caravan passes. The pass
to-day is the Dangbe-la, decorated, as usual, with a cairn and
streamers; its height is 17,224 feet, or much less than that of the
preceding pass. It is interesting, as lying on the watershed between the
Bup-chu (My-chu) and the Rung-chu. The latter river does not unite with
the My-chu, but takes its own course direct to the upper Brahmaputra.
When I asked why we could not descend the Rung valley to avoid the two
passes in front of us, I was told that the valley is very narrow, is
confined by precipitous mountains, and is filled with ice. There is,
however, a path used in summer which runs sometimes along the slopes,
sometimes over the valley bottom, but is hard to follow after rain, for
then large volumes of water pour down the valley, thundering over falls
and rapids.
We bivouacked in a locality called Ngartang in the Rung valley, where
twelve tents remain standing all through the year. The valley is
considered cold, whereas the Sham is reputed warm. Indeed, we had found
there some juniper bushes, and were so delighted at seeing them that we
had adorned the inside of our tents with branches. It never snows in
summer in the Sham valley, but it does in the Rung valley. In many years
there is much rain in both valleys.
As though to prove the truth of the Tibetans' assertions, the
thermometer again fell in the night to -19.1°. We were prepared for a
long day's journey and a difficult pass, and therefore it was still dark
when I heard the yaks being driven into the camp. After we have left the
Ma-lung river behind us we ride up hills consisting of firm soil
overgrown with moss, and an inextricable entanglement of mountains is
displayed to our view. We ride steeply upwards along the valley coming
down from the pass, passing over detritus and among boulders, with
votive cairns here and there. A stretch of almost level ground follows,
and then at last the path rises steeply to the pass, which is strewn
with innumerable blocks of grey granite. This is the Ta-la or "Horse
Pass," and its absolute height is 17,835 feet.
If the ascent among the boulders is troublesome, and both horse and
rider have to twist their bodies in all kinds of acrobatic feats, the
pilgrim is richly rewarded when he stands at the top of the Ta-la beside
the streamer-decked cairn; for anything grander and more overpowering I
have never yet seen, unless it were on the top of the Chang-lung-yogma.
The panorama to the south-east and east-south-east is so fascinating
that we almost forget to dismount. We command a somewhat limited portion
of the horizon, for two peaks of the Ta-la crest, like the portal of a
great temple, close in the landscape in front of us. Below is a zone of
reddish-brown, dome-shaped hills, behind them a nearly black spur,
intersected by numerous short transverse valleys, and farther in the
background a dark grey ramification. All seem to run westwards and from
the watershed, which we have supposed to lie to the east of our route
since we crossed the Sela-la. Such scenery as this we had gazed upon
time after time. But high above the dark-grey ridge rises a world of
mountains which seems to belong to the heavens rather than the earth, so
lightly and airily is it poised above the rest of the earth under a
canopy of white clouds. It is so far from us that the individual
contours are indistinguishable, and it rises like a wall of a universal
light blue hue, which, however, is a little deeper than the colour of
the sky. The boundary between the two expanses of blue is sharply marked
by an irregular bright white line; for what we see before us is the
snow-covered crest of the Himalayas, and behind it lies India with its
eternal summer. These are the most northern chains of the Himalayas, on
the frontier between Tibet and Bhotan. Between them and the dark grey
crest, comparatively near to us, yawns an abyss, a huge fissure on the
earth's crust, the valley of the Brahmaputra or Tsangpo. The river
itself is not visible, but we feel that we are now not far from our
destination. Ah, you fearful ranges and passes which we have surmounted
in the Chang-tang, where dead horses mark the miles and show in which
direction we travelled, at last we have you behind us, and only a single
mountain system, the Himalayan, separates us from India! This view
strikes us dumb, and it seems wonderful to me that I have succeeded in
forcing my way so far.
Tsering and Bolu now reach the pass with the small caravan. They fall on
their knees before the heap of stones and recite their prayers, and
Tsering tears a strip off his ragged coat to tie as an offering on to
one of the strings. We all feel as though we were on a pilgrimage. The
Tibetans who let their yaks on hire see after the loading and unloading,
gather fuel, and relieve the Ladakis of many of their duties. The older
men of our own people are allowed to ride. They have easier work in
every way, but still they are pilgrims on the way to one of the greatest
centres of Lamaism. Old Tsering holds his cap in his hand as he goes
over the pass, and cannot turn his eyes aside from the dreamy light-blue
mountains which gleam in the distance among the clouds. He reminds
himself that they rise far beyond Tashi-lunpo and that we have not to
cross them to reach our longed-for destination.
But we must leave this grand pass, the never-to-be-forgotten Ta-la. Down
we go on a break-neck descent among boulders, between steep cliffs, over
landslips and spurs, and the Himalayas gradually vanish from sight. Now
we see only the line of the crest tipped with eternal snow; after we
have descended a couple of slopes, it also is concealed by the dark grey
ridge, and our horizon is bounded by its sharp outline. Kabbalo is a
village of two tiny stone cabins in the Permanakbo-tang valley where we
encamp. Several Tibetans are out of doors and stare at us; for dinner I
have butter and radishes, and see no more of the perpetual mutton.
On February 5 we made a short march down the same valley, which is
called Dokang, where we set up our camp No. 124. Forty Tibetans stood
at the camp-fire. When I rode up they all thrust out their tongues as
far as they would go, and their bright red colour formed a strong
contrast to the dirty faces. Those who wore caps took them off with the
left hand and scratched their heads with the right--another form of
salutation. When we spoke with them they repeatedly shot out their
tongues, but only from politeness and friendliness; they could not do
enough to show their goodwill. Near the camp are the ruins of a _dzong_,
or fort, which is called Dokang-pe, and a deserted village called
Arung-kampa testifies that the valley was formerly more densely
populated than now.
The march on the 6th is one I shall never forget; for now we rode down
the gigantic staircase, the edge of the Chang-tang, into the Ginunga gap
which we had seen from the Ta-la, and in the depths of which flows the
upper Brahmaputra. From the camp we marched towards the
south-south-east, leaving our river on the right, which, cutting through
the mountains in a deep ravine, flows to the Rung-chu. At the entrance
of the narrow valley stands a small temple, the Chega-gompa. A pack of
wolves howled dismally in a gorge. The ascent to the pass La-rock
(14,567 feet) is short and easy, and before we were aware we were up at
a great cairn amid smaller heaps of stones, where the _tarpoche_ (votive
pole) stands grey and cracked, and much worn by wind and weather
(Illustration 100). Several blocks of stone lying in heaps on the east
side of the pass were white-washed on their upright sides. We had to
cross over two more smaller ridges before we had a free and
uninterrupted view. The scene is grand, and reminds one of the landscape
seen from the palace at Leh. The northern ranges of the Himalayas were
distinctly visible, but heavy clouds rested like a canopy on their
peaks. Mount Everest, therefore, the highest mountain of the world,
could not be seen. The Tsangpo appeared as a very small bright riband,
still at a considerable distance. Below us flowed the Rung-chu, which we
could see from the place where it emerges from the mountains. Most
imposing are the colossal offshoots and ramifications of the mountains
lying to the east and west of our position, which fall suddenly to the
valley of the Brahmaputra like an endless row of tiger's claws.
The plain stretched out before us is a very large expansion of the
Brahmaputra valley, and is named Ye, or Yeshung, while the river is here
called the Yere-tsangpo. It is densely peopled; the great number of dark
specks are all villages. To the right, at the foot of a mountain spur,
stands the large monastery Tashi-gembe, which with its numerous
white-washed houses has the appearance of an Italian coast town. Thence
a road runs to the famous monastery Sekya. A fine line meandering
towards the south-east is the great highway to Shigatse, Tashi-lunpo,
and Lhasa.
From the last platform the path plunges down headlong, so we descend on
foot these steep slopes of grey granite rounded by wind and weather.
Where loose material fills up the interstices the path is sunk in to the
depth of a yard. Many pilgrims, horses, and yaks have passed here before
the path became so small. Sometimes we have abysses beside us, sometimes
we slide down over the sheets of granite, sometimes we step down as on a
staircase, but down we go, ever downwards, and we rejoice to think that
every step brings us nearer to warmer, denser air, where we can breathe
more easily. Here and there tower up great round granite blocks on a
pedestal of loose rubbish, like glacier tables; rain and wind have
sculptured out these singular forms.
At last we are down on the great plain into which all the valleys open.
We ride past barley-fields, poplar groves, farms and villages with white
houses, where blue and red pennants and flags decorate the roofs. We
leave the monastery Tugden on our left; a little farther, at the foot of
a mountain spur, Muhamed Isa had made a halt. About a hundred Tibetans
of all ages and both sexes, exceedingly black and dirty, but very
friendly, surrounded the tents. They sold us sheep, fowls, milk,
radishes, and malt beer (_chang_), and our tired animals were supplied
with plenty of hay and barley. Women with a round arch on their necks by
way of ornament, carried wicker baskets of dung to the fires, and were
never tired of sitting with us, astonished at us and our wonderful
occupations. Here Ngurbu Tundup presented himself and gave me the
welcome information that his master, Kung Gushuk, would forward my
correspondence. He received only a part of his reward at present, and
the remainder would be paid him as soon as I had news that the letters
had actually reached Gyangtse. He handed me a _kadakh_, or cloth of
welcome, from his master, and said that he was ordered to accompany us
and assist us on the way to Shigatse. This was most important news. It
signified that we should meet with no obstructions.
Here the absolute height was 12,956 feet, and the air was warm and
pleasant. At nine o'clock we had only 5½ degrees of frost, and therefore
the tent flap was left open. I held a long consultation with Robert and
Muhamed Isa. Should we spend ten days instead of only one in this
delightful locality, where there was all we wanted and where the animals
could recover their strength, while I visited the curious monasteries
perched like storks' nests on rocky promontories, or glittering white at
the mouths of valleys? No; we knew nothing definite about the reception
that awaited us; it was only eleven days' journey to Lhasa, and we could
reach our destination, Shigatse, in three days. We had heard nothing
from the Government, but we were expected in Shigatse. Any moment might
bring a change unfavourable to us. We would not therefore lose a single
precious day, but would start early in the morning, and hurry on as long
as the road was open to us.
Our excitement was becoming acute. After all the severe trials and
adventures we had experienced should we succeed in reaching our goal? At
night the Ladakis sang their Tashi-lunpo hymn more softly and earnestly
than ever. At midnight they were singing still, and I listened
attentively, though I had so frequently heard the song on the
Chang-tang.
[Illustration: 102. THE TSANGPO WITH FLOATING ICE.]
[Illustration: 103. THE VALLEY OF THE TSANGPO ABOVE SHIGATSE.]
Then the fires went out in our first camp in the valley of the
Brahmaputra. The crowd collected before the tents on the morning of the
7th was a very mixed one. Horses, mules, and cows were to carry the
luggage, for there were no yaks here. A south-west storm blew when I
started fully an hour later, and the whole population of the
neighbourhood collected to witness our departure. Just as I was mounting
into the saddle three emissaries appeared from a certain Cheppa Deva, a
friend of Kung Gushuk. They brought me a present from him consisting of
a whole slaughtered sheep, a thick sweet cake, with figures in relief
and preserved fruits on the top, three large lumps of butter, and thirty
eggs. I could not send any present in return, for the caravan was
already gone on, but I gave them 15 bright rupees and begged them to
convey my hearty greeting to the unknown Cheppa Deva. Then the chief of
the three said: "We must hand over this money to our master, and
therefore it would be well if the Bombo Chimbo would give us an extra
tip." This was a cute, sensible speech; they received an additional sum
of money and went away contented.
A number of other people accompanied us, giggling and chattering, as far
as the highroad to Shigatse. The attractive monasteries on the right and
left of the road passed out of sight, and we rode through part of the
village Dzundi, inhabited by smiths, and past a warm medicinal spring,
over which a bath-house is erected--unfortunately it was just then
occupied by a patient, and we could not enter; white clouds of steam
issued through the roof, windows, and doors. And further proceeds our
picturesque party, through more villages and barley-fields, past fresh
monasteries, rocky cliffs and valley openings, till the road winds over
a barren plain more and more to the south, towards the Brahmaputra, just
as one approaches the Indus from Leh, and, as there, loose stones have
been removed from the road and lie along the sides.
Where the valley contracts we have the large monastery Tarting-gompa on
its rock to the left, and on the right or southern bank of the river the
village Rokdso with its ferry; and now we reach the first granitic spur,
which extends to the neighbourhood of the river. Beyond the village Karu
with its cornfields and small gardens we ride through a hollow way 13
feet deep, a corridor in the yellow löss; here and there the banks are
broken through by rain gutters, and through the gaps, as from the
windows of a gallery, we have a glimpse of the great side valley So,
which drains from the south into the Tsangpo. The rain has modelled the
loam into pyramids, sometimes as much as a yard high, like a forest of
gigantic mushrooms. We meet dark bare-headed peasants, driving before
them laden horses and mules, and women and children with baskets on
their backs, containing fuel or roots. An old woman sat astride on her
mule and rose in her saddle with the step of the animal; a man of higher
position, on horseback, accompanied his wife; some country people
whistled as they followed their cows laden with hay; a party of men and
women in picturesque costumes of blue, red, and yellow were making a
pilgrimage to the New Year's festivities in Tashi-lunpo, which my
Ladakis had long hoped to attend. All the traffic was making eastwards,
and we met only men who were going on business from one village to
another.
The road now runs over low land which is flooded in summer, so that
those who pass this way are then obliged to travel along the flanks of
the mountains. Even now the Tsangpo is an imposing stream, and we rest
for a while on its bank, which our road touches for the first time. For
the first time in my life I drink of the holy water of the Brahmaputra.
Bluish-green and almost perfectly transparent, it flows slowly and
noiselessly in a single bed to the east, while here and there fishes are
seen rising. Only a very thin crust of ice confines the water at the
margin, but a bright clump of ice, like a mountain crystal, frequently
sweeps past us. A raft laden with barley floats down on the way to the
great market in Shigatse, and soon vanishes round the next corner, where
the steersmen with their long poles must keep a good look-out--a sight
reminding me vividly of my voyage on the Tarim in the year 1899.
To the east of this point the soil is sandy and rises into barren dunes
6 feet high. One can tell at the first glance how they are formed,
especially on a day like this, when the westerly storm sweeps the
drift-sand before it in clouds, often hiding completely the steep rocky
walls on the right bank of the river. During high-water the river
deposits quantities of mud and sand on the shallows, which are exposed
and dry up in winter. The west wind carries away the silted material to
pile up dunes farther east; where these lie low enough, the next
high-water clears them away, and when it has fallen the process is
repeated. Thus in the valley of the Tsangpo a continuous displacement of
solid matter from west to east is going on. It is not alone that the
river excavates the bed with its own weight, and loads its water with
masses of mud; but also the material deposited at the banks is borne
away by the wind which comes to the help of the water. Wind and flowing
water work together in harmony to the same end, washing out this
gigantic drainage channel deeper and deeper. They have laboured at the
work for untold thousands of years, and the result is the Tsangpo valley
as we see it to-day.
After a ride of eight hours we came to a small village composed of
thirty houses, called Rungma (Illustration 104), where the tents were
set up in a garden among poplars and willows. How pleasant it seemed to
us, who had passed a whole half-year on the desolate Chang-tang plateau,
to hear the wind soughing again through the leafless branches of the
trees! Now the fires were no longer fed with dried dung; dry faggots
crackled between the tents and threw a bright light on the trees and the
Tibetans.
On February 8 we had another long ride. Ngurbu Tundup complained that
his mule had run away, so that he must stay behind, and begged me to pay
him the remainder of the reward I had promised. But this trick was too
transparent.
We suspected that the letters had not reached Gyangtse after all.
However, we were not far from the village when Ngurbu came riding after
us on a borrowed horse with jingling bells. When we had pitched our
camp, Ngurbu was immediately sent off as a punishment to Shigatse, to
inform Kung Gushuk that we should arrive the next day, and that I wished
to have a good house prepared for me. That was a thoughtless step, for
if Kung Gushuk had told what he knew to a Chinaman, we should have been
stopped at the last moment before reaching the town.
The winding highway runs further and further eastwards along the
northern bank of the Tsangpo, past fields laid out in terraces and
watered by the river. It is astonishing to find in Tibet so much
cultivable land, and such a number of inhabited villages with solid
stone houses and gardens.
At Lamo-tang the river washes the mountainous foot of the left bank, and
here a narrow break-neck path runs in zigzags up the slopes. But it need
not be used except when the water is high. Now we travel along the
embankment beside the river. The river has quite a different appearance
to-day: its surface is half covered with porous ice-blocks, but then at
night there were 33.8 degrees of frost. Leaping and clattering they
drive downstream and graze the fringe of ice attached to the bank,
piling up on it small white walls of ice. They keep in the line of the
strongest current, and often remain stranded on sandbanks which show a
reddish-brown tinge amid the clear green water. A grand landscape under
a blue sky and among ponderous fissured mountain masses! In the
afternoon the drift-ice had decreased in quantity, and in the evening,
before our camp, had disappeared altogether (Illustration 101).
Upwards over the extreme point of a rocky projection by a stony
staircase where we prefer to go on foot. Then we descend again to the
level valley-bottom, past more villages and monasteries, always
surrounded by _chhortens_ and _manis_, and often, like the Tikze-gompa
in Ladak, perched on rocks. Tanak-puchu is a great valley coming down
from the north, and its river irrigates the fields in Tanak. I could not
obtain a clear description of this valley: all I heard was that it came
from a pass to the north; so I do not know whether it comes from the
Trans-Himalaya, like the My-chu and Shang-chu valleys. If such is the
case, however, then the eastern watershed of the My-chu is a
hydrographic boundary between it and the Tanak-puchu, not the Shang-chu.
The question can only be solved by future investigations on the spot.
[Illustration: 104. HOUSE IN THE VILLAGE OF RUNGMA.]
[Illustration: 105. GARDEN OF THE TASHI LAMA IN THE VILLAGE OF TANAK.]
In the Tanak ("The Black Horse") valley we encamped in a pretty garden
(Illustration 105), where a small house with a gaily painted verandah is
occupied by the Tashi Lama, when the prelate pays his annual visit to
the temple Tashi-gembe. The garden is situated on a terrace of
detritus, which descends sheer down to the river and affords a
magnificent view of the Tsangpo. The river is here called Sangchen, or
sometimes Tsangpo-Chimbo, that is, the great river. The Tsangpo is the
river of Tibet _par excellence_. According to Waddell this name is
sometimes so written that it is a strict translation of the name
Brahmaputra, which means "Son of Brahma." We have already mentioned the
name Yere-tsangpo, and farther westwards we shall meet with other names.
In the lower part of its passage through the Himalayas it is called
Dihong, and it assumes the name of Brahmaputra only when it emerges from
the mountains to water the plains of Assam.
CHAPTER XXIII
DOWN THE TSANGPO BY BOAT--ENTRY INTO SHIGATSE
The 9th of February dawned, the great day on which our caravan of
yearning pilgrims would reach the goal of their dreams. The day before
had been stormy, and in the evening a strange reddish-yellow light
spread over the valley in consequence of the dust that floated about in
the air; the mountains were indistinct, and the horizon to the east was
quite invisible. But the morning was beautiful and the day was calm.
Early in the morning Sonam Tsering and some Ladakis went on board two
boats with part of the baggage, while Muhamed Isa and Tsering kept along
the road with the caravan. That was a stratagem we had devised. If any
one appeared at the last moment ordering us to halt, the prohibition
would only affect Muhamed Isa and the caravan, while I should slip into
Shigatse by water unnoticed.
All the others were on the way when Robert, Rabsang, and I made our way
from the terrace down a steep gully, and stepped on board the excellent
boat that was to bear us down the holy stream. These Tsangpo boats are
both simple and practical. A skeleton, or rather framework, of thin
tough boughs and laths is tied fast together, and is covered with four
yak hides sewed together, which are attached to a rim of wood forming
the gunwale--and the boat is ready. It is very dumpy, of a long
rectangular shape, but somewhat smaller in front than behind. It is not
heavy, being only an ordinary load for a man. All the boats now
descending the river with pilgrims going to the New Year festival, and
the boats which convey country produce or fuel to Shigatse and
Tashi-lunpo, will be carried back by the owners along the river-bank. A
large proportion of the inhabitants of Hlindug-ling, the part of Tanak
where we had encamped, gain their living by such transport. These boats
are very buoyant; there were four men in mine, and it could have borne a
much heavier load.
The rower sits on a thin board and rows continuously, but faces
forwards, for he must be able to see the waterway downstream. The blades
of the oars are divided like a fork, and a piece of leather is sewed
between the prongs like the web of a duck's foot. Our boatman is a
self-confident fellow, and receives my advice with a smile of
superiority when I venture to air my experience in river navigation. The
current does most of the work, but the oars are in constant use to keep
the boat under control.
At first we glided along slowly till we came to the village Segre, with
white, clean, and neat houses standing picturesquely on the left bank,
and a short distance beyond, to where the river washes the foot of a
steep mountain spur. But then the velocity of the boat increased,
amounting on an average to 4 feet a second. I was able to look down the
river, note the intervals of time, take my bearings, measure the
velocity, and draw a map of the river's course, just as I had before
done on the Tarim. We passed no cataracts, but the water formed small
rapids in narrow contracted reaches, and seethed round the bends. It was
a splendid voyage, the most delightful that I have experienced. The last
day's journey could not have passed more pleasantly. In Tibet, where
hitherto Nature had only placed obstacles in our way, we were now borne
along by one of Nature's forces. During half a year we had worked our
way through Chang-tang with constant losses, and now the gates stood
wide open and I glided as smoothly as on oil to my destination. One of
the greatest erosion valleys of the world displayed its wonderful
panorama, the air was so still that not the slightest ripple ruffled the
surface of the Tsangpo. Undisturbed by the winds of heaven, the
emerald-green water gives itself up to the sport of silent eddies,
which, coming into existence at cliffs and projecting points, dance
rapidly downstream in ever wider circles, and finally vanish altogether.
They are born and die, come and go, and the same tongue of land calls
forth new ones to life, but every new vortex whirls its spirals in other
water of the holy river, which has for thousands of years pursued its
course to the mysterious narrows of the Dihong.
What an intoxicating pleasure to be borne along eastwards by the
Tsangpo! Is the river one of the forbidden paths of Tibet? If they come
now and stop me I shall return: "I am not in Tibet; I am on the holy
river of the Hindus; let me alone." The view changes with quite
perplexing frequency: we have a dark wall of rock in front of us; at the
next turn it has disappeared, and another comes into sight on the
opposite side of the stream. We often wonder what above and below mean
here; we seem to remain motionless while the panorama revolves round us.
Robert is plunged in thought, looks over the gunwale, and, misled by the
water and ice-blocks about us, exclaims with astonishment: "Why, Master,
surely we are not moving." "Look at the sandbank yonder on the left," I
reply, and he is puzzled at seeing it move upstream. And where the river
is shallow and the bottom can be seen, it seems as though the gravel,
rounded stones, and sandbanks were all passing upwards underneath the
boat.
[Illustration: 106. FERRY-BOATS.]
[Illustration: 107. PILGRIMS ON THE WAY TO TASHI-LUNPO.]
We fall into reverie on this fairy-like voyage. A thought occurs to me:
shall we travel on to the mouth of the Ki-chu and thence go up to Lhasa
on foot? We can travel by night, and hide ourselves during the day; and
Tibetan is Rabsang's mother-tongue. But it passes away as quickly as the
eddies beside the boat. In Lhasa I could add nothing to the knowledge
acquired by Younghusband's expedition two years before; my hopes were
fixed on the friendship of the Tashi Lama. On the Sela-la I had
conceived a great fancy for the Trans-Himalaya, and no geographical
problem on earth had greater attractions for me. All my future
enterprises should have the object of making as thorough a scientific
investigation of the Trans-Himalaya as could possibly be accomplished by
one man in a single journey. Yes, this task was so tremendous that my
former longing for Lhasa died away like the red of even in the Tsangpo
valley, this gigantic colonnade of granite, this royal highway of
Buddha, which, breaking through the mountains and becoming hazy in the
far east, leads direct to the mouth of the Lhasa valley, while we now
glide along on its floor of liquid emerald to the holiest town of
Lamaism. Fascinating and attractive as fairy dances the current carried
my thoughts eastwards, but it also prompted new plans of campaign in
districts which had hitherto lain outside my sphere of interest. In the
valleys which pour their water to the My-chu, I had heard more than once
of Nain Sing's Raga-tsangpo, which some Tibetans had described as quite
as important as the Tsangpo itself. Was, perhaps, the Raga-tsangpo the
main stream? Had it, perchance, tributaries deriving their water from
the heart of the mysterious country to the north? Not an evening had
passed during the whole winter when I had not studied attentively
Ryder's and Nain Sing's maps. Was it certain where the source of the
Brahmaputra lay? Had I not here a task before me much more profitable
than following in the steps of Tommy Atkins to Lhasa? The sun-lighted
waters bearing our boat brought me intelligible messages from distant
ravines, from the melting margins of perpetual fields of firn, from
bluish glaciers and green ice grottoes in the heaven-kissing crest of
the Himalayas, nay, a sonorous echo from the valley where the source of
the Brahmaputra bursts out from the rock.
But we must not forget the demands of the present amid dreams of the
future. The golden gods of Tashi-lunpo expect us at their festival.
Sometimes the river contracts and deepens, and the bottom ceases to be
visible, sometimes it spreads out and the velocity decreases. Below the
village Pani, where a valley opens out, the river makes a bend to the
south-east, but quickly turns eastwards again, where it traverses the
great bed which in summer lays almost the whole breadth of the valley
bottom under water. We seldom pass a high, clearly defined bank covered
with grass, which is not flooded at high-water. From time to time the
river sends out a side channel, which, however, soon rejoins the main
bed. Wild-geese stand on the bank and scream as we pass by; black and
white ducks, herons and other waterfowl, are fearless and trustful, as
though they well knew that it is strictly forbidden in Tashi-lunpo to
quench the light of life in any living thing.
Just as we were leaving Tanak a dozen boats passed the village; some
were tied together in couples so that they could not capsize. The
passengers were pilgrims from farther up the river on their way to the
New Year festival. There women sat in their most elegant holiday attire,
with necklets of coloured glass beads from which little silver boxes
containing images and relics or silver coins were suspended, and with
high arched frames at the back of the neck covered with red woollen
material and adorned with turquoise and coral. There sat greybeards,
men, and boys, and a couple of lamas in their red togas had joined the
party of laymen. Most of the boats carried small prayer streamers on
rods tied to the gunwale, and small reliquaries hung over it to bring a
blessing on the boat journey. In some boats sand was laid on the bottom
and slabs of stone, where a fire could be kindled and tea infused. They
took little notice of us, but talked and gossiped continually and seemed
very merry. Evidently the passengers of some boats were well known to
one another, and were travelling together from the same village. All the
boats on the river were engaged on a day like this, and a continuous
succession of pilgrims streamed down the water highway to the holy
monastery. Where the banks were low these small black points could be
seen both up and down stream (Illustrations 106, 107).
We float past a sandbank, where some blocks of ice are stranded, warning
us of danger. The boat only twice grazes the bottom, for our boatman is
watchful and steers well. He knows the way, too, and here it is not so
easy as it looks to find the course; for the river splits into arms, and
only a boatman acquainted with them all can choose the best and
shortest. Sometimes he guides us into a narrow channel where the water
rushes swiftly.
Now the river turns towards the right, southern side of the valley,
where a mountain falls sheer to the water, leaving only sufficient room
on the bank for a road buttressed up with stone blocks. There a dozen
boatmen are carrying their skin boats on their backs, and, seen from
behind, resemble a row of gigantic beetles. And in the other direction
caravans of mules laden with firewood are being driven to Shigatse. Here
begins a succession of views of inconceivable grandeur, picturesqueness,
and wildness. One cliff after another falls steeply to the river, and is
washed by the water murmuring at its foot. Often a block of ice is
tilted up in a whirlpool, rises above the surface, brightly glistening
in the sun, and then falls back again.
We waited for an opportunity of landing, but the current was too strong.
At length the boatman succeeded in getting us into a backwater, and I
got out on to a promontory just as a party of pilgrims were passing by,
and was in time to take them with my camera. They could not make out
what I was doing, and they ceased talking; they seemed relieved, and
breathed freely again, when they found that they had got off with a
whole skin, and that my camera was not a firearm. Wherever I turned my
eyes new subjects presented themselves and invited me to stay sketching
all day long. But there was no time; it was my last day, and I had
ventured on too great a game to let everything depend on a single card.
"It is still far," the skipper said, pointing at starting to a point
behind which lay the Shigatse valley, a considerable distance off
(Illustration 103).
When we come again into the middle of the valley the river becomes as
broad as a lake, is smooth as a mirror, grand and majestic, flows slowly
as oil, and reflects the forms of the mountains and the boat. The spurs
and cliffs of the mountains on the northern bank have a rosy hue, the
water, usually green, shines blue from the reflexion of the sky, and all
is solemnly quiet and peaceful. Robert and Rabsang sleep in a corner,
but I grudge to lose a minute of this pilgrim voyage. Here and there
stands a cairn with a streamer-decked rod--these are the places where
routes cross the river. At one ferry a large caravan of yaks were
halting, and their loads of sheep's wool were piled up in a wall on the
bank. The black men stood out sharply against a background of yellow
sand dunes. Farther down Tsering was engaged in getting his detachment
into a boat, while his horses were being driven on to another by coaxing
and scolding. Here the great road from Tanak crosses the river, and
Tsering shouted to us as we shot rapidly past that Muhamed Isa was far
ahead. Fishermen in two boats were at work with their net in a bay of
the river, trying to drive the fish into the net by throwing stones;
they had a poor catch, but promised to bring us fish for sale in the
morning to Shigatse. We again make a bend to the south-east and approach
the mountains of the southern side, at the foot of which we pass the
villages Chang-dang, Tashi-gang, and Tang-gang, prettily situated among
gardens. The river now flows slowly in a single channel, as though it
must be careful in passing the mouth of a valley leading to a monastery.
There is much life and movement at the foot of the next promontory; many
boats laden with barley, straw, firewood, and dung are on the point of
putting in, and from others the cargo is being cleared amid shouts and
singing. Rows of boats are drawn ashore, and lie turned upside down like
large hairy toads. The boatman who has conveyed us to the mouth of the
Nyang valley receives four times the usual pay, and can scarcely believe
his eyes. He will be able to give himself a day's rest to-morrow.
At this singular landing-stage Guffaru is waiting with our horses. I
mount my small white Ladak horse and Robert his Tibetan bay, and while
the sun is setting we ride up the Nyang valley with Rabsang as outrider.
We soon plunge into a labyrinth of hollow ways and fissures in yellow
loam. But we do not need a guide, for several travellers and
mule-drivers are on their way, and give us instructions, and none is
uncivil. A little to the left of our road flows the Nyang-chu, the river
of Gyangtse, one of the largest southern tributaries of the Tsangpo,
with several villages on its banks. Twilight falls; I feel my heart
beating; shall we succeed? It becomes dark; a large white _chhorten_
stands like a ghost close on the right of our way. Rabsang asks a
belated wanderer how far it is, and receives the answer: "Follow the
road and you will come soon to a lane." On the right rises a hill, and
on its summit the outlines of the Shigatse-dzong, the Council House, are
faintly seen against the sky. Now we are between white houses and follow
a narrow lane, in which it is still darker. In an open place some
Chinese stand and stare at us. Snappy dogs come out of the houses and
bark at us. Otherwise the town is asleep, and no popular assembly
witnesses our entry. But where are our men? We do not know where they
are quartered. Ah! there stands Namgyal, waiting to show us the way, and
he leads us to a gate in the wall behind which Kung Gushuk's garden
lies.
Here Muhamed Isa and all the other men meet and greet us, as though they
would offer me their congratulations on a great triumph. We dismount,
and cross the court to the house which Kung Gushuk has placed at my
disposal. But it is cold and cheerless, and I prefer my tent set up
under the poplars of the garden. While we are waiting for Tsering we sit
by a large fire of brushwood, whither also several Tibetans gradually
gather. I pay no heed to them; I am too much engaged with my own
thoughts. I had been fortunate, and after a six months' journey through
Tibet had reached my first goal. It was late at night when my dinner was
ready; it was very welcome, for we had had no provisions on the boat.
Then I had two hours' good work at the notes I had made during the day.
But I was disturbed by a gentleman who belonged to the secular staff of
the Tashi Lama. He said that he was not acting upon orders, but that he
had been told that an unusual visitor had arrived, and he begged me to
furnish him with particulars. Then he wrote down the names and
nationality of us all, and the size of the caravan, and inquired by
which way we had come, whither we intended to travel, and what was the
object of my visit to Shigatse. He was exceedingly polite, and hoped
that we had not suffered too severely in the cold of Chang-tang. He was,
he said, an official of too low a rank to venture to address the Tashi
Lama, but he would communicate the information he had obtained to his
superiors. I never heard anything more of him. Seldom have I slept so
well as on this night--yes, perhaps, when I had fortunately completed my
college course.
When the next day passed without any one, lay or spiritual, giving
himself the least trouble about us, I sent Muhamed Isa up to
Tashi-lunpo. Its golden roofs shone fierily in the rays of the evening
sun on a slope in the west close to our garden, which was situated in
the southern suburb of Shigatse. My excellent caravan leader sought out
a lama of high position, who answered that he would send some one next
day to inquire particularly about my intentions and he would then
communicate with me further. At the same moment a Chinaman of high rank
named Ma paid me a visit. He introduced himself as the commander of the
_lansa_, or detachment of 140 Chinese soldiers, which, it seems,
garrisons Shigatse. Ma, who was a Dungan and a follower of Islam, became
my particular friend from the first moment, and smirked with good temper
and cheerfulness. He had arrived from Lhasa five days previously, and
was to stay until the Amban, the Governor-General, Lien Darin, recalled
him.
"It is inconceivable," said Ma, "how you have contrived to get through
to Shigatse without being stopped."
"Yes, to speak frankly, I had expected all kinds of annoyances, if not
sooner, at any rate a couple of days' journey from here."
"I did not hear a word of your coming; if I had known that you were
approaching the town, it would have been my duty to stop you."
"Then it is fortunate for me that you are strange here."
"Yes, but the worst is, that I shall come off badly as soon as the Amban
hears that you are living here, in Shigatse. But now it is too late; I
cannot help it now."
"Tell me, Ma Daloi, do you think that the Tashi Lama will receive me?"
"I doubt it. Immediately on my arrival I begged for an audience with the
Grand Lama, but he has not even condescended to give me an answer. And
yet I am a Chinese officer."
[Illustration: 108. COURT OF RELIGIOUS CEREMONIES IN TASHI-LUNPO.]
[Illustration: 109. RELIGIOUS DECORATIONS ON THE ROOFS OF TASHI-LUNPO TO
EXORCISE EVIL SPIRITS.]
This was little encouraging to me, a stranger, who had come from the
north without permission, and of whom no one knew what spirit he was.
And then next day was the New Year festival, which I could not attend
without some understanding, especially as the Tashi Lama himself would
be present. But he must know something about me, or how could Ngurbu
Tundup's arrival at Ngangtse-tso with the letters be explained?
Meanwhile we awaited the course of events, and went out with a paper
lantern to inspect one of the horses which had died in his stall and
must be removed. Why could he not remain alive now, when the mangers
were so full of barley, straw, and chaff, and the animals stood against
a wall which sheltered them from cold and wind, and had an idle time
before them? Five of the veterans and the last mule from Poonch were
still living, the last six of the splendid caravan which had set out
from Leh six months before. All the rest lay in Chang-tang and the
storms roared above them. These six should be cherished as the apple of
my eye and be well cared for. Their sore backs should be washed and
rubbed, their flanks groomed, at night they should sleep in cloths, and
of barley and chaff they should have abundance. The ground beneath them
should be strewn with straw, and they should be led to water at regular
times. I stroked my small grey, but he bit and kicked as usual. He, of
all the veterans, was in the best condition, and Guffaru declared that
he could cross the Chang-tang again if necessary.
We were very comfortable in the garden. To right and left of my tent
stood Robert's and Muhamed Isa's, and that of the Ladakis a little
farther off, and huge fires burned as usual before the latter two. A man
and woman of Kung Gushuk's household lived in a wretched hut in the
entrance gate, and procured for us anything we wanted. The woman was old
and infirm, and her face was bedaubed with black, but she was
exceedingly friendly. She was always coming to my tent, bowing, giggling
and grinning out of pure goodwill.
On February 11 I was awaked at half-past six with the news that two men
wished to speak to me at once. The brazier and warm water were brought,
I dressed in great haste, the tent was swept and put in order, and then
I sent to invite my guests to enter. The one was a tall lama of high
rank, named Lobsang Tsering, and he was a secretary of the Tashi Lama;
the other, Duan Suen, was a Chinaman, with handsome and refined
features. Both were extremely polite and had polished manners. We talked
for two hours on all kinds of subjects. Singularly enough, my arrival in
Shigatse seemed to be a complete surprise to both gentlemen. They
inquired my name, the route by which I had come, and my intentions, and,
of course, had never heard of poor little Sweden; but they wrote down
the Swedish, English, and Chinese names of my country.
"I intend to be present to-day at the New Year festival," I said. "I
cannot leave Shigatse without witnessing one of the greatest church
feasts."
"A European has never attended our festivals, which are intended only
for Tibetans and pilgrims of our faith, and permission will never be
granted to witness them."
"The Panchen Rinpoche (the Holy Teacher, the Tashi Lama) must have been
informed of my coming some months ago. His Holiness also knew from which
direction I should come, or he could not have sent my mails to the
Dangra-yum-tso."
"The Panchen Rinpoche never meddles with worldly matters; these are
looked after by his brother, the Duke (Kung Gushuk)."
"Still, I must see His Holiness, for I know that he expects me."
"It is vouchsafed only to a small number of mortals to appear before the
face of the Holy One."
Now the letter of the Raja of Stok and the Chinese passport came into my
mind. The letter made no impression on them; but the young Chinaman,
when the passport with its blue border and red stamp was unfolded before
him, became very interested, and opened his eyes wider the farther he
read. He read it once through, and then translated it slowly to Lobsang
Tsering.
"Why," they then both asked, "did you not show us this paper at once?
It would have saved us all discussion."
"Because the passport is made out for Eastern Turkestan and not for
Tibet," I answered truthfully.
"That does not matter, now that you are here. You have an excellent
Chinese passport, and therefore are under Chinese protection."
The young Chinaman took the passport and went off with it, while Mr.
Lobsang Tsering put further questions to me and examined our weapons and
other articles. At last I asked him whether he would like to see our
garden, and I hurriedly ate my breakfast during his absence. Then the
Chinaman came back and declared shortly that I might attend the
festival, that especial seats were reserved for myself and a couple of
my people, and that a chamberlain of the Tashi Lama's court would call
for us at the proper time. Now I blessed the Chinese passport which had
caused me so much vexation at the time, and I blessed the Indian
Government which had forced me to procure it; I blessed Count Wrangel,
who had obtained it so quickly, and I blessed the Chinese ambassador in
London, who had written out the passport with permission of his
Government. But I had never dreamed that it would be of the slightest
use to me, being issued for another country than Tibet.
This was our entry into Shigatse, and these were our first experiences
there. Not a finger had been raised to stop us, no inquisitive people
had jostled us in the streets to gaze at us. But now, when we had
already set up house in the town, our presence in the place excited as
general astonishment as if we had dropped down straight from heaven.
That this stroke had succeeded, and through no action of mine, was due
to certain peculiar circumstances. Hlaje Tsering had himself for some
unexplained reason reopened the bag in which he had caught us, and the
chieftains dwelling south of the Ngangtse-tso probably thought: "If the
Governor of Naktsang lets them pass, we cannot stop them." It was also
lucky for us that some of these chiefs had betaken themselves to the New
Year festival at Tashi-lunpo, and that we ourselves were lost in the
crowd of other pilgrims when we came to the great highway; for during
the days of the New Year the Tibetans are like capercailzies at breeding
time: they neither see nor hear. And, lastly, I, the only European of
the caravan, had ridden into the town when night had already spread a
veil of darkness over the earth.
[Illustration: 110. THE UPPER BALCONY OF THE COURT OF CEREMONIES IN
TASHI-LUNPO.]
CHAPTER XXIV
THE NEW YEAR FESTIVAL
The Lamaist Church has, in addition to the monthly festivals, four great
annual ceremonies, and the greatest is the New Year feast, the Losar,
which is celebrated in remembrance of the Sakya-muni, Buddha's victory
over the six heresies, the victory of the true religion over infidelity.
It is always held at the beginning of February, and is therefore a
festival of spring and light, in which the children of Buddha welcome
the victory of the lengthening days over the darkness of winter, the
passing away of the cold weather, the awakening of life and of the
sprouting seeds after the winter sleep, and the approach of spring, when
mild breezes, heralds of a warmer, brighter season, play with the
streamers on all the temple roofs. The Losar is therefore an
extraordinarily popular feast, which for quite fifteen days draws the
labourer from his work, the herdsman from his yaks, and the merchant
from his counter; a season of joy and pleasure, of feasting and dancing;
a time for paying and receiving visits, and of giving and receiving
presents; when the houses and temples are swept and garnished, and the
best clothes and ornaments are taken out of the trunks; when friends
gather to drink together in their apartments, and then in humble
meditation squash their noses against the floor before the images in the
dark temple halls; when broad anecdotes and strange stories of robbers
are related to visitors from a distance, frequently interrupted by the
hum of the prayer mills and the eternal truth "Om mani padme hum."
All are admitted to the great temple festivals: no distinction is made
between clergy and laity, monks and nomads, rich and poor, men and
women, greybeards and children. A begging woman clothed in rags is seen
beside a duchess loaded with precious stones. The Losar is a feast of
the whole people, a carnival of Lamaism, like the Lupercalia and
Saturnalia in ancient Rome.
It was my good fortune to arrive just in time for the greatest annual
festival of Lamaism, and to be present at its celebration in the
monastery town of Tashi-lunpo. At half-past ten appeared Tsaktserkan, a
young chamberlain from the vatican, in a very elegant yellow robe of
silk and a hat like an upturned dish, with a hanging tassel, and
announced that he had come from His Holiness to fetch me to the
festival, and that he was commissioned by the lama Lobsang Tsering to
attend on me during my sojourn in Shigatse. He requested me to put on
the finest clothes I had with me, for I should sit where I could be seen
during the whole time from the seat of the Grand Lama. At the bottom of
my box I had an old dress coat, several dress shirts, and patent leather
shoes, which I had brought especially for the benefit of the Tashi Lama,
and when Robert had rummaged out my shaving implements from another box,
I assumed the appearance of a European gentleman among the bare
mountains of Tibet. But I could not compare in gorgeousness with my
interpreter Muhamed Isa, for his gold-embroidered turban surpassed
everything. Of the rest only Robert, Tsering, Rabsang, and Namgyal were
allowed to accompany me.
We mount the new horses from the Ngangtse-tso and ride to the monastery,
a distance of twelve minutes. We leave on the right the Shigatse-dzong,
which stands picturesquely on its hill in the sunshine, and reminds me
of the palace at Leh. Our way passes across an open place, by detached
houses and courtyards, fields, pools, and ditches; the crowd increases,
the road becomes narrower; people stream in dense masses to the
monastery--townsmen and nomads, pilgrims from distant lands and dirty
ragged beggars; and old women sit at every corner offering with loud
voice sweetmeats and cakes for sale. Boys, dogs, and Chinamen are all
mingled together as in a huge ant-heap. But Tsaktserkan and his
marshals open a way for us and we ride up the lane, beside which rows of
great upright prayer mills are enclosed in white-washed masonry. A
little higher the way becomes a proper street with tall white houses
containing the cells of the monks, and we dismount at one of the chief
entrances, a large gateway. High above us rises a brick-red temple
building, the Tsogla-kang, and above all shines the white façade of the
Labrang with a black frieze on the top and with awnings before its
windows. We admire the imposing singular architecture, visible in all
its lines and details and making an impression of uniformity and
solidity. It is, perhaps, owing to my affection for Tibet that
everything in this wonderful land is bewitching and magnificent in my
eyes.
Now we mount up to the holy dwellings; the steep, corridor-like passages
between the mysterious walls are paved with flagstones, varying in form
and dimensions, but all smooth and bright as metal, though very uneven
and worn, for they have been trodden for centuries by the feet of
innumerable pilgrims and the soles of hurrying monks. Sometimes the
crowding in this tightly packed stream of pilgrims is very
uncomfortable, and in the lanes there is a musty odour of human beings.
We mount higher and higher, go along winding passages, turn frequently
at right angles left or right, pass through a gateway roofed over and
with a massive threshold, and follow passages and corridors, dimly
lighted, dark or pitch-dark, crowded with lamas in red togas, who have
one or both arms bare, closely cropped hair, and no covering on their
heads. They welcome us with kindly good-tempered smiles, and then move
aside to let us pass. Where treacherous steps lurk in the darkness, I
feel a strong arm ready to support me in case I stumble; it is some
attentive lama at my elbow.
Now it becomes lighter in the monastery walks, and the profiles of the
monks stand out black against the light. We enter a gallery with massive
wooden pillars, and we take our places in a balcony shut off from the
gallery by curtains of yak's wool with horizontal white stripes at the
bottom. An arm-chair of European form was placed for me, and I needed
it; for this day's spectacle, the grandest of the whole New Year
festival, lasted three hours. Here we sat as on the second tier of an
open-air theatre, and had an excellent view of the scene of action, like
a rectangular market-place, and surrounded by open platforms or terraces
supported by colonnades of wooden pillars. The whole reminded me of a
vast roofless auditorium. In the centre of the paved court rose a tall
mast which had suffered severely from the wind, and had been fissured by
many summers and the frosts of the succeeding winters, and from its top
long flags hung down to the ground. Immediately below our balcony ran
the uppermost terrace, and beyond its edge we looked down over the whole
courtyard where the religious ceremony was to take place, and over the
galleries opposite and at the sides, one storey above the court below
(Illustration 108).
[Illustration: 111, 112. THE _PROFANUM VULGUS_ AT THE NEW YEAR FESTIVAL
IN SHIGATSE.]
Everywhere, on all the balconies and roofs, on all the projections and
terraces, even right up under the gilded roofs curved in the Chinese
style of the mortuary chapels, where departed Grand Lamas sleep, the
people swarmed. From our elevated point of vantage we looked down on a
sea of heads, a conglomeration of human beings, a mosaic of vivid
glaring colours, an exhibition of national costumes, among which the
Tibetan dress was certainly the most conspicuous, but where the eye
lighted on figures hailing from Bhotan and Sikkim, Nepal and Ladak,
while Chinese merchants, or soldiers and pilgrims from the grassy
steppes of Mongolia, were easily distinguishable. An old lama of high
rank, who had shown us to our places, informed us that there were more
than 6000 spectators present, and this estimate was below rather than in
excess of the truth. Right in front of the highest platform opposite us
sits the Consul of Nepal, a young lieutenant in a round black cap with a
gold band but no peak. He blows rings from his cigarette, and is the
only one guilty of such a desecration of the holy place. Behind him sit
a number of other Nepalese and representatives of other Himalayan
countries attracted hither by business affairs or religious zeal. To the
left of them are long rows of men in dresses entirely of red or of
yellow, long kaftans with coloured girdles and sashes round the
waist, and mushroom-shaped hats, also red or yellow, which have the
circumference of a parasol and are fastened with a string under the
chin; they are officials of different ranks, are either the city
fathers, or are attached to the civil court of the Lama, or to the
administrative bodies of the province Chang. On the gallery below them
sit their wives and other ladies of rank, quite buried under the most
varied and extraordinary adornments: their dresses are red, green, and
yellow; they wear necklaces and silver pendants, silver cases inlaid
with turquoise, and at the back of the neck tall white aureoles, thickly
set with jewels and other ornaments. Their coiffures are of various
forms: some have a parting in the middle, and hair, like polished ebony,
puffed up at the sides; others have the hair plaited in a number of thin
switches, which are fixed up and decorated with beads, etc. There are
seated women from Pari and Kamba-dzong, from Ngari-khorsum in the west
and Kham in the east, and from the black tents on the shores of
Tengri-nor. They remind me of Leksand, Mora, and Vingåker, for there is
life and colour in these female groups. Beauty, according to European
ideas, will be sought in vain, but many seem agreeable and merry; they
are healthy, strongly and symmetrically built, and evidently are much
pleased with their pretty dresses. But if their relationship to the
Venus de Milo is very remote, they are at any rate women; they talk and
chatter, nibble dried peaches and sweets, blow their noses with their
fingers, and throw glances at their neighbours which betray their firm
conviction that they have outstripped their sisters in the elegance of
their attire. How very different these ladies are to the women we have
seen in Chang-tang! They do not, indeed, wash themselves every day, but
to-day they have washed their faces for the festival, and one is
astonished to see so many fair complexions--quite as fair as with us,
with scarcely a tinge of yellow, and often with a colour on the cheeks
as fresh as an apple.
On the platform under our balcony there are no dignitaries: there the
people sit sociably together, there the _profanum vulgus_ has its place;
there sit country mothers hushing their crying children, and there stand
ragged beggars leaning on their sticks, or sit on the ground with their
backs against the wall, while they hum their usual begging songs, which
are lost in the confusion of voices. Many have brought small cushions,
or folded clothes to make a comfortable seat. In some groups tea is
drunk out of wooden cups, in others acquaintances meet and lay their
heads alternately in one another's laps. Fresh spectators are constantly
coming on to the platforms, and the crush becomes dreadful. The railing
is low, so as not to hide the view of the scene below. The last-comers
have to look for a place against the house wall, and stand that they may
see over the heads of those seated before them. Some places right up
under the roofs seem rather dangerous, but the people behave well and
with great self-control; there is no jostling, no fighting for places,
no one falls over the low balustrades, but the greatest harmony and the
most perfect order prevail everywhere (Illustrations 111, 112).
The weather was all that could be desired for an _al fresco_ festival.
What an unpleasant odour must rise from the crowds of human beings when
it rains during a festival in late summer! Towards the end a slight wind
arose, causing the flags which hung down from the galleries to unfold
and blow out. To-day every one was in a holiday mood, and little
attention was paid to us, though we sat in the full sunlight in a
position where we could be seen from all sides. Occasionally some one
turned towards us and made a remark which caused merriment among the
others.
[Illustration: 113. LAMA WITH SHELL-TRUMPET.]
[Illustration: 114. LAMA WITH FLUTE USED IN RELIGIOUS SERVICES.
Sketches by the Author.]
As in the two preceding years the New Year festival of 1907 was of a
more solemn character than usual, and had attracted larger bands of
pilgrims, for the Dalai Lama had taken flight when the English advanced
to Lhasa, and this cowardly pope dwelt, misunderstood and despised, in
Urga in Mongolia, after abandoning his country, where all was in
confusion, to the mercy of the invaders. Many a pilgrim, who would
otherwise have gone to Lhasa, now resorted to Tashi-lunpo in preference,
where the Panchen Rinpoche, the Pope of Chang, had stuck to his post
when the country was in danger. The Chinese had posted up a long
proclamation at all the street-corners in Lhasa, in which they
declared that the Dalai Lama was deposed because he had exposed his
people to danger instead of defending them, and appointed the Tashi Lama
in his place as the highest administrator of the home affairs of Tibet.
True, the mob had torn down this proclamation and trampled it in the
dust, and the Tashi Lama had refused his acquiescence, but nevertheless
it was still apparent, two and a half years later, that the Tashi Lama
enjoyed a far higher reputation than the Dalai Lama. For though the
Dalai Lama was supposed to be omnipotent, all-seeing, and omniscient,
his troops had been defeated by infidel strangers; although he had
promised his warriors invulnerability, they had been shot down like
pheasants by the English machine guns; although he had solemnly sworn
that no harm could befall Lhasa, the abode of the gods, the enemy had
occupied the town, while the invincible one, the almighty, the
incarnation of the deity, had taken to headlong flight like the most
cowardly of marauders, more cowardly and meaner than the worst mercenary
from Kham. The Tibetans may be forgiven for beginning to doubt the
infallibility of the Dalai Lama after the butchery at Guru and Tuna,
though the priests were ready with plausible explanations of these
events.
The Tashi Lama, on the other hand, had stuck to his post, and was the
object of the reverence and respect traditionally paid to the chief
priests in Tashi-lunpo. He was the highest prelate in Tibet, while the
Pope of Lhasa was wandering a homeless fugitive about Mongolia. At the
New Year festival of 1907 it was easy to perceive what great prestige
and what boundless confidence were attached to the person of the Tashi
Lama. The crowds in festive robes who thronged the platforms and
balconies were soon to behold with their own eyes the holiest of the
holy in Tibet. And the nearer the time approached, the greater became
the excitement and expectation. They had been sitting here for hours,
for weeks and months they had toiled through desolate mountains, and
now----
Suddenly from the uppermost platforms on the roofs ring out deep,
long-drawn-out blasts of horns over the country; a couple of monks show
themselves against the sky; they blow on singular sea-shells, producing
a penetrating sound, which is echoed back in shrill and yet heavy tones
from the fissured rocks behind the convent; they summon the _Gelugpa_,
the brotherhood of yellow monks, to the festival. The venerable lamas
whose duty it is to attend on me, explain everything to me, but I do not
find it easy to follow them, especially as their words are translated to
me by a Mohammedan. They say that this first blast gives notice that the
monks are drinking tea together. Then a shout of joy bursts forth from
the lips of all the assembled multitude, for now the ceremonies begin.
On the right hand, on the other side of the court, a gallery is placed
obliquely resting on five pillars, and from it a stone staircase of
eleven steps leads down to the court. The gallery is now concealed by
heavy black curtains characteristic of all lama monasteries. Invisible
choristers, among whom we seem to distinguish voices of men and youths,
now intone a mystic chant. It is subdued, deep, and slow; it quavers in
religious enthusiasm beneath the dark vaults of the gallery, and seems
to proclaim with full conviction:
"In every land the whole world round
This song of praise shall soon resound."
The murmuring voices are silent and the chant swells up crescendo and
then falls again, and seems to die out in some distant under-world, as
though the singers had reached the portals of Nirvana. Enthralling,
mystical, full of yearning and hope is this wonderful Losar hymn in
Tashi-lunpo. Nothing of the kind I have heard, neither the chanting in
the Isaac Cathedral in St. Petersburg, nor in the Uspenski Sobor, the
cathedral of Moscow, has made a deeper impression on me; for this chant
is grand and powerful, and yet at the same time soothing as a cradle
song, intoxicating as wine, and sedative as morphia. I listen to it with
a solemn feeling, and miss it when the murmur of voices begins again,
drowning the final notes.
[Illustration: 115, 116, 117. LAMAS IN DANCING MASKS.
Sketches by the Author.]
Above this gallery is a second, which is open to the Dojas-chimbo, as
the court is called. Only the middle is covered with a curtain of
yellow silk with red stripes, and with heavy gold fringes and tassels at
the bottom. Behind this curtain the pope takes his place; he is so holy
that his whole person may not be exposed to the gaze of the multitude,
but a small rectangular opening is made in the curtain that he may be
able to watch the proceedings. After an interval, long copper trumpets
give forth a new signal; the holy one has left the Labrang, and is on
his way to the performance. A procession of high lamas enters the
gallery, each bearing some of the robes and pontifical insignia of the
Tashi Lama. A low, reverential, and subdued murmur is heard, the
multitude rises, on the tip-toe of expectation, all is still as the
grave, and all eyes are turned towards the door of the gallery through
which the procession enters. He comes, he comes! Then there is a murmur
more reverential than before among the crowd, who all rise and remain
standing, with their bodies bent and their hands on their knees,
inspired with deep devotion at the approach of the Panchen Rinpoche. He
walks slowly to his place, sits down with crossed legs on a couple of
cushions, and then only his face can be seen through the opening in the
silken curtain. Apparently he is rather a young man; on his head he
wears a large yellow mitre, which, however, resembles a Roman helmet or
a French infantry helmet; his pontifical robe is of yellow silk, and in
his hand he holds a rosary. At his right hand sits his younger brother,
Kung Gushuk, the Duke, our host, in a dress of red and yellow, and at
the right hand of the latter we see three other secular lords in yellow.
To the left of the Tashi Lama sits the minister of state, Lobsang Tsundo
Gyamtso, a little fat cardinal with a head like a billiard ball, and
beside him the tutor of the Tashi Lama, Yonsin Rinpoche, and his deaf
and dumb mother Tashi Lamo, a little woman with a shaven head and a red
and yellow dress embroidered with gold--I should have taken her for a
man if I had not been told who she was. In the semi-darkness behind them
is a row of high lamas, all in yellow garments--their ordinary dress is
red. It is truly an imposing scene. We seem to have before us the whole
conclave of venerable cardinals of Buddhistic catholicism. And this
impression is not weakened by the way in which they move and speak. One
can imagine how softly they speak to one another in the presence of His
Holiness; their movements are dignified and formal, slowly and
gracefully they assume the sitting posture of Buddha; their gestures are
noble; when they converse, bending slowly towards one another, an air of
genuine striking nobility pervades the whole picture without the
slightest touch of anything that can be called vulgar.
The crowd has seated itself again, but frequently pilgrims from
far-distant lands stand up embued with religious awe, bow, fall on their
knees, press their foreheads against the ground, and pay homage to the
Grand Lama as to a god. My eyes frequently meet his; apparently he is
extremely interested in his guests. Before the commencement of the
spectacle he had sent a lama to my garden to present me with a large
_kadakh_, a long narrow piece of fine white silk, as a greeting of
welcome and a polite token of esteem. Now several monks came gently
behind my chair; a table, or more correctly a stool, was set down, and a
whole collection of brass bowls were placed on it, filled to overflowing
with the finest mandarin oranges from Sikkim, dried fruits from Nepal,
raisins from India, figs from Si-ning-fu, sweetmeats from Bhotan, dried
peaches from Baltistan, and Tibetan cakes. And tea-cups of Chinese
porcelain were filled again and again with thick buttered tea. They
said: "The Panchen Rinpoche begs you to partake of these." I immediately
caught his eye, rose and bowed, and he nodded to me with a friendly
smile. All the refreshments left over--and the quantity was not
small--were given to my companions.
[Illustration: 118. VIEW OF TASHI-LUNPO.
Sketch by the Author.]
Now the religious ceremonies begin. The Tashi Lama takes off his mitre
and hands it to an acolyte. All the secular lords on the open platforms
also take off their mushroom-shaped hats. Two dancers with gruesome
masks, in coloured silken dresses with wide open sleeves, come forth
from the lower gallery, the curtain being drawn aside, and revolve in a
slow dance over the quadrangle. Then the Grand Lama is saluted by the
eleven principal standards in Tashi-lunpo; every idol has its standard,
and every standard therefore represents a god of the copious
Lamaistic mythology, but only the standards of the eleven chief deities
are brought out. The flag is square, but strips or ribands of a
different colour protrude at right angles from the three free edges;
there are white flags with blue strips, blue flags with red ribands, red
with blue, yellow with red strips, etc. The flag is affixed in the usual
way to a long painted staff, round which it is wrapped when a lama
brings it out. He marches solemnly up, halts before the box of the Tashi
Lama, holds out the staff horizontally with the assistance of a second
lama, and unrolls the flag, and then the emblem of the god is raised
with a forked stick to salute the Grand Lama. It is then lowered again,
the flag is rolled up, and the staff is carried sloped on the shoulder
of the bearer out through a gate beneath our balcony. The same ceremony
is observed with all the standards, and as each is unfolded a subdued
murmur of devotion rises from the assembly.
After a short pause the trumpets sound again, and now appear some lamas
with white masks and white robes, heralding a procession of monks, each
of whom carries some article used in the ritual of Buddhism, holy temple
vessels, golden bowls and chalices, censers of gold swinging in their
chains and emitting clouds of sweet-smelling incense. Some of these
monks appear in harness and accoutrements; three masked lamas almost
collapse under the weight of their exceedingly costly vestments of red,
blue, and yellow gold-embroidered silk. Behind them six copper trumpets,
10 feet long and bound with brass, are carried, and are so heavy that
their sound-bells must be supported on the shoulders of young novices.
They are followed by a group of flutists, and then come forty men in
fanciful motley costly dresses, who bear drums held up vertically on
carved poles, and beat them with drumsticks resembling a swan's neck.
Now come the cymbals clashing loudly and in regular time in the hands of
monks clothed in red silk. Nakchen, "The Great Black Man," is the name
of a dressed-up monk who bears a hand-bell. Below, at the stone steps,
the court is spread with a square of carpets. There the orchestra seats
itself, the forty drums are held up parallel to one another, and
likewise the trumpets, which are now allowed to slope down to the
pavement. All the musicians wear yellow mitres somewhat like the mitre
of the Grand Lama. Three monks of high rank come out on the gallery,
which is situated on the short side of the quadrangle immediately above
the arena. They wear yellow vestments and yellow mitres, and ring from
time to time brazen bells which they hold in their hands. Each of them,
I am told, is the superior of a thousand monks; only three are present,
for the fourth is ill. Tashi-lunpo has 3800 monks at the present time.
[Illustration: 119. STREET IN TASHI-LUNPO, WITH LAMAS.]
The curtain at the top of the stone staircase is opened and a masked
figure, named Argham, comes out with a bowl full of goat's blood in his
hand. He holds it horizontally with outstretched arms while he executes
a mystic dance; suddenly he pours the blood over the steps. With both
arms extended, holding the bowl upside down, he continues his dance,
while some serving brothers hurry up to wipe up the blood. Undoubtedly
this ceremony is a relic of the time when the original Bon religion
prevailed in Tibet, before the Indian monk Padma Sambhava in the eighth
century A.D. laid the foundation stone of Lamaism by introducing
Buddhism into Tibet; for Lamaism is only a corrupt form of pure
Buddhism, and under an outward varnish of Buddhistic symbolism has
incorporated a number of Sivaistic elements, and has also retained the
superstitions which in pre-Buddhistic times found expression in wild
fanatical devil dances, rites, and sacrifices. The object of these
ceremonies was to exorcise, banish or propitiate the powerful demons
which reign everywhere, in the air, on the earth, and in water, and
whose only function is to plague, torture, and persecute the children of
men. At that time the god of war and the demons were appeased by human
sacrifices, and the ceremony I have just described is certainly a relic
of these offerings. Of course Buddhism had a better prospect of becoming
popular in Tibet if as much as possible of the old religion were
incorporated in the new. But the first command of the fundamental law of
Buddhism forbids to "quench the vital spark," to kill. This does not,
however, prevent the monks from eating meat or making use of goat's
blood in certain religious rites--the sheep and goats are killed by
ordinary butchers, while the lamas themselves do not transgress the
commandments of the law.
Bagcham is the name of a dancer in a frightful devil's mask; as he
circles over the quadrangle, pieces of coloured cloth flutter about on
all sides. He is followed by eleven masked lamas who execute the same
movements. They are joined by a troop of new performers in coloured
garments with necklaces, beads, and ornaments. They wear a square collar
with a round hole in the middle, which is passed over the head, so that
the collar rests on the shoulders and stands out horizontally when they
dance. A great number of strips tied about the body swing out like the
skirts of a ballet-dancer when the dancers spin round. They hold in
their hands various religious objects and long light strips, ribands,
and streamers.
Again the curtain parts asunder, and preceded by two flutists Chöjal Yum
appears at the top of the steps, the impersonation of a female spirit,
and with a trident in his hand performs a dance on the topmost step.
Lastly, lamas dance in hideous masks with large evil eyes and
Mephistophelian eyebrows, distorted features, and huge tusks; others
represent mythical wild beasts, all equally terrible (Illustrations 115,
116, 117). At every new number the three high priests ring their bells,
and the music continues without interruption, the discordant noise
awakening a thundering echo from the stone façades of the narrow court.
The drummers beat their instruments slowly and in strict time,
accompanied by the clash of the cymbals, the weird, prolonged blasts of
the trumpets, and the more agreeable notes of the flutes. But now and
then the time is accelerated, the beats of the drum follow one another
more and more closely, and the claps of the clashing basins pass into
one continuous resonance. The musicians seem to stimulate one another,
and there is a great crescendo; there is more than enough noise to
deafen one, so it is useless to attempt to speak to one's neighbour. The
dancing becomes more furious, and undoubtedly the fanatical spectacle
makes a deep impression on the spectators. Now and then a fanatic is
overpowered by it, jumps up, and, turning towards the Tashi Lama, grabs
at his head with his hands, falls forward with his hands and forehead on
the ground, and repeats this obeisance thrice--he has a deified man
before him. A greybeard from Chang-tang, sitting in his fur coat just
below our balcony, is unwearied in these observances, and is constantly
jumping up to make his reverence to the Grand Lama; but once he slips on
a piece of mandarin peel and makes a frightful contortion, to the great
amusement of his neighbours. Other pilgrims take from their girdles a
small bag of rice or barley, and throw a pinch or two into the court.
This is an offering to the temple, and is appropriated by the pigeons
and sparrows.
Only the northern third of the quadrangle is required for the religious
diabolical masquerade; the other two-thirds are left free for the poor
of Shigatse and its environs. There the crush is terrible, but now and
then lictors, as they may be called, armed with whips and rods, clear a
space. They strike right and left, and all the people bend their backs
under the blows, but their interference seems only to increase the
disorder. Among the pilgrims on the platforms tea is distributed gratis
by monks of low rank; they carry large brass-bound copper cans on the
right shoulder, from which they fill the wooden cups held out by their
guests. _Panem et circenses!_ The monks know how to treat their lambs.
What does it matter to them if they give a few yak-loads of brick tea
once or twice a year, when they live exclusively at the expense of the
people and from the Peter's pence which flow continuously from the bags
of pilgrims into the temple treasury?
[Illustration: 120. STREET IN TASHI-LUNPO.]
At length the lictors clear a space in the crowd below us, where a fire
is lighted. Two monks step forward and hold a large sheet of paper
horizontally over the fire at as great a height as possible; on this
paper is written down all the evil from which protection is desired
during the year now commencing, and all the affairs in which a triumph
is hoped for over the designs and influence of wicked demons. The paper
also represents the past year with all its sufferings and all its sins.
A lama walks up to the fire with a wand in one hand and a bowl in the
other. He recites some formulæ of incantation, performs all kinds of
mystical hocus pocus with his arms, and throws the contents of the bowl,
some inflammable stuff, into the flames, which blaze up brightly and
consume in a moment the paper, the passing year with its sins, and all
the power of the demons. All the spectators rise and break out into
prolonged shouts of rejoicing, for now evil is crushed and every one may
rest in peace. The last number of the day's programme was a general
dance of all the lamas in the courtyard.
Now the Tashi Lama rises and slowly retires from the scene of the
festival, followed by his retinue. After his departure the pilgrims
withdraw in perfect order, quietly and without crushing, and take their
way down to Shigatse in a black stream of humanity. When the last have
disappeared, we look for our horses, accompanied by our new friends.
The jugglery we had witnessed was in every respect brilliant, gorgeous,
and splendid, and it is easy to imagine the feelings of humility such a
performance must inspire in the mind of the simple pilgrim from the
desolate mountains or the peaceful valleys. While the original
signification of these dramatic masquerades and these mystic plays is
the exorcising and expelling of inimical demons, they are in the hands
of the clergy a means of retaining the credulous masses in the net of
the Church, and this is a condition of the existence both of the Church
and of the priests. Nothing imposes on ignorance so thoroughly as
fearful scenes from the demon world, and therefore devils and monsters
play a prominent part in the public masquerades of the monasteries. With
their help and by representations of the King of Death, Yama, and of
restless wandering souls vainly seeking new forms of existence in the
sequence of transmigrations, the monks terrify the multitude and render
them meek and subservient, and show many a poor sinner what obstacles
and what trials await him on the rough road to Nirvana through the
valley of the shadow of death.
On our way back we returned the visit of my friend Ma. His _yamen_ was
built in the usual Chinese style and was surrounded by a wall. I was
invited to take my place on the seat of honour beside a small table, on
which attentive servants placed tea, sweetmeats, and cigarettes. The
whole room was full of Chinamen, but Ma was as amiable as before.
Lobsang Tsering and Tsaktserkan were waiting in my garden. They had
brought a whole caravan of mules laden with _tsamba_, rice, meal, dried
fruit, and barley for our horses--supplies sufficient for our whole
party for a full month. They also handed me 46 silver _tengas_ (barely
20 shillings) wrapped in paper, with which, they believed, we should buy
meat, for the Tashi Lama must have no hand in anything which involved
the extinction of the vital spark. The envoys also said that His
Holiness expected me at nine o'clock the following morning, and that
they would come to fetch me. But I was not to tell Ma or any one else
that the Tashi Lama was going to receive me. For the rest, I had only to
say a word and all my wishes would be fulfilled. Later in the evening a
subordinate official presented himself with the information that no one
would fetch me; I was to be at the great portal at nine o'clock--for the
Chinese might become suspicious. At night I took out of Burroughs and
Wellcome's large medicine chest all the drugs which I thought we might
want, and we packed them in labelled bags. The chest itself, of
aluminium, and all its elegant tabloid boxes, bottles, cases, bandages,
and instruments were rubbed and polished up till they shone like silver,
and then wrapped in a large piece of yellow silk which Muhamed Isa had
picked up in the bazaar, for it was next day to be my friendship's
offering to the Panchen Rinpoche.
[Illustration: 121. THE LABRANG, THE PALACE OF THE TASHI LAMA, TO THE
RIGHT.
In the foreground, a part of the Court of Ceremonies.]
CHAPTER XXV
THE TASHI LAMA
The 12th of February came, the day on which I was to be received by the
holiest man in Tibet. I therefore made myself as spruce as I had ever
done for a ball in a British Government House, and then, accompanied by
the same men as to the performance, rode up to the main entrance to
Tashi-lunpo, where Tsaktserkan, Lobsang Tsering, and some monks awaited
us. In their company we ascended to the higher regions, through a
labyrinth of gloomy lanes and dark narrow cloisters, to the Labrang,
where the Tashi Lama lives--the Vatican, with its white façade, its
large quaint windows, and its solid balconies standing high above this
town of temple buildings (Illustration 121). Our conductor leads us into
cold dark rooms, up unusually steep staircases. The steps, in which the
soles of the monks have worn deep hollows, are edged with iron, and the
round bars of the balustrade are polished by innumerable hands. The
steps are dark, and our friends warn us to mount slowly and cautiously.
Then there is light, and we are taken out on to a gallery, a roof, but
only to plunge again into a maze of dark passages and flights of steps.
I am asked to wait in a room with red cushions on the floor. Before long
we are informed that the man next in rank to the Tashi Lama, the
honourable fat little lama, who holds the post of a minister of state,
is ready to receive us. His audience chamber, or rather his private
cell, is quite a small room, but from its single window he enjoys a
beautiful view over the sacred town of Shigatse and the rocky mountains
of the neighbourhood. The room is fitted up with solid, unpretentious,
and genuine Lamaist luxury. Red carpets lie on the floor, and the
ceiling and walls are also red, that is, all that can be seen of them,
for most of the walls are hidden by artistically carved cabinets with
red lacquer, and decorated in colours and inlaid metal work. On these
stand large silver _gaos_ containing images of the gods, and before them
smaller ones of solid gold, between bowls with offerings or wicks
burning with a dull flame in butter. Other objects may be seen which the
monks use in their services: bells, cymbals, holy water vessels, and a
_dorche_, the thunderbolt, emblem of power, which resembles a sceptre.
To the left, in a window niche, hangs a flag-like picture (_tanka_) of
the first Tashi Lama, and to the right a similar portrait of the
ecclesiastical prince Sakya Pandita.
The venerable prelate sat cross-legged on a bench fixed against the wall
and covered with red cushions, and before him stood a small, yellow,
carved table with silken material inserted in the top. He beamed with
fat, inward complacence and goodwill, like any other cardinal; his
features were finely cut, and his eyes indicated great intelligence.
When I entered he rose with a polite smile and invited me to be seated
on a chair by the table, whereupon the inevitable tea was served. Just
as indispensable is it to exchange _kadakhs_ and presents. I gave him an
engraved dagger from Kashmir, and he presented to me a gilt idol--there
is the difference between secular and ecclesiastical presents. We talked
about an hour over one thing or another, and His Eminence begged me to
excuse the delay, but the Panchen Rinpoche was absorbed in meditation
and occupied with his daily prayers, and might not be disturbed till he
himself gave a sign.
This moment came at length: a lama whispered to the cardinal that I was
expected. We go still higher up smooth steep staircases to open
landings, up more steps, higher and higher to the holiest of holies in
the monastery of Tashi-lunpo. The conversation is carried on in lower,
more subdued tones, one dares no longer speak loud; small groups of
lamas stand in the corridors and passages, silent as statues, and look
at me as I pass by. Lobsang Tsering tells me in a whisper that we are
now in the last antechamber, where I can make myself ready and put on
the black shoes. Here my servants are ordered to remain, except Robert
and Muhamed Isa. If I could have dispensed with interpreters His
Holiness would have seen me quite alone.
We enter, not without feeling solemn. I make a deep bow at the door, and
two more before I stand before him. The Tashi Lama is sitting on a bench
in a window recess and has in front of him a small table with a tea-cup,
a telescope, and some printed sheets. He is dressed as simply as an
ordinary monk, wears a cerise costume of the usual style, coat,
waistcoat, vest, and the long scarf which is thrown over the shoulder
and wound round the body like a toga; between its folds peeps out a
yellow under-vest with gold embroidery; both arms are bare and the head
is uncovered.
His complexion is fair, slightly inclining to yellow; he is somewhat
below the middle height, is well proportioned, looks healthy, and at his
twenty-fifth year, lately completed, has every prospect of attaining a
good old age. In his small, soft, delicate hands he holds a rosary of
red beads. His short-cropped hair is black, and there is scarcely any
down on his upper lip; his lips are not thick and full like those of
other Tibetans, but thin and gracefully formed, and his eyes are of a
chestnut-brown colour.
Nodding kindly, he gives me both his hands and invites me to sit in an
arm-chair beside him. The apartment, in which he spends the greater part
of the day, is astonishingly plain, quite a contrast to that of the
cardinal in the lower regions. It is small and consists of two parts:
the outer is a kind of roofless ante-room, exposed to all the winds of
heaven, to the snow in winter and the pouring rain in autumn; the inner
is raised a step, and is again separated by a division ending in a
grille, behind which his bedroom is situated. There is not a single
idol, no wall painting or other mural decoration, no furniture except
what has been already mentioned, not a thread of carpet, only the bare
stone floor--and through the window his melancholy and dreamy, but clear
and open, glances wander over the golden temple roofs, over the town
below them with its dirt and sinfulness, over the dreary mountains
which bound his earthly horizon, and away through the azure-blue sky to
a Nirvana invisible to us, where his spirit will one day find rest. Now
he descended from his heaven and became a man for a moment. But all the
time he preserved a wonderful calmness, a refined, amiable politeness
and dignity, and spoke in a charmingly soft and subdued voice, modest,
almost shy; he spoke quickly and in short sentences, but in a very low
tone.
What did we talk about? Why, about all kinds of things in heaven and
earth, beginning from his own religion, in the Pantheon of which he
himself takes the highest rank among living prelates, down to the yaks
that roam wild over Chang-tang. He displayed an alertness, an interest
in everything, and an intelligence that surprised me in a Tibetan. I
have never been interviewed so thoroughly and with so much tact.
Firstly, he inquired if I had suffered much from the cold and hardships
in Chang-tang, and whether we had had great losses. Then he hoped I
would excuse the sorry entertainment I had met with; it was all owing to
my having arrived quietly and unnoticed, and no one knew whether I was
the man who was expected and of whose probable arrival information had
been received from India. But now everything possible should be done for
my welfare and convenience, and he wished and hoped that I should carry
back with me a pleasant remembrance of his country.
Then followed inquiries about my name, my age, my caravan, the routes by
which I had come; my country, its size and population, its position with
regard to Russia and England; whether Sweden was dependent on a
neighbouring country or had a king of its own; the best way to travel to
Sweden, how long it took to travel there, and what season was the most
suitable--just as if he intended to return my visit. Then he asked about
the various European countries and their rulers, their relative power
and extent; about the war between Russia and Japan, about the great
naval battles and the armoured vessels which had sunk; the effect the
result of the war would have on Eastern Asia; about the Emperor of Japan
and the Emperor of China--apparently he had the greatest respect for
the latter. He asked what countries I had visited, and whether I had
seen much of India, where he had been so well received a year ago. He
spoke with pleasure of his impressions of India, of the large cities
with their fine buildings, of the Indian army, the railways, the
splendour and wealth everywhere apparent, and the hospitality shown him
by the Lord Sahib (the Viceroy). "Promise me to greet the Lord Sahib
from me when you write, and tell him that I still think of his kindness,
and greet Lord Kitchener;" and then he showed me a photograph with the
autograph of the great General. He was particularly pleased at having
been able to visit the holy places he knew so well from descriptions and
pictures, which were connected with the great founder of his religion,
Buddha, especially Buddh Gaya in Magadha, where Prince Sarvarthasidda,
the son of Buddha, had passed six years in solitude and meditation,
overcome Mâra, the tempter, the ruler of the world of lust, and had
attained to perfect wisdom.
To the Tashi Lama, then, the journey to India had been of the nature of
a pilgrimage, though from the English point of view the invitation had
been rather connected with political considerations. It was, of course,
important to the English in India to have a neighbour on their northern
frontier on whose faith and friendship they could rely in unsettled
times. As long ago as the year 1774 the great Warren Hastings had sent
Bogle as ambassador to the third Tashi Lama, to obtain information about
the country, and, if possible, to establish commercial relations. And in
1783 he had sent Turner to the fourth Tashi Lama. Now, 120 years later,
the sixth Tashi Lama had been invited to visit India himself, that he
might observe with his own eyes the wealth, might, and prestige of the
English. No efforts were spared to make a lasting impression on the
influential ecclesiastical prince. Later events have proved that this
project has failed. The journey of the Tashi Lama to India met with
great opposition in Tibet, and gave rise to much suspicion. And great
was the joy when he returned in safety; for the Church could not afford
to lose, perhaps, the Tashi Lama also, when the Dalai Lama had
disappeared from the country. What would become of the re-incarnation
when no one knew where the two popes were dwelling?
Then he turned the conversation to the European Powers, and thought that
Europe was a singular mosaic of states. He brought out a picture showing
all the more powerful supreme rulers of the earth. Under each portrait
the name and country were written in Tibetan characters. He put many
questions about each monarch, and showed the liveliest interest in their
fortunes--he who is more powerful than all the kings of the world, for
he rules over the faith and the souls of men from the Kalmucks on the
Volga to the Buryats on Lake Baikal, from the shores of the Arctic Ocean
to the burning sun of India.
I am not the first European whom Tubden Chöki Nima Gelég Namgyal, the
sixth Tashi Lama, has received in the Labrang at Tashi-lunpo. After
Younghusband's expedition, Major W. F. O'Connor was admitted to an
audience in the autumn of 1904 as representative of the Indian
Government, and on this occasion he was accompanied by four officers of
the Gartok Mission, Major Ryder, Captains Rawling and Wood, and
Lieutenant Bailey. O'Connor, who knows the Tibetan language, was
Younghusband's interpreter in Lhasa and the Tashi Lama's in India, and
in his capacity as British Trade Agent in Gyangtse had frequently
occasion to negotiate with the pope in Tashi-lunpo. Also, immediately
after his return home in 1906, the Tashi Lama received Captain
Fitzgerald, Lord Kitchener's aide-de-camp, and Mr. David Fraser.
[Illustration: 122. INTERIOR OF THE PALACE OF THE TASHI LAMA.
The little corner near the two windows is the place where Tashi Lama
passes his free time.]
Of the two supreme pontiffs of the yellow-caps Köppen says: "Of these
the Panchen Rinpoche at Tashi-lunpo is usually supposed to be an
incarnation of the Dhyani Buddha of the present age of the world,
Amitabha, but also an incarnation of the Bodhisattvas, Manjusri and
Vajrapani, and lastly almost as a re-birth of the reformer Tsong Kapa,
the founder of the yellow-caps; the Dalai Lama, on the other hand, is
always held to be a re-incarnation of the Bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara
(Padmapani)...." In the same work the functions of teacher and king
are divided between the two Lamaist popes, the former being especially
assigned to the Panchen, the latter to the Dalai Lama. And this is also
signified by the titles of the two potentates, for the former is called
Panchen Rinpoche, "the Great Precious Teacher," and the latter Gyalpo
Rinpoche, "the Precious King." In consequence of this idea the Dalai
Lama has at length become the temporal ruler of the greater part of
Tibet, though he owes his position more to the situation and historical
connections of his capital than to this scholastic theory of sanctity,
just as the Vicar of Christ on the seven hills owes his supremacy to the
importance of the city of Rome. The great teacher (the Tashi Lama) has
therefore for the present to content himself with a comparatively small
territory, combined with a reputation for sanctity and omniscience, and
the privilege of acting as tutor and guardian to an infant Dalai Lama.
And Waddell says of the respective spheres of the two popes: "The
Tashi-lunpo Grand Lamas are considered to be, if possible, holier even
than those of Lhasa, as they are less contaminated with temporal
government and worldly politics and more famous for their learning."
I shall show later that this relation between the two Lamaist popes
underwent great modifications in favour of the Tashi Lama during the
period of my last journey. The expectations of the English, that they
would gain an influence in Tibet through the friendship of the Tashi
Lama, were to a certain extent justified; but they had not taken into
consideration that the temporal power lost by the Dalai Lama by no means
passed over to the Tashi Lama, whose temporal authority was confined
within the boundaries of the province Chang, and even there was limited
by the universal supremacy of China. The Dalai Lama accordingly had much
to lose, the Tashi Lama little or nothing. The Dalai Lama was an
ambitious intriguer, who by his incautious policy provoked the offensive
measures of Lord Curzon so disastrous for Tibet, and thereby lost almost
everything. And if the Tashi Lama had already enjoyed a greater
reputation for holiness and learning than his colleague in Lhasa, his
renown and his spiritual influence were much enhanced when the result of
the war proved that the fine promises of the Dalai Lama were all lies
and humbug, and only tended to secure more firmly the heavy yoke of the
Chinese on the necks of the Tibetans. Shortly before my visit the Tashi
Lama had had an opportunity of reminding the Lamaist hierarchy of his
illustrious existence. When he reached the age of twenty-five he sent
presents of money to all the monasteries of Tibet, inviting all the
monks to a great banquet in their own convents at his expense; a special
embassy of monks was despatched to Ladak, and others to Lhasa, Sekiya,
Tashi-gembe, and other places. The twenty-fifth anniversary of his birth
was celebrated throughout the Lamaist world.
But we will return to the audience. Lamas, walking on their toes and
silent as phantoms, handed us tea and fruits continually. The Tashi Lama
drank a sip from his plain cup with me, as though to show that he did
not consider himself too holy to sit at table with an unbeliever. Some
Lamas who stood in the room at a distance were now and then dismissed by
a wave of the hand when he wished to put some question he did not want
them to hear. This was particularly the case when he requested me not to
let the Chinese know that he had entertained me, though it could hardly
escape their penetration.
[Illustration: 123. VIEW OF A PART OF TASHI-LUNPO, WITH THE FAÇADE OF A
MAUSOLEUM OF A GRAND LAMA.]
I seized the opportunity to beg for certain favours. I asked permission
to photograph him. Oh, certainly, I might come again with my camera, if
I liked. I asked to be allowed to see the whole of Tashi-lunpo, and to
draw and photograph in the cloister town at my pleasure. "Yes, by all
means; I have already ordered the lamas to show you everything." And,
finally, I begged for a passport for future journeys in his country, for
an official of the Labrang, and some reliable men as escort. This, too,
was granted me, and all was to be in order when I had fixed the day of
my departure. All these promises were fulfilled to the smallest detail,
and if China had not just at this time seized Tibet more tightly than
ever in its dragon's claws, the Tashi Lama would certainly have been
powerful enough to throw every door open to me. But at any rate his
friendship and favour were an excellent recommendation in all my
subsequent journeys, and extricated me from many a difficult
situation. Pilgrims from all parts of Tibet had seen with their own eyes
how well I was received. They had boundless respect for the Tashi Lama,
reposed in him the most sincere confidence, and reasoned as follows:
"Whoever this stranger may be, he must be an eminent lama in his own
country, or the Panchen Rinpoche would never have treated him as his
equal." And then these pilgrims returned to their black tents in distant
provinces and related to others what they had seen, and when we arrived
with our small caravan all knew who we were. Eighteen months later it
came about that chiefs and monks said: "Bombo Chimbo, we know that you
are a friend of the Tashi Lama, and we are at your service."
When we had conversed for two hours, I made a move to leave him, but the
Tashi Lama pushed me back on to the chair and said: "No, stay a little
longer." And this was repeated till quite three hours had passed. How
many millions of believers would have given years of their lives for
such a privilege! The pilgrims who had travelled hundreds of miles to
get a sight of him must be content with a nod of the head and a blessing
from a distance.
Now was the time to present my offering. The elegant English medicine
chest was taken out of its silk cloth, opened and exhibited, and excited
his great admiration and lively interest--everything must be explained
to him. The hypodermic syringe in its tasteful aluminium case with all
its belongings especially delighted him. Two monks of the medical
faculty were sent for several days running to our camp to write down in
Tibetan the contents of the various tabloid boxes and the use of the
medicines. But I warned them, as well as the Tashi Lama, against making
a trial of their effect before consulting Major O'Connor's physician in
Gyangtse. There was not much danger, however, for the lamas believe that
their medical knowledge is much superior to that of Europeans.
Wonderful, never-to-be-forgotten Tashi Lama! Never has any man made so
deep and ineffaceable impression on me. Not as a divinity in human form,
but as a man, who in goodness of heart, innocence, and purity approaches
as near as possible to perfection. I shall never forget his expression:
it displayed unbounded kindness, humility, and philanthropy; and I have
never seen such a smile, a mouth so delicately formed, so noble a
countenance. His smile never left him: he smiled like a sleeper dreaming
of something beautiful and desirable, and whenever our eyes met, his
smile grew broader, and he nodded kindly and amiably, as much as to say:
"Trust in my friendship implicitly, for my intentions are good towards
all men."
The incarnation of Amitabha! The earthly shell in which the soul of
Amitabha lives on through time! Therefore a deity full of supernatural
wisdom and omniscience. The Tibetans believe that he knows not only what
is and has been, but also all that is to come. Can he be Amitabha
himself? This much is certain, that he is a very extraordinary man, a
singular, unique, and incomparable man. I told him that I thought myself
fortunate to have seen him, and that I should never forget the hours I
had spent in his company; and he replied that he should be very pleased
if I came back again.
[Illustration: 124. FAÇADE OF THE MAUSOLEUM OF THE FIRST TASHI LAMA. THE
COURT OF CEREMONIES IN THE FOREGROUND.]
After I had thanked him once more for his generous hospitality and
kindness, he called some lamas and ordered them to show me the temples.
Then he gave me both his hands, and followed me with his wonderful smile
as I bowed myself out. His friendly eyes did not leave me till I had
passed through the door leading into the ante-chamber. At the foot of
the first staircase several lamas were waiting; they smiled in silence,
and with wide-opened eyes, no doubt thinking that so long an audience
was an unusual favour. Henceforth they all treated me with greater
respect, and it was evident that very evening that the whole bazaar and
all the town of Shigatse knew that I had spent three hours with the holy
one. For my part I could hardly think of anything else but the Tashi
Lama and the powerful impression he had made on me. I left the Labrang,
his cloister palace, intoxicated and bewitched by his personality. This
one day was worth many days in Tibet, and I felt that I had now beheld
what was most remarkable in the country, scarcely surpassed by the
massive mountains with their snow-capped summits, which from remote
periods have looked down on the births and deaths of generations in
the valleys which wind about their feet.
During our sojourn in Shigatse we made many friends among the monks of
Tashi-lunpo, who gave us right willingly all the elucidations we asked
for. One told us that a Tashi Lama, when he feels the approach of death,
must in accordance with the directions of the holy law remain in a
sitting position, with his legs tucked under him and his hands palms
upwards in his lap, for he must die in the same attitude as the
meditating Buddha. His last moments are soothed by a number of monks who
surround him on all sides, fill the air with the murmur of their
prayers, and continually prostrate themselves with their hands and
foreheads on the ground, paying divine honours to him and his departing
spirit. When he has lost consciousness, has no longer any control over
his body, and becomes limp, he is held up, and when life has flown he is
so placed that he grows rigid in the orthodox position. The corpse is
clothed in priestly vestments, all new and never worn before, and then
the tall mitre is placed on his head. Prayers for the dead are recited,
mystic rites are performed, and the corpse is placed as quickly as
possible, still in a sitting posture, in a metal vessel which is filled
with salt and hermetically sealed. Then his mortuary chapel must be
prepared, and as this must be erected in a massive stone building, and
be decorated within with great art and expense, it may be a long time
before his dust is finally laid to rest. The cost is borne by the
pilgrims and devotees of the country, and in consequence of his death
the Peter's pence flow in more plentifully than ever, for it is a good
deed to contribute to the interment of a Tashi Lama. Such liberality
secures privileges to the donor in his soul's wanderings.
After the decease, Amitabha clothes himself in the body of a newly born
boy, and the difficulty is to discover where this boy is. Therefore
letters are sent to all parts of Tibet and to all the adjoining Lamaist
countries, in which inquiries are made whether a child of the male sex,
endowed with extraordinary spiritual gifts, has appeared. Numerous
replies come in. After one after another has been rejected, the boy
must certainly be among the remainder, and the right one has to be found
out. The names of the boys are written on strips of paper, which are
rolled up and deposited in a covered bowl, and this is placed before the
image of one of the chief gods, probably before Amitabha or Tsong Kapa,
whereupon high cardinals offer up prayers before the bowl, recite
appropriate texts from the holy scriptures, present gifts to the gods,
burn incense and perform other ceremonies, and then the cover is
removed, and the first ticket taken out gives the name of the new
Panchen Rinpoche. The decision of this lottery must, however, be
ratified by the Dalai Lama before it can have legal force, and from him
the new pontiff, an innocent child, receives his consecration. If the
Dalai Lama is absent, or is himself a minor, this is conferred by a
conclave of the higher priests.
[Illustration: 125, 126. INTERIORS OF TWO MAUSOLEUMS OF GRAND LAMAS IN
TASHI LUNPO.
Sketches by the Author.]
CHAPTER XXVI
THE GRAVES OF THE PONTIFFS
Volumes would be required in which to describe a monastery such as
Tashi-lunpo in all its details, its intricate conglomeration of stone
buildings connected with one another by passages, corridors, staircases,
and terraces, or separated by narrow deep lanes or small open squares;
its many temple halls with an innumerable host of images; its monks'
cells, lecture halls, mortuary chapels, kitchens, factories, warehouses
for provisions and materials; its complicated organization in spiritual
and temporal affairs, its festivals and ceremonies. Such a description
could only be compiled by an intimate acquaintance with the Lamaist
hierarchy and Church, and this knowledge could only be attained by the
ardent study of a whole lifetime; for those who would penetrate deeply
into the mysteries of Lamaism must gain a thorough knowledge of Buddhism
and its relations to Brahminism and Hinduism, and understand the
influence which Sivaism has exerted on the religion of the Tibetans, and
must be familiar with the elements of the ancient Bon religion and its
fetichism and Shamanism, which have crept in and corrupted the Lamaistic
form of Buddhism. Such a task lies beyond the scope of this work for
many reasons, not least because I have only a dim conception of the
essentials of Lamaism.[1] I shall therefore content myself with
depicting the system from its picturesque side, and describing the
outward ordinances I had an opportunity of observing personally. I shall
write the names phonetically, without all the silent consonants which
render a conscientious translation unintelligible to those who have not
devoted much time to the study of the Tibetan language.
[Illustration: 127. THE KANJUR-LHAKANG IN TASHI-LUNPO.
Sketch by the Author.]
Tashi-lunpo must not be conceived as a single vast block of buildings,
but as a cloister town within an enclosing wall, a town of at least a
hundred separate houses, very irregularly built and grouped, joined
together in rows divided by narrow lanes (Illustration 118). On the
south side of the Tsangpo a rocky spur projects from the mountains
eastwards into the valley of the Nyang-chu; below and to the east of
this cliff lies Shigatse in the broad valley on the northern, left bank
of the river, while the monastery is built on the lower part of the
southern slope of the ridge, and therefore faces south. Looking from the
plain to the south of the monastery at this conglomeration of white
houses, one notices at once some striking features which facilitate the
orientation. On the extreme right is a high thick wall without windows,
from the top of which large pictures are exposed to view during certain
summer festivals. A little to the left of it, the grand white façade of
the Labrang, with its solid, simple, and tasteful architecture, rises
above all the cloister town, and in front of and below the Labrang five
buildings, quite alike in appearance, catch the eye--massive towers with
golden roofs in the Chinese style. They form a line running from west to
east, and are the mausoleums of the five earlier Tashi Lamas. The
remaining space within the wall around and below them is occupied by all
the other houses, and wherever you stand on their flat roofs the first
and the last objects you see are these mausoleums; for Tashi-lunpo has
also a system of aerial streets and places, as they may be called, that
is, the roofs protected by low parapets. In the deep lanes one is quite
unable to find the way unless one is very familiar with them, for only
the nearest high walls can be seen, consisting either of an unbroken
smooth surface or interrupted by large long windows in black frames. The
walls all slope a little inwards, so that all the lanes between the
houses are narrowest at the bottom. The pavement is irregular, worn, and
smooth; some lanes and open squares are not paved at all. All these
constructions are solidly and firmly built, and planned so as to defy
time as well as the rude climate of Tibet.
Tashi-lunpo was founded in the year A.D. 1445 by Ge-dun-dup, the nephew
of Tsong Kapa, who in the year 1439 was installed as Grand Lama of the
Gelugpa sect, though he did not yet bear the title of Dalai Lama. The
present Grand Lama of Lhasa, Ngavang Lobsang Tubden Gyamtso, who has now
held the office for thirty-four years, is the thirteenth in succession.
This number is not to be compared with the long list of Roman Popes. The
first Panchen Rinpoche of Tashi-lunpo was named Panchen Lobsang Chöki
Gyaltsan, and held the dignity of pope from 1569 to 1662, or
ninety-three years--certainly a world record. His mortuary chapel,
Chukang-sher, or the East Tomb, is the one to which we shall first
direct our steps.
Its façade faces the rectangular court where the ceremonies are
performed, its portal stands at a level with the uppermost platform for
spectators, and above the door hang large white awnings beneath a
symbolic decoration--a wheel between two gilded stags. The roof is made
of gilded copper sheeting, and is divided into two sections by a
platform with a parapet (Illustration 124).
The interior of the mausoleum is a cubical room, illuminated only by the
daylight, which enters through the portal and mingles effectively with
the pale gleam of the butter-fed wicks in a row of silver saucers and
brazen bowls. The middle bowl is larger than the others, is like a
caldron, and has a cover with a round hole through which a sacrificial
flame rises from the melting butter. Before this cordon of butter lamps,
on a rather higher super-altar, stand a row of pyramidal figures of
baked paste, painted in front with various colours and representing
different Lamaistic symbols. Behind them is a row of bowls and chalices
of solid gold and silver, donations of wealthy pilgrims. They contain
pure water, meal, barley, rice, and other edible offerings.
The tomb itself, in the interior, is a _chhorten_ in the form of a
pyramid with steps, ledges, and cornices, and may be 20 to 23 feet high.
All the front is decorated with gold and silver in arabesques and other
designs, and is studded with precious stones. At the very top stands a
_gao_, a yard high, somewhat like a sentry-box, with a front of lotus
leaves, and in it sits a statue of the deceased wearing the usual mitre,
with which Tsong Kapa is always represented, and of which we saw so many
specimens during the festival. A number of long silken _kadakhs_ have
been placed in the uplifted hands of the statue, and hang down over the
monument in long festoons and streamers. This is also draped with a
multitude of _tankas_, temple banners which are painted in Lhasa and
Tashi-lunpo, and represent scenes from the life of the founder of the
religion and of the Church fathers. Among and behind them also hang
standards and pennants of coloured cloth narrowing to a point at the
bottom, and all are old, dusty, and dingy (Illustrations 125, 126).
This _chhorten_ with its richly decorated front and its motley
surroundings stands alone in the cubical chapel, and a narrow,
pitch-dark passage runs round it; at the back, by the light of a paper
lantern, the solid foundation of masonry, on which the monument rests,
may be seen. The pilgrims circle round it, the more times the better,
and the orthodox "Gelugpa," members of the "sect of virtue," always walk
in the direction of the hands of a watch, that is, they turn on entering
to the left. The monks, who act as guides, insist that we also shall
conform to this regulation.
Now we cross again the court of ceremonies, and are conducted slowly
through narrow corridors to a somewhat lighter gallery, where we can
look down into a _dukang_, a hall where the high office is performed
five times a day. Red mattresses, much the worse for wear, lie in rows
on the smooth stone floor, on which the monks sit cross-legged during
the mass. In the middle of the shorter side stands a papal throne, with
back and arms, and covered with yellow silk--it is the seat of the Grand
Lama, who on certain occasions teaches and preaches here.
[Illustration: 128. PORTAL OF THE MAUSOLEUM OF THE THIRD TASHI LAMA IN
TASHI-LUNPO.
Sketch by the Author.]
Then we are led to the Yalloa-champa, a holy apartment with a curtain
formed of a network of iron rings, through which we catch a glimpse of
some dark idols and a quantity of Chinese porcelain bowls. Illuminated
by butter lamps and draped with long silken cloths, here stands a figure
of Dolma, one of the two wives of Srong Tsan Ganpo, the first Tibetan
king, both very popular in Tibet, and immortalized in most Lama temples.
It is said of the statue here that it once exchanged words of wisdom
with a monk. In another compartment we find Tsong Kapa's statue veiled
in silken draperies, and also a figure of the second Tashi Lama, the
Panchen Lobsang Yishe.
The library is called Kanjur-lhakang, and here the bible of the Tibetans
in 100 to 108 folios, the Kanjur, is kept, studied, and explained. It
contains a collection of canonical works which were translated from the
Sanscrit originals in the ninth century. The hall is as dark as a
subterranean crypt, its red-painted wooden pillars are hung with
unframed pictures, _tankas_, painted with minute artistic detail, and on
the walls also a host of gods are depicted in colours. At the upper,
shorter side is a row of altars, with images of gods in niches, and
figures of Tashi Lamas and other great priests. Before these, too,
butter lamps are burning, and smooth bright brazen bowls are filled to
the brim with offerings. The illumination is scanty and mystical as
everywhere in Tashi-lunpo; it seems as though the monks needed darkness
to strengthen their faith in the incredible and supernatural literature
that they read and study here (Illustration 127).
Proceeding westwards along the lane which runs in front of the
mausoleums, we look into the monument of the second supreme pontiff and
then into that of the third. They were named Panchen Lobsang Yishe
(1663-1737) and Panchen Lobsang Palden Yishe (1737-1779). The mausoleums
are built after the pattern of the one already described, but between
the entrance pillars of the third hangs a shield bearing the name of the
Emperor Kien Lung in raised characters. Köppen gives in his book some
interesting information about the relations of the great Manchu Emperor
with this Tashi Lama. Kien Lung (1736-1795) sent many letters to the
Grand Lama from the year 1777 inviting him to come to Pekin, but the
latter suspected treachery and made all kinds of excuses. But the
Emperor was so persistent that at length in July of the year 1779 the
prelate had to set out. After a journey of three months he reached the
monastery Kum-bum. Wherever the holy caravan passed crowds of pilgrims
collected to worship the Grand Lama and offer him presents. He passed
the winter at Kum-bum, and made daily several thousand impressions of
his hand on paper, which were well paid for as relics. One rich chief
alone is said to have presented him with 300 horses, 70 mules, 100
camels, 1000 pieces of brocade, and 150,000 shillings in silver.
Escorted by princes, governors, officials, and soldiers, and also by the
chief court lama of the Emperor, Chancha Khutukhtu, he reached, after a
further journey of two months, Kien Lung's summer residence, where he
was received with magnificent pomp and state and brilliant fêtes. The
Son of Heaven was pleased to allow himself to be instructed by the holy
man in the truths of religion. While the Emperor was visiting the tombs
of his ancestors in Mukden, the Tashi Lama made his triumphal entry into
Pekin, where all, from the imperial princes to the mob in the streets,
wished to see him and receive his blessing. Even the imperial favourites
insisted obstinately on seeing His Holiness, on which occasion he sat
dumb and motionless behind a transparent curtain, casting down his eyes
so as not to be polluted by the sight of beautiful women.
[Illustration: 129. The Namgyal-lhakang with the figure of Tsong Kapa,
in Tashi-lunpo.
Water-colour Sketch by the Author.]
But all this worldly glory came to a sudden and deplorable end. The
Tashi Lama fell ill and died, and it was affirmed that the powerful
Emperor had caused him to be poisoned, because he suspected him of a
design to free himself from the supremacy of China with the help of the
Governor-General of India; for it was to this third Tashi Lama that
Warren Hastings had sent Bogle as ambassador six years previously. If
our friend, the present Tashi Lama, had thought of this circumstance he
would perhaps have preferred to omit his visit to India. The Emperor
pretended to be inconsolable, had the body embalmed, and masses said
for three months over the golden sarcophagus, and then the body was
carried on men's shoulders all the way to Tashi-lunpo, the journey
lasting seven months, and was there deposited in the splendid mausoleum
to which we paid a flying visit (Illustration 128).
Our next visit is to the so-called Namgyal-lhakang, the temple of Tsong
Kapa, a large pillared hall with a huge statue of the reformer; before
it and its companion images stand the usual battery of lamps, sacred
vessels, and Lamaistic emblems. The temple watchman, housed in a small
recess in the entrance hall, is a jovial septuagenarian who has lived
sixteen years in Mongolia, and always comes out to inquire after my
health when I pass the temple of Tsong Kapa on my way from or to the
western buildings of Tashi-lunpo (Illustrations 129, 163).
Tsong Kapa's name is as famous and as highly revered in the Lamaistic
Church as that of Buddha himself: I cannot recall to mind that his
statue is absent in one of the many temples I have visited in Tibet. He
was born in Amdo in the year 1355, and of course his birth was attended
by all kinds of supernatural circumstances. At the age of three years he
decided to retire from the world, and therefore his mother cut off his
hair, which became the roots of the famous miraculous tree in Kum-bum
(the temple of the "hundred thousand statues"), on the leaves of which
Father Huc read with his own eyes holy inscriptions. Unfortunately my
own visit to Kum-bum was in the winter of 1896 when the holy tree was
leafless. After a thorough course of study Tsong Kapa formed the
resolution of reforming the dissolute and corrupted Lamaism, and in
several public conferences he silenced, like Luther, all his opponents.
The number of his followers rapidly increased, and in the year 1407 he
founded the monastery Galdan, near Lhasa, becoming its first abbot, and
subsequently the equally large and famous monasteries Brebung and Sera.
Tsong Kapa introduced celibacy among the monks of his sect, which he
called "Gelugpa," the sect of virtue, and whose badge was the yellow
cap; for yellow was the sacred colour of the old Buddhist monks. Among
other precepts he enunciated was the regulation that the virtuous monks
should retreat into solitude at certain times, to give themselves up to
meditation and study, and prepare themselves for disputations. At the
present day the yellow-caps are much more numerous in Tibet than the
red-caps. Tsong Kapa died in the year 1417, and lies buried in Galdan,
where his sarcophagus or _chhorten_ stands in the open air. He is
regarded as an incarnation of Amitabha, and at the same time of Manjusri
and Vajrapani, and he still lives on, therefore, in the person of our
friend the present Tashi Lama, after living in the other five Tashi
Lamas in succession, whose graves we have just visited. No wonder, then,
that he is in exceptionally high repute in Tashi-lunpo.
As we were sitting before the statue, contemplating Tsong Kapa's kind
smiling features under the usual pointed mitre, young lamas appeared
with fruits, sweetmeats, and tea, and with greetings from the Tashi
Lama, who hoped I would not overtire myself. Some monks sat by the wall
in the semi-darkness reading aloud from their holy scriptures, which lay
before them on small stools; they held in the hand a _dorche_, the
symbol of power, and a bell which they rang from time to time
(Illustration 130). When we again went out into the sunshine the Indian
elephant of the Tashi Lama was taking exercise in the lane; he is the
only one of his species in the whole country, and is said to be a
present from a wealthy merchant, who brought him from Siliguri.
The fourth Tashi Lama, Panchen Tenbe Nima (1781-1854) has also a
mausoleum, similar to those of his predecessors. At either side of the
entrance are seen on the walls of the ante-chamber painted portraits,
double life size, of the "four great kings," Namböse, Yukorshung,
Pagyepo, and Chenmigsang, whose duty it is to ward off the demons and
prevent them from disturbing the peace of the temple. They are painted
in staring colours and have a hideous appearance, are armed with sword,
bow, and spear, and surrounded by a confusion of clouds, waves and
tongues of flame, tigers, dragons, and other wild beasts. These four
figures are hardly ever absent from the entrance to a temple in Tibet,
and one of these four guardian kings is represented in relief on each of
the four sides of the five mausoleums.
[Illustration: 130. READING LAMA WITH DORCHE (THUNDERBOLT) AND DRILBU
(PRAYER-BELL).]
[Illustration: 131. LAMA WITH PRAYER DRUM.
Sketches by the Author.]
Our guides told us that this mausoleum was erected the same year in
which the fourth Tashi Lama died. On either side of the chapel proper is
a smaller shrine, to the left the Yamiyang-lhakang, with several images,
and an altar front decorated with gilded sphinxes having red wings on
the back, nape of the neck, and paws. On the right stands the
Galdan-lhakang, with an image of Tsong Kapa projecting from the petals
of a lotus flower, which indicates his heavenly origin.
Lastly, we turn our steps to the chapel in which the fifth Tashi Lama,
Panchen Tenbe Vangchuk (1854-1882) sleeps his last sleep. As this
mausoleum is only about twenty years old, it looks fresher and cleaner
than the others, and is particularly richly and gorgeously decorated
without and within. The front of the _chhorten_ glitters with gold,
turquoise, and coral. A glass candelabrum from India looks out of place
amid the pure Lamaist convent style, as also some common balls of blue
glass and looking-glass--cheap wares, such as are seen in country
gardens and in front of village inns. They hang from a ledge in front of
the sarcophagus receptacle. On the altar stand the usual votive vessels,
many of them strikingly elegant and tasteful. A large bowl on a tall
foot is of gold, and contains a burning wick. On the right, on nails,
hang simple gifts of poor pilgrims--cheap _kadakhs_ like gauze bandages,
bangles, necklaces, amulet cases, rosaries--all of the cheapest kind,
and all presents from pilgrims who, carried away by their enthusiasm,
offered up the insignificant ornaments they happened to be wearing. Here
we see the impression of a child's foot on a tablet of stone in a red
and yellow frame; a full description in raised letters informs us that
it is the print of the foot of the present Grand Lama when he was a
child six months old. To this tomb gifts flow more profusely than to the
others, for there are still many people living who remember the
deceased.
The first four tombs were secured by many solid complicated locks, were
opened to admit us, and were closed again when we left. But the chapel
of the fifth Grand Lama stood open to the public, and a string of
pilgrims passed to and from it. The monks accompanying us wished to
drive them away, but I would not suffer them to be disturbed; it was,
moreover, interesting to observe their worship for a while. Murmuring
"Om mani padme hum," they stand with bent head before the sepulchral
monument, fall on their knees, let their hands slide forward over the
stone floor until they lie full-length, touching the ground with their
foreheads; then they get up and repeat this gymnastic feat again and
again. Afterwards they bow before the idols, lay a handful of rice or
meal in the offerings bowls, and go round the dark passage about the
monument.
In each of these monuments the Grand Lama is interred at the top, in the
pyramid behind his own image. From the street in front of the mausoleums
you ascend some stone steps to a portal which gives access to a paved
forecourt surrounded by a gallery resting on wooden pillars. Within the
pillars the walls are adorned with frescoes representing smiling gods
and dancing goddesses like nymphs and odalisks, historical and legendary
personages, wild animals, allegorical figures, and the circular disc
which betokens the universe with the worlds of the gods, men, and
devils. The walls in the forecourt of the fifth tomb were remarkable for
the fresh bright colours of their bold effective decoration, while those
in the others had suffered from the action of time, and in parts were so
much obliterated that they were almost past restoration. When age has
set its mark equally on the whole painted surface the picture gains in
beauty, for its colours are more subdued and less crude, but the worst
is, that frequently the whole decoration has fallen off. A large bronze
bell hangs in front of each mausoleum.
[Illustration: 132. Entrance to the Tomb of the Fifth Tashi-Lama in
Tashi-lunpo.
Water-colour Sketch by the Author.]
The outer courts are so small that the elegant portals cannot exhibit
their full beauty; they are too near, and they are seen much
foreshortened. From the outer court of the fifth tomb a wooden staircase
leads up to the entrance hall; the staircase consists of three
divisions, and has therefore four banisters, the two in the middle being
closed at the top and bottom by ropes. The middle steps may only be used
by the Tashi Lama himself, while those at either side are free to
Tom, Dick, and Harry, and therefore are much worn--almost hollowed out.
When the visitor reaches the top of the staircase, he has the door of
the mausoleum in front of him, and to the right and left the short sides
of the entrance hall, each with a figure of one of the four spiritual
kings, while the two others are painted on the wall at either side of
the massive door-posts. The entrance hall opens on the forecourt, and
its richly carved lintel and beams are supported by two red polygonal
wooden pillars with carved and painted elongated capitals. Before the
door hangs heavy drapery of a coarse pattern. The very massive heavy
panels of the door are lacquered dark brick-red, shine like metal, and
are ornamented with mountings, shield-shaped plaques, and rings of
yellow brass partly blackened with age. A pair of tassels hang from the
rings of the shields. When the two doors are opened the mysterious gloom
of the sepulchral chamber and the flickering lamps are exposed to view
(Illustrations 132, 133).
Our first inspection of Tashi-lunpo was now ended, and, satiated with
strange impressions, we betook ourselves in the twilight to our tents in
Kung Gushuk's garden. Darkness fell sooner than usual, for a storm was
gathering in the west, and it came down on us before we reached our
camp.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] I would especially recommend the following works to those who
desire to make a thorough study of Lamaism: Köppen's _Die
Lamaistische Hierarchie und Kirche_; Waddell's _The Buddhism of
Tibet_; and Grünwedel's _Mythologie des Buddhismus in Tibet und in
der Mongolei_. I have borrowed much of the historical and ritualistic
information in the following pages from these works.
CHAPTER XXVII
POPULAR AMUSEMENTS OF THE TIBETANS
The credulous people at whose expense the monks live in laziness--and
live well--are not satisfied with religious spectacles alone, which
minister only to their spiritual needs; they must also be amused with
profane exhibitions, which are more congenial to their lower instincts,
and are more adapted to stimulate the senses. On February 15 an
exhibition of this kind was to take place on the plain outside the town
of Shigatse, and I and my people were invited. We mounted our horses in
good time and rode northwards through the small town, which has not more
than 300 houses--towns in Tibet are few and insignificant. The houses
are white, with a black or red band at the top; with few exceptions they
are only one storey high; the roof is almost always flat and guarded by
a parapet; the windows and doors are in the same style as those of the
monastery. From the street you enter into a yard where generally a large
savage dog is chained. The roofs are adorned with a forest of bundles of
twigs and rods hung with prayer streamers in all the colours of the
rainbow; their object is to drive away devils. Between the irregular
lines of houses run narrow lanes and roads, where black swine wallow
among the discarded refuse, dead dogs lie about, and stinking puddles
stagnate; and we also pass open squares, sometimes with ponds.
[Illustration: 133. STAIRCASE TO THE MAUSOLEUM OF THE FIFTH TASHI LAMA
IN TASHI-LUNPO.
Sketch by the Author.]
There is something uniformly dull about the whole town, in vivid,
humiliating contrast to the dzong (Illustration 134), the castle proudly
enthroned on its rock, and the golden temple roofs of Tashi-lunpo at the
foot of the mountain. The ground is yellow dust, and here and there
we pass abrupt terraces of löss; dust whirled up by the wind lies on all
the houses and roads.
A black, continuous procession of pleasure-seekers streams out to the
great plain on the north-east of the dzong; the farther we go the
thicker it grows; most are on foot--men with prayer mills and tobacco
pipes, women with round red aureoles at the neck and crying children in
their arms, boys, beggars, monks, and all the pilgrims from neighbouring
countries. Here and there rides a fine gentleman with one or more
attendants, while hawkers transport dried fruit and sweetmeats on mules
to sell among the people.
Arrived at the show-ground, we leave our horses in charge of Rabsang,
and watch with keen interest the curious festive scene presented to our
sight. It is a sea of human beings, thousands and thousands of Tibetans
and travelling strangers in varied costumes, any one of whom is a
subject worthy of an artist's brush. Before us, to the east, we have the
gardens of the villages at the foot of the mountains in the Nyang-chu
valley, and behind us stretches a whole town of blue-and-white tents
with spectators of more or less importance, and in the best position
stands a blue-and-white tent open towards the show-ground--there sit,
cross-legged, on soft rugs, the officials of the dzong in yellow
raiment, solemn as statues of Buddha, and take refreshments now and
again. All these tents rise like islands above the sea of heads.
Right through the crowd from north to south runs a race-course, only 6
or 7 feet broad, and flanked on both sides by ridges of earth a foot
high. The ground slopes down from the canvas town to the course, and the
spectators collected here, ourselves among the number, have seated
themselves in groups; but on the east side, where the ground is level,
they remain standing. And here the crowd is separated into three
divisions by two broad clear lanes. At the end, close to the
race-course, two targets are erected, consisting of round discs
suspended from poles with a white and a black ring, and a red spot in
the middle. The lanes are kept clear lest any one should be hurt during
the shooting. Policemen in red-and-white coats with yellow hats, and
pigtails both in front and behind, keep the people in order; the pigtail
swings backwards and forwards, while a rope's end is in constant use to
drive too inquisitive spectators off the course. Two of these policemen
are attached to me, to keep me a clear view, but they cause me more
annoyance than satisfaction, for I have constantly to restrain them when
they would strike half-naked youngsters who are not at all in the way.
Now the show commences! All eyes are turned to a troop of seventy
cavaliers in extraordinary motley costumes, who ride slowly in single
file northwards along the race-course, so slowly that there is plenty of
time to examine the various dresses. All wear red flat mushroom-hats
with waving, drooping plumes, white thin vests with a waistcoat over
them, and white trousers with patches on the knees. But in some details
there is a great variety. One rider, for instance, is dressed in a white
silk waistcoat bound with black, over a yellow silken jacket with wide
rucked sleeves; while another wears a bright blue jacket on a yellow
vest, and has also blue knee-caps on his yellow pantaloons. In general
the knee patches are red. The quiver, covered with red material, hangs
from a shoulder-belt, and is decorated with shining metal plates,
shields, and buttons, and contains a bundle of long arrows tipped with
single feathers or tufts. The saddle with its clumsy high wooden frame
rests on a saddle-cloth worked in colours. The tail of the horse is
wrapped round with red, yellow, and blue ribands terminating in a
tassel, which is stretched out by a ring of wire so as to be more
effective. A similar rosette also adorns the root of the tail, and from
it ribands and cross strips running along the flanks of the horse are
attached to the saddle, and flutter in the wind. Between the ears the
horse carries a towering plume of peacock's feathers stuck in a bunch of
down; on the forehead is a bundle of strips of material of various
lengths and colours; the bridle is thickly studded with plates of metal,
and across the chest is a broad belt with bells, which ring at the
slightest movement.
[Illustration: 134. SHIGATSE-DZONG (THE FORTRESS).
Sketch by the Author.]
The party is therefore decked out fantastically in rich colours, and
now it turns and rides along the course in the reverse direction, but
this time in full career. They ride as fast as the horses can gallop,
fling their legs and elbows up and down, the plumes wave, the quivers
rattle, and all the tassels, streamers, and ribands fly and flutter in
all directions during this wild career. The horses snort, the bridles
are covered with flakes of froth, and each rider leaves a cloud of dust
for the one behind him. This evolution is repeated twice, and then at
the third lap the riders shoot with their long bows at the two targets.
The distance between the two is about 60 yards, and an arrow is aimed at
each target. The first shot is easy, but then the shooter must be very
smart in his movements to catch hold of the quiver, swinging and jumping
on his back, take out the arrow, place it against the string and
discharge it before he is past the second target. Many marksmen hit both
targets, others sent the first arrow into the target, but the second
into the ground. Sometimes the arrow glanced against the wooden frame of
the target, while some of the riders got over the difficulty by turning
round and discharging the arrows backwards, to the great danger of the
spectators (Illustrations 137, 138).
The horses are small and active, some of them half-wild and fiery; they
have long hair, are badly groomed and shaggy. During the shooting their
legs are at full stretch, and the reins hang loose on their necks.
At the fourth career the riders shot with loose powder, and at the fifth
with the gun at the first target, and with the bow at the second. They
use long, heavy, clumsy muskets, and have not even taken off the
inconvenient crutch. A ball of crushed-up paper is inserted in the mouth
of the barrel, which is scattered around when the shot is fired--to make
a show. The start is made at a considerable distance, and the rider is
at full gallop when he comes up to the first target. He holds the gun in
the left hand, raises it slowly and gracefully to the right shoulder,
grasps the butt with his right hand, holds the muzzle in front of him in
the direction of the course, and at the moment he is flying past the
target turns the barrel towards it and fires, the match having been
lighted at starting. Many produced a red cloud from the target, all a
white, of paper, if the gun went off; for it failed when the tinder was
not held at the right moment to the touch-hole. Some marksmen discharged
their guns a little too late, when they were past the target, and then
the spectators most exposed to danger began to rush away in all
directions, for they had good reason to fear that their eyebrows would
be singed. Immediately the shot is fired the gun-sling is quickly thrown
over the shoulder, and now there are two seconds in which to catch hold
of the quiver, take out an arrow, and discharge it at the second target.
The interval was so short that most of the riders missed; when one made
a hit, the crowds gave vent to prolonged applause, and a miss caused
still more delight. It must be very hot and trying work to ride in this
gorgeous costume with gun, bow, and quiver in full sunshine, every now
and then buried in a cloud of dust. Some horses were so restive that
their riders could not shoot, and that caused great amusement to the
people. One of the marksmen loses his hat, and the next horse shies at
it when he is opposite the target, and, leaving the marked course,
springs into the crowd of sightseers. Another handles his gun well and
raises a red cloud from the target, and also hits the second, but in his
hurry has discharged two arrows. One shatters the target and another
breaks his gun, and rides on with only the butt in his raised hand, all
to the great amusement of the people. Attendants collect the arrows,
repair the targets, and fill in the bull's eyes with fresh powder
(Illustration 138).
[Illustration: 135. SHIGATSE, CAPITAL OF THE PROVINCE OF CHANG, 11,880
FEET.]
This is a Tibetan popular diversion, fresh, rich in colouring, and
picturesque. The spectators have evidently their favourites among the
competitors, as may be gathered from the increased buzz of voices when
certain cavaliers draw near. Others are not expected to win laurels, for
they are received with bursts of laughter. The people are all eyes and
ears as they stand or sit for hours together, eating nuts and sweet
stuff. In the crowd we see many old acquaintances from the monastery,
and also lamas from Ladak, who are studying in the theological
seminaries of Tashi-lunpo; merchants from Nepal and Bhotan, Mongolian
pilgrims in fur caps with large ear-flaps of fox-skin, and about a
score of merchants from Ladak and Kashmir, in tall white turbans and
black kaftans with waist-belts. The Chinese, who play the same part in
Tibet as the English in India, sit in small groups, smoking their pipes;
they seem to take no interest in the prize-shooting. They wear blue
dresses, black vests, and black skull-caps with a coral button on the
top.
Two horses, which probably had never before taken part in such sports,
took fright, rushed among the crowd on our side, knocking down some and
jumping over others, and were caught at length when they had fallen down
entangled in human bodies and clothing. Last of all, a ragged fellow
jolted along the course on a wretched brute, causing great merriment.
This was the signal that the sports were ended, and now the riders
dismounted and passed in a long procession before the dzong tent, where
each bowed his head before the "Chairman of the Town Council," and a
_kadakh_ was laid over his neck. This inexpensive mark of favour was
also bestowed on them by their friends and acquaintances, and some
favourites went about with as many as sixty white neck-cloths. I treated
the whole party to tea, and gave them a present of money for the
amusement they had afforded myself and my retinue. When we at last rode
into Shigatse, we were escorted by quite a host of black Tibetans.
On February 21 Ma Daloi invited me to witness some performances in the
inner court of his _yamen_ in commemoration of the Chinese New Year. The
performers were to be soldiers of the garrison, but the spectacle was
put on the stage by the four Chinese temples in Shigatse. It was late at
night and pitch dark, and the whole effect depended on the illumination.
Two chairs with a table between them were placed in the verandah, and
while Ma regaled me with genuine Chinese tea, cakes, and cigarettes,
twenty men entered, each carrying two large lanterns of white material
in the form of a clover leaf, and painted with flowers and dragons. In
the centre a wick is so fixed, that the lanterns do not catch fire when
they are swung round. The men dance, and swing their lanterns in an
advancing line of uniform undulations; they then place themselves so
that the lanterns form various patterns, constantly changing; they
whirl themselves round with lightning speed, and the bright lanterns
resemble great fireballs hovering about in the darkness. All the time
squibs and crackers are thrown about, and fizz and explode among the
legs of the spectators, for the court is full of Tibetans who come in
quite at their ease. Lastly, the lanterns are left standing and a
gigantic bird with a long movable tail and a long curved neck stalks
solemnly across the court. The next item is performed by Nepalese. Each
of them carries two lanterns like beehives; the top of the one in front
consists of a horse's head, with a full flowing mane of paper, and at
the point of the hinder hangs a paper tail. Therefore they seem to be
riding on horses illuminated from within, as they execute a very lively
dance round the court. They sing all the while a melancholy song in slow
time. And now a green and yellow dragon comes writhing on to the scene.
His head is of wood and paper, and is borne by a man from whose back a
painted cloth, the body of the dragon, hangs down and envelops a second
crouching man. The dragon dances, twists itself about, opens its jaws,
and makes as though it would swallow all present. During the play, weird
noisy music drones from drums, cymbals, and flutes, which produce notes
like those of a bagpipe. These buffoons present themselves in the courts
of all people of rank during the New Year season, to make a little
money. They threatened us one evening, but I begged them to come in the
daytime, that I might immortalize them on a photographic plate
(Illustration 136).
[Illustration: 136. CHINESE NEW YEAR FESTIVAL IN MY GARDEN.]
[Illustration: 137. SOME OF THE MEMBERS IN THE SHOOTING COMPETITION AT
THE NEW YEAR FESTIVAL.]
CHAPTER XXVIII
MONKS AND PILGRIMS
During the period of forty-seven days which the force of circumstances
compelled me to spend in Shigatse, I had an opportunity of making
numerous visits to the monastery, of drawing and photographing
interesting details, of making myself familiar with the daily life and
habits of the monks, being present at their studies and recitations, and
ever increasing my knowledge of the hierarchical metropolis. I used to
ride up to Tashi-lunpo with one or two attendants, and pass the whole
day in its dark sepulchral chapels and temples. At twilight some of my
men came for me with horses. I will recall a few of the impressions I
received on these visits, before we start again on our travels.
On February 14 I sat on the uppermost of the western galleries and drew
a sketch of the façade of the eastern tomb (Illustration 124), but the
pilgrims who were assembling this day for a religious spectacle proved
so inquisitive that I had to stop my work and postpone it till a more
favourable occasion. I then ascended to a roof platform in front of the
Labrang, protected with a balustrade, and posted sentinels at the foot
of the steps to prevent the people from following me. Up there the eye
falls on a number of cylindrical frames, a couple of yards high, some
covered with black and white materials, others enveloped in folded
draperies of different colours and length, very like petticoats
(Illustration 109). Between them gilded tridents, flagstaffs, and other
holy symbols protrude, which protect the temples from demons. While I
was sketching a view of the façades of the middle three mausoleums, the
head steward of Tashi-lunpo appeared, who supervises the provisioning,
cleaning and lighting, etc., caused rugs and cushions to be laid down,
and set out the usual refreshments. He is an old lama who has already
served thirty years in Tashi-lunpo, after preparatory studies in the
monastery Tösang-ling.
From our point of view we can see several smaller gilded copper roofs in
Chinese style, standing in front of the façades of the mausoleums and
rising directly from flat roofs without any intervening course. Under
each roof is ensconced an idol of importance in a temple hall.
We moved about on the roof and enjoyed the wonderful view over the
cloister town and its forest of roof ornaments, and came to a place
where groups of clerical tailors were sewing together pieces of coloured
materials with a zeal and despatch as if their lives depended on it. Had
it not been for the religious environment and the waving emblems, one
might have thought that they were busy with dresses for a ballet or
masquerade. Oh, no, the idols were to have new silken dresses, and were
to be hung round with new draperies and standards in honour of the
twenty-fifth anniversary of the birth of the Tashi Lama. The clerical
knights of the needle sat in the full sunshine, sewed, chattered
together, and seemed quite happy. They boldly asked me for money to buy
tea, and I gave them a handful of rupees.
Below the place where we had first seen the Tashi Lama at the
performance, lies an open gallery, a colonnade looking on the court; the
pillars are of wood, and are wound round with red stuff at the top and
white below. This gallery is very picturesque, especially the part where
the statues of the four spirit kings are placed. The pillars stand out
dark against the light background of the open court, and among them move
figures which are far from marring the picture, namely, monks in red
garments and pilgrims in motley attire (Illustration 142).
[Illustration: 138. POPULAR DIVERSION IN SHIGATSE.]
Now, too, a religious ceremony was being held in the court. A kind of
throne was erected on the northern, shorter, side, and on both sides of
it sat monks in yellow kaftans. Two lamas, also clothed in yellow,
advanced bare-headed to the throne and remained there motionless with
their bodies bent. Then three lamas in red togas and yellow skull-caps
walked slowly over the quadrangle with shrill cries and singular
gestures, took off their caps and put them on again with mystical
movements. This ceremony was continued so long that we followed the
example of most of the pilgrims and left the clergy to their own
devices.
Next day another ceremony took place, of which, unfortunately, I could
obtain no trustworthy explanation. The Tashi Lama took his seat on the
throne of yellow silk, on the short side of the court, in full
pontificals, and two monks in red dresses came before him in tall red
helmet-shaped head-coverings. After His Holiness had greeted them, one
advanced to the eleven steps of the stone staircase and stationed
himself on the lowest, whereupon a very curious conversation began. The
lama on the step calls out something, probably a quotation from the holy
scriptures, or, perhaps, puts a question, claps his hands so that the
court rings with the sound, and makes a movement with the right hand as
though he were throwing something straight at the head of the other
monk. This one replies in the same loud tone and also claps his hands.
Occasionally the Tashi Lama puts in a word himself. Lobsang Tsering, who
is with me, says that this ceremony is a kind of disputation, and that
the two disputing monks will attain a higher degree in the scale of the
priesthood if they pass the examination satisfactorily.
Below, to our left, six monks in yellow garments sit on a carpet.
Between the pillars the gallery is packed with lamas of lower rank in
red dresses, and before them sit superior monks in red kaftans richly
worked in gold. Beside the Tashi Lama, on his right, is the seat of
Lobsang Tsundo Gyamtso. The dark-red and straw-yellow robes are very
effective against the dirty-grey colour of the court.
Now a number of serving brothers come on the scene and set long rows of
small tables on the open space in front of the Tashi Lama, which are
immediately covered with bowls of dried fruits, confectionery, and
mandarin oranges. And now begins a feast in honour of the graduation.
When the tables and bowls are emptied, they are removed as quickly as
they were brought, and then comes a solemn procession of monks with
tea-pots, and a kind of tea ceremony begins, less complicated but quite
as imposing as in Japan. Two priests of high rank place themselves in
front of the Tashi Lama and remain there, bending a little forwards, and
quite as motionless as the priests praying at the altar in our own
churches. It is their duty to serve tea to His Holiness. The first monk
in the procession bears a pot of solid gold, which one of the monks
before the throne takes from him to fill the cup of the Tashi Lama. The
other monks in the procession carry silver pots, each of which is valued
at £45, and from these tea is poured out for all the other monks who are
not re-incarnations. Every monk carries his own wooden cup in the folds
of his toga, and holds it out when the monk who pours out the tea comes
round with his pot (Illust. 143).
All through the ceremony the two candidates continue to dispute and clap
their hands without intermission. After sitting cross-legged for three
hours, as motionless as a statue of Buddha, His Holiness leaves the
throne, and, supported by two monks, slowly descends the staircase, on
which a narrow strip of coloured carpet is laid; for the Tashi Lama may
not touch the unclean earth with his holy feet. Behind him walks a monk,
holding above his head a huge sunshade of yellow silk with hanging
fringes. One can hardly help feeling that the little man in papal robes
and the yellow mitre, who disappears in the darkness among the pillars
of the gallery, while the deepest silence prevails, is really a saint,
and one of the most powerful in the world. He is now going up to his
apartments in the Labrang, where he can pass his time in peace till some
new ceremony calls him forth to discharge his ecclesiastical duties
(Illust. 145).
A gloom seemed to fall over the whole quadrangle after he had withdrawn.
The monks, who had but just been so quiet, began to talk and laugh, the
younger ones played and wrestled together, and dirty bare-armed novices
drove away with sticks two mangy dogs which had found their way into the
holy place.
[Illustration: 139. NEPALESE PERFORMING SYMBOLICAL DANCES AT THE NEW
YEAR FESTIVAL.]
It was, however, not only the absence of the Tashi Lama that relieved
the gloom of the quadrangle: clouds of yellow dust were being swept by a
westerly storm over Tashi-lunpo. All the streamers, window curtains and
awnings, and the long white flags, began to flutter and clap, and the
strokes of the thousand temple bells were blended into one clang, which
filled the air and seemed to rise like a hymn to the dwellings of the
gods; for at all corners, projections, and cornices are hung brazen
bells with clappers attached to a spring, so that a very slight breeze
is sufficient to produce a sound. It is very pleasant to listen to this
great carillon played by the wind as one wanders through the maze of
Tashi-lunpo.
A lama from Ladak, who had been studying for five years in Tashi-lunpo,
informed me that there are four different grades of learned priests. If
there are several sons in one family, one must always be devoted to the
monastic life. In order to be received into a monastery he must first
take the oath, binding him to live in chastity and abstinence, not to
drink, to steal, to kill, etc. He is then admitted as a novice into the
fraternity of the yellow monks. After preliminary studies he attains to
the first order in the priesthood, which is called the _Getsul_, and it
is his duty to study certain holy writings and listen to the instruction
imparted by a Kanpo-Lama. He is also bound to perform certain services,
present tea to the superior monks, carry wood and water, see after the
cleaning of the temples, fill the votive bowls, snuff the butter lamps,
etc. The next order, the _Gelong_, has three subdivisions: _Ringding_,
_Rikchen_, and _Kachen_, of which the last qualifies a member to act as
teacher. Then comes the rank of _Kanpo-Lama_, or abbot, and lastly the
_Yungchen_, who stands next to the Panchen Rinpoche.
The Getsul-Lama has to pay a fee of 20 rupees in order to be promoted to
the rank of a Ringding-Lama; it is only a question of money, and the
rank may be conferred on a monk a month after he enters the convent, but
may be postponed for years if he is penniless. A Ringding-Lama must
study a great number of scriptures and pay 50 or 60 rupees before he can
become a Rikchen-Lama, and other 300 to become a Kachen. According to
another informant the Ringding and the Rikchen are attached to the
Getsul order, and only the Kachen belongs to the Gelong order. In these
orders, however, it is easier to collect the necessary fees, for the
monk has now an opportunity of exercising his sacerdotal office among
the people. No payment is demanded on promotion to the rank of
Kanpo-Lama, but this appointment is in the hands of the Tashi Lama; it
is comparatively seldom conferred, and great learning is a necessary
condition. On his appointment the lama receives a certificate bearing
the seal of the Tashi Lama. A thorough knowledge of the holy books is
required for the rank of Yungchen, and a conclave of high priests
present recommendations for the conferment of the dignity.
At the present time there are 3800 monks in Tashi-lunpo, but during
festivals the number rises to 5000, for then many come in from the
neighbouring convents. Of the 3800 there are, it is said, 2600 of the
Getsul and 1200 of the Gelong order. The Gelong Lamas are not obliged to
meddle with worldly matters, but have only to superintend the temple
services and take part in the rites. There are four only of the Kanpo
order now in Tashi-lunpo and two of the Yungchen: one from the Chang
province, and the other from Kanum in Beshar, the convent where the
Hungarian Alexander Csoma Körösi lived as a monk eighty years ago in
order to study the records of Lamaism. This Yungchen-Lama, who is named
Lotsaba, is abbot of the monastery Kanum and of three others near the
Sutlej. He came as a nine-year-old boy to Tashi-lunpo, and has lived
here twenty-nine years. He longs to return to his home, but the Tashi
Lama will not let him go thither until the Dalai Lama has returned to
Lhasa.
Of the 3800 monks, 400 in all come from Ladak and other lands in the
western Himalayas; a few are Mongolians and the rest Tibetans; 240 monks
provide the church music, and dancing is performed by 60. They dance
only twice a year. In the intervals their valuable costumes are
deposited in sealed chests in a store-room called Ngakang. As they are
little worn they last for centuries.
[Illustration: 140. DANCING NEPALESE AT THE NEW YEAR FESTIVAL,
TASHI-LUNPO.]
The disputation just described is connected with promotion to the Kachen
order, the graduation taking place only during the New Year festival,
when eighteen lamas are annually promoted from the rank of Getsul to
that of Gelong. The ceremony lasts three days: on the first day two
graduate in the morning and two in the afternoon; on the second day six,
and on the third day eight.
On February 16 I again rode up to the monastery to sketch gateways and
photograph the Tashi Lama, who had sent me word in the morning that this
day would suit him if I had time to spare. The weather was all that
could be wished, calm and clear. There was a dense crowd on the
uppermost platform, in a broad open space before the eastern mausoleum.
It was particularly interesting to see an interminable procession of
nuns, who had come in from the neighbouring temples to seek the blessing
of the Tashi Lama for the new year. All ages were represented, from
wrinkled old women to quite young girls. They were fearfully ugly and
dirty, and in the whole collection I could find only two who were fairly
good-looking. They had short hair and were dressed like the monks: some
I should have taken for men, if I had not known that they were women.
But, unlike the monks, they wore small yellow caps with turned-up brims,
red on the underside.
Lamas and pilgrims swarmed on the courts, platforms, roofs, and
staircases--all come to receive the sacred blessing; the devout and
patient assembly, here forming queues, made a deep impression on the
spectators. To us they intimated a long wait, and therefore we went to
the tomb of the Grand Lama, and I drew the handsome portal. I had
scarcely finished when Tsaktserkan appeared to inform me that His
Holiness was waiting for me, so we hurried up the staircases, past the
usual groups of monks, who were loitering all about and appeared to have
little to do. On the great quadrangle preparations were being made for
the disputation ceremonies.
This time Muhamed Isa accompanied me, and the Tashi Lama received me in
the same half-open roof chamber as on the former occasion. He was as
charming as ever, and again turned the conversation to distant
countries far remote from this carefully isolated Tibet. This time he
spoke chiefly of Agra, Benares, Peshawar, Afghanistan, and the road from
Herat to the Khyber Pass.
"What lies to the west of Yarkand?" he asked.
"The Pamir and Turkestan."
"And west of that?"
"The Caspian Sea, which is navigated by large steamers."
"And west of the Caspian Sea?"
"The Caucasus."
"And where do you come to when you continue to travel westwards?"
"To the Black Sea, Turkey, Russia, Austria, Germany, France, and then to
England, which lies out in the ocean."
"And what is there to the west of this ocean?"
"America, and beyond another ocean, and then Japan, China, and Tibet
again."
"The world is immensely large," he said thoughtfully, and nodded to me
with a friendly smile.
I asked him to come to Sweden, where I would be his guide. Then he
smiled again: he would like to travel to Sweden and London, but high
sacred duties kept him constantly fettered to the convent walls of
Tashi-lunpo.
After tea and refreshments he walked about his room like an ordinary
man, and asked me to get my camera ready. A yellow carpet was laid in
the sunny part of the room, and a chair was placed on it. He did not,
alas! wear his refined, charming smile when the three plates were
exposed, but had a solemn look--perhaps he was considering whether it
might not be dangerous to allow an unbeliever to take his portrait in
the midst of his own cloister town (Illustration 146). A tall young lama
with a pleasant countenance knew how to take photographs, and took a
couple of portraits of me for the Tashi Lama. He had a dark room, where
we could develop our plates--Lamaist temples are excellently adapted for
dark rooms.
[Illustration: 141. THE KITCHEN IN TASHI-LUNPO.]
[Illustration: 142. COLONNADE IN TASHI-LUNPO.
Sketches by the Author.]
Then we resumed our seats, and the Tashi Lama inquired how I had liked
the show of riders on the preceding day. I answered that I had never
experienced such amusement. He had never attended these worldly
spectacles, for he was always engaged in his religious duties on that
day. Then he made a sign, and some monks brought in a gift of honour for
me: two bundles of cerise-coloured woollen material, woven in Gyangtse;
some pieces of gold-embroidered stuff from China; two copper bowls with
silver edges, and a gilded saucer for a porcelain cup, with a cover to
match. With his own hands he gave me a gilded image clothed in red and
yellow silk, and a large light-yellow _kadakh_. The image he gave me, a
seated Buddha with blue hair, a crown, and a bowl in the hands, from
which a plant sprouts, he called Tsepagmed. This, according to
Grünwedel, is the form of the Amitabha Buddha, called Amitayus, or "he
who has an immeasurably long life." It is significant that the Tashi
Lama selected this particular image to give me, for he is himself an
incarnation of Amitabha, and he is almighty. The figure of the Tsepagmed
was therefore intended as a pledge that a long life was before me. This
I did not understand at the time; it was only when I looked through
Professor Grünwedel's _Mythologie_ that I grasped the significance of
the present.
This time the audience lasted two and a half hours, and it was the last
time I saw the Tashi Lama face to face; for afterwards all sorts of
political complications arose which might have been dangerous to
him--not to me--and I considered myself bound not to expose him to any
annoyance through my visits, which might excite the suspicion of the
Chinese. But it grieved me to stay near him for weeks, knowing that he
saw every day my tent from his small cloister window, and yet not be
able to visit and converse with him; for he was one of those rare,
refined, and noble personalities who make other people feel that their
lives are fuller and more precious. Yes, the memory of the Tashi Lama
will cleave to me as long as I live. His friendship is sincere, his
shield is spotless and bright, he seeks for the truth honestly and
humbly, and knows that by a virtuous and conscientious life he renders
himself a worthy temple for the soul of the mighty Amitabha.
The Tashi Lama was six years old when destiny called him to be the Pope
of Tashi-lunpo, a dignity he has held nineteen years. He is said to have
been born in Tagbo, in the Gongbo country. He, like the Pope, is a
prisoner in the Tibetan Vatican in spite of his great religious
influence, and leads a life prescribed by religious regulations, every
day of the year having its particular ecclesiastical functions and
occupations. For instance, on February 20, he must bow the knee before
the graves of all his predecessors, accompanied by all the superior
clergy. When I asked where he himself would be interred when it pleased
Amitabha to be re-incarnated in a new Tashi Lama, I was told that a
sepulchre would be erected for him as handsome as the others, and that a
conclave of the higher priests would select the site. Either the sixth
mausoleum will be erected on the west side of the others in a line with
them, or a new row will be commenced in front of the former.
One day all my Lamaist followers were admitted to the presence of His
Holiness. It was agreed beforehand that they should not pay more as
temple offerings than three rupees per man. Of course I paid for them,
and they afterwards assured me that the sacred blessing would benefit
them during the rest of their lives.
I did not succeed in getting information as to the number of pilgrims
who flock annually to Tashi-lunpo. When I made inquiries on the subject
I was answered with a laugh, and the statement that they were so
numerous it was quite impossible to count them. Pilgrims of rank and
fortune make large contributions; others only a small silver coin, or a
bag of _tsamba_ or rice; and others again come in companies in the train
of some well-to-do chief who pays for them all. If the concourse is too
large, the blessing is imparted by the higher monks through laying on of
hands; when the numbers are smaller, they receive the blessing from the
Tashi Lama himself, not with the hand, but with a staff bound with
yellow silk. He only blesses people of position and monks with his hand.
We saw laymen as well as clergy among the pilgrims. We have already seen
the nuns forming a queue and waiting for the blessing. Four hundred nuns
had come in from the neighbouring convents. During their stay they
receive free lodging in the Chini-chikang, a building in Tashi-lunpo,
free board, and a small present of money at their departure. They do not
appear every year, but this year they arrived on the second day of the
festival and departed on February 18.
We also saw novices from other monasteries, who are regaled with tea at
stated times; but they must be content to sit on the ground in front of
the kitchen, where they fill the narrow lane, so that it is difficult to
get past.
There are also wandering lamas among the pilgrims. One day I made a
sketch of one who had roamed far and wide. He wore a rosary round his
neck, a necklace of shells, and a _gao_ with an idol, which had been
given him by the Tashi Lama. Not long before he had performed a
prostration pilgrimage round all the monasteries of Lhasa, and had just
completed this feat, so acceptable to the gods, round Tashi-lunpo. He
moves in the direction of the hands of a watch, and measures the
distance round the monastery with the length of his body. He folds his
hands over his forehead, sinks on his knees, lays himself full length on
the ground, stretches both arms forward, scratches a mark in the soil,
stands up, steps up to the mark and falls again on his knees, and
repeats this process till he has gone all round the monastery. Such a
circuit of Tashi-lunpo demands a whole day, but if he also goes into the
lanes and round all the mausoleums and temples, this religious gymnastic
feat requires three days. We saw daily whole rows both of clerical and
lay pilgrims encompassing Tashi-lunpo and all its gods in this fashion.
I asked several of them how many times they prostrated themselves on the
ground during a circuit, but they did not know; for, they said, "We pray
all the time, Om mani padme hum; there are twenty manis to each
prostration, and we cannot therefore count the prostrations as well."
Many of them encircle the wall several times.
This wandering lama was one of a brotherhood of nine monks, who often
visited us in our garden, sat down in front of the tents, turned their
prayer mills, and sang. They had free lodging in a building in
Tashi-lunpo, called Hamdung. Another member was the seventeen-year-old
Tensin from Amdo, who had taken four months to travel thence to
Tashi-lunpo. They had come for the festival, and intended to return home
through Lhasa and Nakchu (Illustration 216).
The contributions of the pilgrims are one of Tashi-lunpo's chief sources
of revenue. But the monastery also possesses extensive estates and
herds, and certain monks, who superintend the agricultural affairs and
have the disposal of the produce, also carry on trade with the
neighbourhood and with Nepal. The produce of the whole of Chang is
devoted to the use of Tashi-lunpo, which is therefore wealthy. Each of
the 3800 monks, irrespective of rank, receives 15 rupees annually, and,
of course, lives gratis in the convent.
Another large source of income is the sale of amulets, talismans and
relics, idols of metal or terra cotta, sacred paintings (_tankas_),
joss-sticks, etc. The priests also get very good prices for small,
insignificant, almost worthless clay idols, and paper strips with
symbolical figures, which the pilgrims carry round the neck as
talismans, when these things have been duly blessed by the Tashi Lama.
[Illustration: 143. LAMAS DRINKING TEA IN THE COURT OF CEREMONIES IN
TASHI-LUNPO.
Sketch by the Author.]
On February 21 I spent nearly the whole day in parts of the monastery I
had not previously seen. We wandered through narrow winding corridors,
and lanes in deep shadow, between tall white-washed stone houses, in
which the monks have their cells. One of the houses was inhabited by
student monks from the environs of Leh, Spittok, and Tikze, and we went
into the small dark cubicles, hardly larger than my tent. Along one of
the longer sides stood the bed, a red-covered mattress, a pillow, and a
frieze blanket. The other furniture consisted of some boxes of books,
clothing, and religious articles. Holy writings lay opened. A couple of
bags contained _tsamba_ and salt, a small altar with idols, votive
vessels, and burning butter lamps, and that is all. Here it is dark,
cool, damp, and musty--anything but agreeable; very like a prison. But
here the man who has consecrated his life to the Church, and stands on a
higher level than other men, spends his days. Monks of lower rank live
two or three in one cell. Gelongs have cells to themselves, and the
chief prelates have much more elegant and spacious apartments.
Each monk receives daily three bowls of _tsamba_, and takes his meals in
his own cell, where tea also is brought to him three times a day. But
tea is also handed round during the services in the temple halls, in the
lecture-rooms, and in the great quadrangle. No religious rite seems to
be too holy to be interrupted at a convenient time by a cup of tea.
One day from the red colonnade (Kabung) I looked down on the court full
of lamas, who were sitting in small groups, leaving only narrow passages
free, along which novices passed to and fro with hot silver and copper
pots, and offered the soup-like beverage stirred up with butter. It had
all the appearance of a social "Five o'clock tea" after some service.
But the meeting had a certain touch of religion, for occasionally a
solemn, monotonous hymn was sung, which sounded wonderfully beautiful
and affecting as it reverberated through the enclosed court. On March 4
the quadrangle and other places within the walls of Tashi-lunpo swarmed
with women--it was the last day on which the precincts of the monastery
were open to them; they would not be admitted again till the next Losar
festival (Illustration 150).
The young monk who, when accompanying the Tashi Lama in India, had had
an opportunity of learning about photography, had his dark room beside
his large elegant cell. I, too, was able to develop my plates there. He
asked me to come frequently and give him instructions. He had solid
tables, comfortable divans, and heavy handsome hangings in his room,
which was lighted with oil lamps at night. There we sat and talked for
hours. All of a sudden he took it into his head to learn English. We
began with the numerals, which he wrote down in Tibetan characters;
after he had learned these by heart he asked for other of the more
common words. However, he certainly made no striking progress during the
few lessons I gave him.
Care is necessary in walking through the streets of the cloister town,
for the flags, which have been trod by thousands of monks for hundreds
of years, are worn smooth and are treacherous. Usually there is a good
deal of traffic, especially on feast days. Monks come and go, stand
talking in groups at the street-corners and in the doorways, pass to and
from the services, or are on their way to visit their brethren in their
cells; others carry newly-made banners and curtains from the tailor's
shop into the mystical twilight of the gods; while others bear
water-cans to fill the bowls on the altars, or sacks of meal and rice
for the same purpose. Small trains of mules come to fill the warehouse
of the convent, where a brisk business is going on, for a family of 3800
has to be provided for. And then, again, there are pilgrims, who loiter
about here only to look in on the gods, swing their prayer mills, and
murmur their endless "Om mani padme hum." Here and there along the walls
beggars are sitting, holding out their wooden bowls for the passer-by to
place something in, if it is only a pinch of _tsamba_. The same
emaciated, ragged beggars are to be found daily at the same
street-corners, where they implore the pity of the passengers in the
same whining, beseeching tone. In the narrow lanes, where large prayer
mills are built in rows into the wall, and are turned by the passers-by,
many poor people are seated, a living reproof of the folly of believing
that the turning of a prayer mill alone is a sufficiently meritorious
action on the way to the realms of the blessed. In one particularly
small room stand two colossal cylindrical prayer mills before which a
crowd is always collected--monks, pilgrims, merchants, workmen, tramps
and beggars. Such a praying machine contains miles of thin paper strips
with prayers printed on them, and wound round and round the axis of the
cylinder. There is a handle attached, by which the axle can be turned. A
single revolution, and millions of prayers ascend together to the ears
of the gods.
CHAPTER XXIX
WALKS IN TASHI-LUNPO--THE DISPOSAL OF THE DEAD
Immediately below the red colonnade stands the Sokchin-rungkang-chimbo,
the kitchen, with its walled-up stove of colossal dimensions and six
huge caldrons embedded in masonry. The first supplies all the 3800 monks
with tea at one boiling. On the part of the caldron which rises above
the masonry are inscriptions and cast ornaments (Illustration 141). Each
caldron has a wooden cover which is put on when the caldron is not in
use. Tea was being prepared in two of these gigantic pots; probably
allowance was made for any chance guests. Glowing, blazing fireplaces
yawn below the caldrons, and faggots of branches and sticks are thrust
in with long iron forks. There is an opening in the roof for the smoke,
which rises up in grey rings and produces a picturesque illumination in
the holy kitchen. A continuous succession of young lamas and workmen
ascend the steps leading up from the street, carrying on their backs
water-tubs of different capacity according to the strength of the
bearer; for there are quite small boys among them, who have recently
been consigned by their relations to the care of the monks. One after
another tips his tub over the edge of the caldron, while the stoker
thrusts fresh faggots of wood into the stove. Other serving brothers
bring in a quantity of cubes of brick tea which they throw into the
boiling water, whence clouds of steam ascend and mingle with the smoke.
At the side of the caldron stand two cooks, who stir with huge staves
larger than oars, and disappear in the rising steam, becoming visible
again, like shadow figures lighted from above, when a slight draught
from the door clears the air. They sing a slow rhythmical song over
their work.
When the tea is ready, it is poured into large bright copper pots with
shining yellow brass mountings, handles, and all kinds of ornamentation.
Novices carry the vessels on their shoulders to all the various halls
and cells. A loud signal is given on a sea-shell from a temple roof that
the monks may not miss their tea, but may be on the look-out. I
frequently looked into the kitchen, the scene was so picturesque, and
the cooks were ready for a joke and were not averse to being sketched
(Illustration 148).
Two large and several small _chhortens_ are erected on an open square in
front of the mausoleums, of exactly the same design as those so
frequently seen in Ladak. There are also stone niches filled with idols
and other objects. A crowd of people was collected on the terrace when I
was sketching, and it was not easy to get a clear view. It was a
striking picture, with all the red and many-coloured garments against
the background of the white-washed walls of the memorial towers
(Illustration 151).
[Illustration: 144. PART OF SHIGATSE.]
[Illustration: 145. THE TASHI LAMA RETURNING TO THE LABRANG AFTER A
CEREMONY.]
One day when I had sat a long time talking in the cell of the
photographing lama, it was dark when I went home. We passed, as we often
had before, the entrance gate to the forecourt of the Namgyal-lhakang,
the temple in which the Tashi Lama had once provided us with
refreshments. There the evening service was in full swing, and of course
we entered to look on. The illumination was more dimly religious than
usual, but we could at any rate make out our surroundings after coming
straight out of the outer darkness. The monks sat on long red divans,
and their black profiles were thrown up by the row of forty flames
burning in bowls before the altar. The gilded lotus blossoms of the
pedestal were brightly lighted, and the yellow silken scarves in the
hands of Tsong Kapa's statue and the garlands draped over the images
stood out conspicuously. But the upper parts of the figures under the
roof were plunged in darkness, and Tsong Kapa's countenance, with plump
rosy cheeks and broad nose, was so curiously lighted up from below that
his smile was not perceptible. The four coloured pillars in the middle
of the hall appeared black against the altar lamps. The monks wore
yellow robes, sat bare-headed, and chanted their melancholy litanies,
now and then interrupted by ringing of bells and the roll of drums. At
first the leather head of the drumstick falls slowly and regularly on
the tight skin, then the beats become more and more frequent, and at
last the drum becomes silent in an instant. A monk recites "Om mani
padme hum" in rising and falling tones with the rapidity of an expert,
and the others join in, making some kind of responses. The recitation
passes into a continuous hum, in which often only the words "Om mani"
are heard aloud, and the word "Lama" uttered more slowly. The whole
ritual has a singularly soporific effect; only Tsong Kapa listens
attentively, sitting dreamily with wide staring eyes, and ears hanging
down to the shoulders. Here, too, the indispensable tea is handed round;
a monk with an oil lamp attends the server that he may be able to see
the cups. The monks were now quite accustomed to my visits and took no
particular notice of me, but they always greeted me politely and asked
what I had been sketching during the day.
A lama gave me information about a remarkable custom. Certain monks
consent of their own free will to be walled up in dark grottoes or caves
for the space of three, six, or at most twelve years. Near a small
monastery, Shalu-gompa, a day's journey from Tashi-lunpo, there is a
monk who has already spent five years in his grotto, and is to remain
there seven more. In the wall of the grotto is an opening a span in
diameter. When the twelve years are over, and the hermit may return to
the light of day, he crawls out through this opening. I insinuated that
this was a physical impossibility, but the lama replied that the miracle
does take place, and, besides, the enclosed monk has become so emaciated
in the twelve years that he can easily slip through the opening. One of
the monks of the monastery goes daily to the grotto with tea, water, and
_tsamba_, and pushes these provisions through the opening, but he may
not speak to the prisoner or the charm would be broken. Only sufficient
light penetrates through the opening to allow the anchorite to
distinguish between day and night. To read the holy scriptures, which
he has taken with him into the cave, he must use an oil lamp, and a
fresh supply of oil is placed from time to time in the opening. He says
his prayers all day long, and divides the night into three watches, of
which two are spent in sleep and one in reading. During the twelve years
he may not once leave his grotto, never look at the sun, and never
kindle a fire. His clothing is not the usual monk's dress, but a thin
cotton shirt, and a girdle round the body; he wears no trousers,
head-covering, or shoes.
Among other abstruse subjects, this penitent must study a composition on
some kind of magic, which renders him insensible to cold and almost
independent of the laws of gravity. He becomes light, and when the hour
of release arrives, travels on winged feet: whereas he used to take ten
days to journey from Tashi-lunpo to Gyangtse, he can now cover the
distance in less than a day. Immediately the twelve years of trial are
ended, he must repair to Tashi-lunpo to blow a blast of a horn on the
roof, and then he returns to Shalu-gompa. He is considered a saint as
long as he lives, and has the rank of a Kanpo-Lama. No sooner has he
left his grotto than another is ready to enter the darkness and undergo
the same test. This lama was the only one in this neighbourhood then
confined in a grotto, but there are hermits in abundance, living in open
caves or small stone huts, and maintained by the nomads living near
them. We were later on to hear of fanatical lamas who renounce the world
in a much stricter fashion.
In Tashi-lunpo the cloister rule seems to be strictly enforced: there
are especial inspectors, policemen and lictors who control the lives of
the monks in their cells and take care that no one commits a breach of
his vows. Recently a monk had broken the vow of chastity; he was ejected
for ever from the Gelugpa confraternity and banished from the territory
of Tashi-lunpo. He has, then, no prospect of finding an asylum in
another monastery, but must embrace some secular profession.
One day we visited the Dena-lhakang, a temple like a half-dark corridor,
for it is lighted only by two quite inadequate windows. In the middle
of the corridor there is a niche which has doors into the hall, for the
walls are very thick. Thus between the doors and the window is formed a
small room in which the lama on duty sits as in a hut. He belongs to the
Gelong order, is named Tung Shedar, came from Tanak, and is now seventy
years old, has short white hair, and a skin as dry as an old yellow
crumpled parchment.
On entering, one sees on the right a bookcase with deep square
pigeon-holes, in which holy books are placed. On the outer, longer wall,
banners painted with figures hang between the two windows, in the
deepest shadow, most of which are of venerable age, and are dusty and
faded--a Lamaist picture gallery. Pillars are ranged along the longer
wall, of red lacquered wood, and between them is suspended trellis-work
of short iron rods, forming geometrical figures. They are intended to
preserve the valuables from theft. In such a niche we see hundreds of
small idols set round in rows, four to eight inches high, in silken
mantles. Before them are taller statues of gods, and Chinese vases of
old valuable porcelain. Especial reverence is shown to a cabinet with an
open door, within which is preserved a tablet, draped with _kadakhs_,
and inscribed with Chinese characters, in memory of the great Emperor
Kien-Lung who was admitted by the third Tashi Lama into the
confraternity of the yellow monks. Above, covering the capitals of the
pillars, is hung strange, shabbily-fine drapery, of pieces of variously
coloured cloth and paper strips. For the rest, the hall abounds in the
usual vessels, brazen elephants with joss-sticks, large chalices and
bowls, small and large flags, and other things.
Another time I had been drawing in a sepulchral chapel and taken the
opportunity of making a sketch of some female pilgrims who were praying
there. When the work was finished, we crossed a paved court fully 20
yards broad by 90 long, which was situated just under the façade of the
Labrang. It was full of people waiting to see the Tashi Lama, who was to
pass by on his way to some ceremony. He came in a red monk's frock and
the yellow mitre; above his head was held the yellow sunshade, and he
was accompanied by a train of monks. He walked with his body slightly
bent and an air of humility. Many fell down before him full-length and
worshipped him, while others threw grains of rice over him. He did not
see me, but his smile was just as kind and mild as when we last met. So
he is evidently affable to all alike.
I made daily visits to the monastery and so gained a thorough knowledge
of the solitary life of the monks. Gompa signifies "the abode of
solitude," or monastery; the monks in the convent certainly live
isolated from the outer world, its vanities and temptations. Once, in
the Kanjur-lhakang, I purposed to draw the images with the lamps burning
before them on the innermost, darkest wall, but just as I was about to
begin monks filled the hall. Their places on the long divans were made
ready for them, and before each seat a huge volume of the holy
scriptures, the Kanjur, lay on a long continuous desk. The large yellow
robes which are put on at service time, but may not be worn in the
open-air, were laid ready. The young, brown-skinned, short-haired monks
entered in red togas, threw the yellow vestments over their shoulders,
and sat down cross-legged before the books. An older lama, a Kanpo,
mounted the pulpit on the shorter wall and intoned the sacred text in a
harsh, solemn, bass voice. The pupils joined in a monotonous rhythm.
Some read from the pages in front of them, while others seemed to know
the words of the chant by heart--at any rate they looked all about.
Exemplary order is not observed. Some young fellows, who certainly were
much more at home in the world than in the Church, talked during the
chant, giggled, and buried their faces in their robes to stifle their
laughter. But no one took any notice of them; they caused no
disturbance. Others never raised their eyes from the book. The hall was
as dark as a crypt, being lighted only by a narrow skylight, and through
two small doors (Illustration 154).
[Illustration: 146. THE PANCHEN RINPOCHE, OR TASHI LAMA.]
After they had sung awhile there was an interval, and lama boys passed
along the gangways between the rows of benches and poured tea, with
wonderful adroitness and without spilling a drop, into the wooden cups
held out to them. But almost before the pupils have begun to drink,
the deep bass of the leader drones out in the gloom above, and the
proceedings recommence. Meanwhile pilgrims pass along the gangways to
the altar and place small heaps of _tsamba_ or meal in the bowls
standing before the images, from the bags and bundles they bring with
them.
A tall lama stands erect at the entrance door. A pilgrim says to him: "I
will pay 3 _tengas_ for a blessing." The lama sings out aloud the
contribution and the purpose for which it is given, and then a strophe
is sung especially on behalf of the pilgrim, after which all the monks
clap their hands. This is repeated whenever fresh pilgrims come up. I
myself paid 5 rupees for a blessing, and received it together with a
noisy clapping. For ten minutes the lamas stand up, run along the
passages outside the lecture-hall, or take stock of me while I am
sketching the schoolroom and the pupils. Often a handful of rice rains
down upon the youths--some pilgrim is passing by the window opening. At
these readings and at the high mass the monks who have been longest in
the monastery occupy the front seats, and the last-comers the back
seats. When the lecture is over the Kanpo-Lama counts the receipts that
have flowed in from the pockets of the pilgrims, wraps the coins in
paper, which is sealed up and conveyed to the treasury, and enters the
amount in a large account book.
The images on the altar table of the Kanjur-lhakang are small, and
composed of gilded metal, and most of the other idols in Tashi-lunpo are
of the same kind. Some are of carved wood, and a few, like the great
statue of Tsong Kapa, are composed of powdered spices cemented together
by a gum extracted from roots of plants. The statue of Tsong Kapa is
said to have been constructed seventy-two years ago, and to have cost as
much as one of gold. The Tashi Lama has 1500 small gods cast for the New
Year festival, each costing 7 rupees; they are manufactured in
Tashi-lunpo, and are given away or sold. The manufacture of these images
is regarded as a peculiarly blessed work, and the lamas engaged in it
may count with certainty on a long life. Especially is this the case
with those who make images of the Tsepagmed. The oftener they utter his
name and produce his likeness from the rough metal, the longer it will
be before their poor souls have to set out on their travels again. No
idol, however, possesses any miraculous power or the slightest shadow of
divine influence unless it is properly consecrated and blessed by an
incarnated lama.
I must by this time have tried the patience of my readers with my
personal recollections of the monastery of Tashi-lunpo. I have
unintentionally tarried too long with the fraternity of the yellow-caps,
and quite forgotten events awaiting our attention elsewhere. I might
have remembered that temples and monks' cells may not have the same
interest for others as they have for myself, but the remembrance of this
period is particularly dear to me, for I was treated with greater
friendliness and hospitality in Tashi-lunpo than in any town of Central
Asia. We came from the wastes of Tibet to the greatest festival of the
year, from solitude into the religious metropolis swarming with
thousands of pilgrims, from poverty and want to abundance of everything
we wanted, and the howling of wolves and storms gave place to hymns and
fanfares from temple roofs glittering with gold. The balls in Simla and
the desolate mountains of Tibet were strange contrasts, but still
greater the solitude of the mountain wilderness and the holy town, which
we entered in the garb of far-travelled pilgrims, and where we were
hospitably invited to look about us and take part in all that was going
on.
It is now time to say farewell to Tashi-lunpo, its mystic gloom and its
far-sounding trumpet blasts. I do so with the feeling that I have given
a very imperfect and fragmentary description of it. It was not part of
my plan to thoroughly investigate the cloister town, but on the contrary
it was my desire to return as early as possible to the parts of Tibet
where I might expect to make great geographical discoveries.
Circumstances, however, which I shall hereafter refer to in a few words,
compelled us to postpone our departure from day to day. As we were
always looking forward to making a start, our visits to the monastery
were curtailed. Moreover, I wished, if possible, to avoid exciting
suspicion. Tashi-lunpo had on two occasions, more than 100 years ago
indeed, been pillaged by Gurkhas from Nepal. The English had quite
recently made a military expedition to Lhasa. Many monks disapproved of
my daily visits, and regarded it as unseemly that a European, of whose
exact intentions nothing was known, should go about freely, sketch the
gods, see all the treasures of gold and precious stones, and make an
inventory. And it was known that the dominant race in Tibet, the
Chinese, were displeased at my coming hither, and that I had really no
right to sojourn in the forbidden land. If, then, I wished to accomplish
more, I must exercise the greatest caution in all my proceedings.
A few words on funeral customs before we take leave of Tashi-lunpo.
South-west of Tashi-lunpo lies a small village, Gompa-sarpa or the New
Monastery, where, according to tradition, a temple formerly stood which
was plundered by the Dzungarians. Here is now the cemetery of Shigatse
and of the monastery, the Golgotha where the bodies of monks and laymen
are abandoned to corruption in the same fashion.
When the soul of a lama grows weary of the earthly frame in which it has
spent its human life, and the lama himself, after living perhaps fifty
years in his dark cloister cell, perceives that the lamp of life is
going out for want of oil, some brethren gather round his sick-bed,
recite prayers, or intercede with the gods set up in his cell, whose
prototypes in Nirvana or in the kingdom of the dead have something to do
with death and the transmigration of souls. As soon as life is extinct,
special prayers for the dead are recited to facilitate the severance of
the soul from the body, and console it during its first steps on the
dark road beyond the bounds of this life. The corpse of a lama lies in
his cell for three days, that of a layman as long as five days, that
there may be sufficient time for all the funeral rites and services.
Rich people retain the corpse longer in the house, which is certainly
more expensive, but allows more time for prayers which will benefit the
deceased. Monks fix the date of interment and the moment when the soul
is actually freed from its earthly fetters and soars up in search of a
new habitation.
The dead lama in a new costume of the ordinary cut and style is wrapped
in a piece of cloth and is carried away by one or two of his colleagues;
a layman is borne on a bier by the corpse-bearers. These are called
_Lagbas_, and form a despised caste of fifty persons, who live apart in
fifteen small miserable cabins in the village Gompa-sarpa. They are
allowed to marry only within the guild of corpse-bearers, and their
children may not engage in any other occupation but that of their
fathers, so that the calling is hereditary. They are obliged to live in
wretched huts without doors or windows; the ventilators and doorways are
open to all the winds of heaven and all kinds of weather. Even if they
do their work well they are not allowed to build more comfortable
houses. It is their duty also to remove dead dogs and carcasses from
Tashi-lunpo, but they may not enter within the wall round the convent.
If they have any uneasiness about their souls' welfare, they pay a lama
to pray for them. When they die, their souls pass into the bodies of
animals or wicked men. But in consequence of the afflictions they have
endured they are spared too hard a lot in the endless succession of
transmigrations.
The Lagbas have only to hack in pieces lamas, their own relations, and
the bodies of the homeless poor. Well-to-do laymen have this operation
performed for their own people without calling in professional aid.
When the monks come with a dead brother to the place of dissection they
strip him completely, divide his clothes among them, and have no
compunction in wearing them the very next day. The Lagbas receive 2 to 5
_tengas_ (11d. to 2s. 3d.) for each body and a part of the old clothing
of a lama; in the case of a layman the Lagba receives all the raiment of
the deceased, and the ear-rings and other simpler ornaments of a woman.
The monks who have brought the body hurry off again with all speed,
partly because the smell is very bad and partly that they may not
witness the cutting up of the corpse, at which only the Lagbas need be
present; even when the body is that of a layman, it is divided only in
the presence of Lagbas.
[Illustration: 147. PORTRAIT OF THE TASHI LAMA.
(before retouching.)]
A cord fastened to a post driven into the ground is passed round the
neck of the corpse, and the legs are pulled as straight as possible--a
feat requiring great exertion in the case of a lama, who has died and
become rigid in a sitting posture. Then the body is skinned, so that all
the flesh is exposed; the Lagbas utter a call, and vultures which roost
around come sailing up in heavy flight, pounce down on the prey, and
tear and pluck at it till the ribs are laid bare. There are no dogs here
as in Lhasa, and even if there were, they would get no share in the
feast, for the vultures do their work quickly and thoroughly. We
afterwards visited convents where sacred dogs were fed with the flesh of
priests. The Lagba sits by while the vultures feed, and these are so
tame that they hop unconcernedly over the man's legs.
The head is usually cut off as soon as the body is skinned. The skeleton
is crushed to powder between stones, and is kneaded with the brains into
a paste, which is thrown to the birds in small lumps. They will not
touch the bone-dust unless it is mixed with brains. The guild of
corpse-cutters pursue their task with the greatest composure: they take
out the brains with their hands, knead it into powder, and pause in the
midst of their gruesome employment to drink tea and eat _tsamba_. I am
exceedingly doubtful if they ever wash themselves. An old Lagba, whom I
summoned to my tent to supplement the information I had received from
the monks, had on that very morning cut up the body of an old lama.
Muhamed Isa held his cap before his face all through the conversation,
and had at last to go out, for he began to feel ill. The man had an
unpleasant rough aspect, wore a small grey soft cap, and was dressed in
rags of the coarsest sacking. He had his own theories of post-mortem
examination and anatomy. He told me that when an effusion of blood was
found in the brain it was a sign that the man had been insane, and that
when the substance of the brain was yellow the man had been an habitual
snuff-taker.
In some cases, so a monk assured me, the corpse is not skinned, but the
head is cut off, the trunk is divided in two along the spine with a
sharp knife, and each half is cut into small pieces, and the vultures
are not called till this has been done. Small children and grown-up men
are cut up in the same manner. There is not the least respect shown for
the nakedness of dead women. The whole aim of this method of disposing
of the body is that the deceased may have the merit of giving his body
to the birds, which would otherwise be famished. Thus even after his
death he performs a pious deed which will promote the peace of his soul.
The vultures here act the same part as in the Towers of Silence among
the Parsees of Bombay and Persia.
As soon as the demands of religion are fulfilled, the relatives take
leave of the deceased. He is then gone away, and his body is quite
worthless; when the soul has recommenced its wanderings, the body may be
consigned to the brutal treatment of the Lagbas without the least
hesitation. No one follows the corpse to the home of the vultures when
it is carried out of the house at night to be cut up before the sun
rises. There is no legal regulation, and when the bodies are numerous,
the sun has generally risen before the work is finished. After that,
one, or at most two, of the corpses are left till evening and are taken
in hand after sunset. This is also because the vultures are satiated
with their morning's feed and must have a rest before supper. It is
seldom that more than two deaths are reported in Gompo-sarpa in one day.
About twelve years ago when an epidemic of smallpox raged in Shigatse,
forty to fifty bodies were removed daily. Then, after the vultures had
gorged themselves, the rest of the bodies were wrapped in thin shrouds
and buried.
One would suppose that the dying man would shudder at the thought that,
at the very moment when the gates of death were opened for him, his
body, with which he was so closely connected during his life, which he
had cared for so anxiously, endeavouring to shield it from danger and
sickness, nay, from the slightest pain, would be consigned to such
barbarous treatment. But probably he thinks more of his soul in his last
moments, and counts up the good deeds he has performed and the millions
of _manis_ he has recited.
There is, then, not the slightest touch of sentiment in the funeral
customs of the Tibetans and their attitude towards the dead. The
children of Islam visit the graves of their loved ones and weep out
their sorrow under the cypresses, but the Tibetans have no graves and no
green-covered mounds where they may devote an hour to the remembrance of
a lost happiness. They weep not, for they mourn not, and they mourn not,
because they have loved not. How can they love a wife whom they possess
in common with others, so that there is no room for the idea of
faithfulness in marriage? The family ties are too loose and uncertain,
and the brother does not follow his brother, the man his wife, and much
less his child, to the grave, for he does not even know if the child is
really his own. And, besides, the corpse in itself is a worthless husk,
and even a mother who has tenderly loved her child feels not a shadow of
reverence for its dead body, and has no more horror of the knife of the
corpse executioner than we have of the doctor.
CHAPTER XXX
OUR LIFE IN SHIGATSE
The time that was not taken up by visits to Tashi-lunpo I occupied in
many ways. We had friends to visit us, and I frequently spent many hours
in transferring types of the people to my sketch-book, and I found good
material among the citizens and vagrants of the town and the monks of
the convent.
[Illustration: 148. LAMAS WITH COPPER TEA-POTS.
149. FEMALE PILGRIM FROM NAM-TSO AND MENDICANT LAMA.
Sketches by the Author.]
On one of the first days the Consul of Nepal paid me a visit. He was a
lieutenant, twenty-four years old, was named Nara Bahadur Chetteri, and
bore between his eyes the yellow marks of his caste. He was dressed in a
black close-fitting uniform with bright metal buttons, and a round
forage cap on his head without a shade, but with a gold tassel, and in
front the sun of Nepal surrounded by a halo of rays. He had been four
months in Lhasa and two here. He and his young wife had taken two months
to travel from Khatmandu; they had ridden the first week, but had then
sent their horses back, and had tramped through very dangerous,
pathless, mountainous regions for fifteen days; the rest of the journey
they had accomplished on hired Tibetan horses. Here he had to protect
the interests of the 150 Nepalese merchants and assist the pilgrims of
his country when they were in difficulties. The merchants have their own
_serai_, called Pere-pala, for which they pay an annual rent of 500
_tengas_; they buy wool from the nomads in the north, and pay for it
with corn and flour, which therefore is scarce and dear in Shigatse,
especially during the festival time when so many pilgrims flock in. The
Consul received 200 _tengas_ a month, or rather less than £60 a year,
and considered that the Maharaja paid him very badly. Bhotan has no
consul in Shigatse, though many pilgrims come from that country.
On February 14 I received a very unexpected visit, a lama and an
official from Lhasa. When the Devashung, the Government, had received
the letter of Hlaje Tsering announcing my arrival at the Ngangtse-tso,
the Chinese Ambassador and the Government, after consulting together,
had despatched these two gentlemen in forced marches to the lake, where,
however, they arrived several days after my departure. Singularly enough
they had been given quite erroneous information about the route we had
taken, perhaps because our wanderings over the ice across the lake in
all directions had confused the nomads. Therefore they had sought for us
for twenty-two days on the shores of the Ngangtse-tso and the
Dangra-yum-tso, until they had at length discovered that we had gone off
southwards a long time before. Then they had followed our track and had
made further inquiries among the nomads, all of whom said that they had
been kindly treated, and well paid for all they sold us. The gentlemen
rode on, and heard in Yeshung that we had passed through a couple of
days before; our camp-fires were scarcely cold. They changed horses, and
spurred them on at a faster pace, for they had been ordered to force us
at any cost to return northwards by the same way we had come. But I had
got the better of them, for they did not reach Shigatse till thirty-six
hours after us, and another party sent from Lhasa to intercept us by a
more direct road had quite lost our trail in the labyrinth of valleys
and mountains into which we had plunged.
"We have carried out our mission as well as we have been able," they
said, "and it only remains for us to ask for your name and all
particulars of your journey and companions."
"I have already communicated everything to Ma Daloi and Duan Suen, who
have seen my passport, but if you want a second edition, you are welcome
to it."
"Yes, it is our duty to send a report to the Devashung. In virtue of the
treaty of Lhasa only the market-towns of Yatung, Gyangtse, and Gartok
are free to the Sahibs under certain conditions, but no other routes.
You have come by forbidden roads and must turn back again."
"Why did you not close the way to me? It is your own fault. You can
inform the Devashung that I shall never be content till I have seen the
whole of Tibet. Besides, the Devashung will not find it worth their
while to place obstacles in my way, for I am on good terms with your
gods, and you have seen yourself how friendly the Tashi Lama has been to
me."
"We know it, and it seems as though you bore the sign of the favour of
the gods on your forehead like caste-markings."
"How is Hlaje Tsering getting on?"
"He is suspected of receiving a bribe from you; he has been dismissed,
and has lost his rank and all his property."
"It is very mean of the Devashung to persecute him. But the Government
is composed of the most despicable rogues in all Tibet. You ought to be
glad that you are at length properly under Chinese protection."
At first they exchanged meaning looks, but gradually they came round to
my opinion and admitted that their Government was a disagreeable
association. The reason they had not shown themselves immediately after
their arrival was that they wished first to spy out our occupations and
our associates; for, if they found out that we had friends, these would
of course be denounced. Otherwise they were decent men, and readily
partook of tea and cigarettes. Unfortunately Tsaktserkan was just then
with me, and he must have thought the affair serious, for he made
himself scarce as soon as they entered my tent, but afterwards asked me
to tell him what they had said.
It impressed them most of all that, in spite of all the ambushes and
traps in the form of scouting patrols, who were on the look-out for us,
we had after all succeeded in advancing to Shigatse. Now they would wait
for orders from Lhasa. No heed was paid to the Dalai Lama, who was as
good as dead and buried.
[Illustration: 150. THE GREAT RED GALLERY OF TASHI-LUNPO.
Sketch by the Author.]
They came frequently during the following days to greet us, and then
expressed their opinions of their superiors more and more frankly.
Their remaining on the scene proved, however, that both the Chinese and
the Government had their eyes on me. I wondered how the affair would
terminate.
When I returned from the equestrian performance on the 15th, I found a
large packet of letters from Major O'Connor, and greedily seized letters
from home and from friends in India, Lady Minto, Colonel Dunlop Smith,
Younghusband, and O'Connor himself, who welcomed me most heartily, and
expressed a hope that we should soon meet. He had also kindly given me a
great surprise with two boxes containing preserved meats, cakes,
biscuits, whisky, and four bottles of champagne. Fancy my drinking
champagne alone in my tent in Tibet! I drank a glass at dinner every day
to the health of Major O'Connor as long as the supply lasted.
In the chapter on Leh I mentioned the Hajji Nazer Shah and his son Gulam
Razul. The old Hajji had another son in Shigatse, named Gulam Kadir, who
had been ten years in Tibet and now managed the branch in Shigatse. He
sold chiefly gold-embroidered stuffs from China and Benares, which the
lamas bought for state robes, and he told me that he made a yearly
profit of 6000 rupees. A bale of such material as he showed me was worth
10,000 rupees. Gulam Kadir rendered me many services at this time, and
supplied us with anything we wanted.
There is a fine view from the roof of his house of the Dzong, or fort,
the stately front of which seems to grow out of the rock. The windows,
balconies, roof decorations and streamers have a harmonious and
picturesque effect. In the middle of the structure is a red building;
all the rest is white, or rather an undecided greyish-yellow colour,
which the plaster has assumed in the course of time.
At the southern foot of the Dzong hill lies the open market-place, where
trade was carried on two hours a day. There are no tables and stands,
but the dealer sits on the dusty ground and spreads out his wares on
cloths or keeps them beside him in baskets. In one row sit the dealers
in implements and utensils, in others boards and planks are sold,
ironware, woven goods, coral, glass beads, shells, sewing thread,
needles, dyes, cheap oleographs, spices and sugar from India, porcelain,
pipes, figs and tea from China, mandarins from Sikkim, dried fruits and
turquoise from Ladak, yak hides and tails from the Chang-tang, pots,
metal dishes, covers and saucers manufactured in the town, religious
books and other articles for the use of pilgrims, etc. Straw and chaff,
rice, grain, _tsamba_ and salt are sold by many traders. Walnuts,
raisins, sweets, and radishes are other wares in which there is a large
trade. Horses, cows, asses, pigs, and sheep are also on sale; for the
last, 7 rupees a head are asked. In Chang-tang we had paid at most 4
rupees, and a sheep can be got for 2 rupees. Every kind of ware has its
particular place, but the traders, so far as I could see, were all
Tibetans; for the merchants of Ladak, China, and Nepal have shops in
their own houses.
[Illustration: 151. CHHORTEN IN TASHI-LUNPO.
Sketch by the Author.]
Most of the traders are women, and they sell even hay, firewood, and
meat. They wear huge coils of hair with inferior turquoise, glass beads,
and all kinds of pendants, which contrast strongly with their faces
smeared with black salve. If they would dispense with this finery and
give themselves a good washing instead, some of them would perhaps look
quite human. What was the original colour of their clothes is hard to
guess, for they are now caked with dust, soot, and dirt. But these
hucksters are always polite and obliging; they sit in rows parallel to
the north wall of the Chinese town, which is little more than a ruin.
Now and then a mule caravan passes along the pathway between the rows,
bringing new goods to market. Frequently gentlemen partly dressed in
Chinese fashion ride past from the Dzong; and among the swarms of
customers are seen all kinds of people--clergy and pilgrims, children of
the country and strangers, white turbans from Ladak and Kashmir, and
black skull-caps from China. In the market all the gossip of Shigatse is
hatched; all sorts of reports more or less probable reach us from there.
As soon as any one comes from Lhasa he is driven almost frantic with
questions, for all take a deep interest in the new Chinese régime. It
was current in the bazaar that lamas in Lhasa were organizing a bloody
insurrection against the Chinese, because the latter had demanded
that half the lamas should serve in the army. It was further reported
that I and my companions would soon be compelled to leave the country,
and that before very long the English commercial agency in Gyangtse
would be closed. Every one who has heard anything fresh carries it at
once to the market, where the visitors who come to hear news are as
numerous as those who make purchases. In a word the market is Shigatse's
only newspaper.
Gulam Kadir told me that the two gentlemen from Lhasa employed spies,
who reported daily all that they could find out about us. These men used
to come as hawkers into our tents and sit there by the hour. Ma also
encompassed us with spies. With the help of Gulam Kadir I set two
Ladakis as spies to spy upon the spies of the Lhasa spies. We could now
be on our guard, for we knew what was going on around us.
My own Ladakis enjoyed in Shigatse a very necessary period of rest. I
gave them money for new clothes, which they made up themselves; in a few
days they appeared in all the glory of a new outfit from head to foot.
Nor could I refuse them a jug of _chang_ daily; they very seldom drank
too much, after one of them one day under the influence of beer painted
his face black, and in this guise made ridiculous pirouettes about the
court. Muhamed Isa happened to come home from the market just at the
moment, and, catching hold of the dancer, gave him such a thorough
drubbing that he never thought of painting himself again. Both Chinamen
and Tibetans said that the conduct of my men was exemplary and gave no
cause for quarrels. But to hear Tsering's singing in the evening! It was
like the creaking of a badly oiled wicket-gate to a shed in my own
country, and therefore I listened with pleasure to his rude song. When
he had sung for three hours on end, it became a little too much, but I
put up with it--it is so pleasant to have cheerful, contented men about
one.
Under February 19 the following entry stands in my diary: "In spite of
the windy, dusty weather I have all day long been sketching various
types, chiefly women, who sat for me as models in front of my tent."
The first were from Nam-tso (Tengri-nor) (Illustration 155), wore
head-dresses decorated with shells, china beads, and silver spangles,
and in their sheepskins trimmed with red and blue ribands looked like
girls from Dalecarlia. They had large bones, were strongly built, looked
fresh and healthy, and their broad faces were remarkably clean. The
women of Shigatse, on the other hand, had smeared their faces with a
brown salve mixed with soot which looked like tar. This mask makes them
hideous, and it is impossible to tell whether they are pretty or not;
the black colour interferes with the lights and shadows, and confuses
the portrait painter. One had painted only her nose and rubbed it bright
as metal. This singular custom is said to date from a time when the
morality of the Lhasa monks was at a low level, and a Dalai Lama issued
orders that no female should show herself out of doors unless painted
black, so that the charms of the women might be less seductive to the
men. Since then the black paint has remained in fashion, but seems now
to be going out.
The clothes are always black with age, dirt, and soot. The women pay
most attention to their head decoration, and the higher they are in the
social scale the more profusely they deck their coiffures with bows,
pendants, and jewelry. The hair is frequently so closely entwined with
all this finery that it can scarcely be let down every night, but only
when it becomes so entangled that it must be put straight. Those who are
rich wear large heavy ear-rings of solid gold and a few turquoises, but
others simpler and smaller rings. On the neck are worn chains of various
coloured beads and _gaos_, small silver cases studded with coral and
turquoise and containing amulets. Poor women have to be contented with
copper _gaos_ of the clumsy kind so common among the Tsaidam Mongols.
A woman of forty belonging to Shigatse was named Tashi-Buti; she looked
sixty, for women age very soon here. Above her ordinary clothing she
wore a coarse shawl over the shoulders, fastened in front with brass
clasps, plates, and rings.
[Illustration: 152. PORTAL IN TASHI-LUNPO.]
[Illustration: 153. GROUP OF LAMAS IN TASHI-LUNPO.]
A nomad woman from Kamba had the right arm and shoulder bare, and was
as powerfully and muscularly built as a man, but was so horribly dirty
that it was impossible to perceive her complexion. She had no
head-dress; but the dark hair was plaited into innumerable thin rat's
tails hanging over the shoulders, and tied together on the forehead into
a mane of cords. She would have been good-looking if her features had
not been so masculine; she sat still and solemn as a statue of Buddha. A
fifteen-year-old girl had a parting in the middle, and her hair frizzed
in two pads down to the ears, which were combed, oiled, and shiny like
those of a Japanese, and she wore a diadem studded with coral. She was
dainty and clean and had rosy cheeks (Illustrations 157, 158, 159).
Burtso was a little Shigatse lady of seventeen summers, and bore the
dirt of those seventeen summers on her face. Like most of the others her
features had the sharply marked characteristics of the Mongolian
race--oblique narrow eyes contracting to a point at the sides, and the
lower part of the eyelid telescoped into the upper so that a slightly
curved line is formed and the short lashes are almost covered; the iris
is dark chestnut brown, and appears black within the frame of the
eyelids; the eyebrows are usually only slightly marked, are thin and
irregular, and never form the finely curved Persian and Caucasian arch
like a crescent. The cheek-bones are rather prominent, but not so high
as with the Mongolians; the lips are rather large and thick, but the
nose is not so flat as among the Mongols. Faces with handsome features
are seen among the male Tibetans. But the differences between individual
Tibetans are often as great as between Tibetans on the one hand and
Mongols, Chinamen, and Gurkhas on the other. The nomads of the
Chang-tang are apparently a tribe of themselves, and seldom, if ever,
intermarry with the others. Otherwise the Tibetan people is undoubtedly
much mixed with neighbouring elements. Chinamen living in Lhasa and
Shigatse marry Tibetan women. In the Himalayas, south of the Tibetan
frontier, live the Bothias, a mixed people, sprung partly from Indian,
partly from Tibetan elements. The people of Ladak have mingled to a
large extent with their Aryan and Turkish neighbours, because they have
been in closer and more active contact with them. The Tibetan people
present remarkable and peculiar problems in anthropological,
ethnographical, and linguistic science, which must be solved by future
investigation.
I drew on and on, and one type after another found its way into my
sketch-book. The expression of my models is listless and devoid of
animation; they seem absent-minded and passionless. They take little
interest in the proceedings; all they care about is to pocket the rupees
after the sitting. They sit motionless, without laughing or complaining.
They are rather too solemn, and not a smile plays round the corners of
their mouths when their eyes meet mine. I passed the greater part of the
day in this silent, apathetic female society.
Now and then comes a party of inquisitive people to watch me, Tibetans,
Chinamen, or pilgrims who want to have something to tell when they get
home again to their black tents. They stand round me, wondering whether
it is dangerous to be drawn by a European and what is the object of it.
Of course there are many spies among them. There is an endless variety
of types and costumes, and as I ride through the streets and see the
inhabitants at their various occupations, I feel oppressed by the
thought that I have not time to draw them all. Here stands a man
splitting wood, there come two young fellows driving before them asses
laden with twigs and branches. There go a couple of women with large
water-jugs on their backs, while small girls collect cattle dung from
the street. Here a group of officials approaches in yellow garments on
fine horses, while some lamas stroll slowly towards the monastery. All
is so picturesque, so charming for the pencil; one is constantly
delighted with attractive subjects, genre pictures of unusual character,
strikingly grouped parties of salesmen and customers; one could spend
months here, drawing again and again. I am grieved at the prospect of an
early departure.
[Illustration: 154. LECTURE IN TASHI-LUNPO.
Sketch by the Author.]
In the afternoon a company of dancers, male and female, frequently
appears in the court and gives no despicable performances, reminding me
strongly of the dances in Leh. They are always introduced by our
little old mother Mamu, who has the management of the garden, and hops
about smiling and friendly as a sparrow. She speaks Urdu, so Robert
employs her as interpreter. Then come caravans, bringing hay, firewood,
chaff, and barley for our remaining animals, or provisions for
ourselves, and people are constantly coming to sell all kinds of
goods--chickens, eggs, butter, or fish from the Tsangpo; milkmen run
with their clattering metal cans, and stringed instruments and flutes
make music in our groves. A beggar comes up like a troubadour to my tent
with a lute, and sings a melodious air. When I look at him he stops
singing and puts out his tongue. Barefooted boys, who could be no
blacker if they were drawn twice up a chimney, run about laughing
loudly, and peep out from among the trees. Three of them perform on a
tight rope, dance like professional rope-dancers, and beat drums, while
they turn summersaults all mixed up together (Illustration 164).
Pious visitors also frequent my courtyard: two nuns, for instance, with
a large _tanka_ representing a series of complicated episodes from the
holy scriptures. While one chants the explanation, the other points with
a stick to the corresponding picture (Illustration 165). She sings so
sweetly and with so much feeling that it is a pleasure to listen to her.
Or a mendicant lama comes with his praying mill in his hand and two
hand-grooves hung by a strap round his neck. In these he pushes his
hands as in a curry-comb, when he prostrates himself on the ground in
making a circuit of the temple. They are much worn, and this moves the
hearts of the people to generosity, so that his alms bowl is filled
daily.
These pious men are the parasites of Tibet, living at the expense of the
working population. And yet they are endured and treated by every one
with the greatest consideration and respect. To give them a mite brings
a blessing on the giver. The people are kept by the lamas in spiritual
slavery, and the lamas themselves are docile slaves to those tomes of
narrow-minded dogmas which have been stereotyped for centuries, which
may not be interfered with or criticised, for they are canonical,
proclaim the absolute truth, and stand in the way of all free and
independent thought. The clergy form a very considerable percentage of
the scanty population of this poor country. Without the Peter's pence
Tibet could not make both ends meet. Tashi-lunpo is, then, a huge
savings-box, in which the rich man places his pile of gold, the poor man
his mite. And with what object? To propitiate the monks, for they are
the mediators between the gods and the people. Scarcely any other land
is so completely under the thumb of the priests as Tibet. And while the
people toil, the monks gather round their tea-pots and bowls of _tsamba_
at the summons of the conch.
On three evenings in succession large numbers of wild-geese have flown
low over our garden from north-west to south-east. The ravens are as
bold as usual; of other birds only sparrows roost in our trees. Our camp
within the wall is quiet, but we have posted a night-watch outside, for
in a town like Shigatse, full of all sorts of vagabonds, there are many
scoundrels. Two monks, who were with me one evening to answer my
inquiries, durst not return to Tashi-lunpo in the dark, unless I sent
some of my men armed with guns to take them home. Recently a lama was
attacked at night between the town and the monastery and stripped to the
skin.
On February 20, after only 17.6 degrees of frost, it snowed all day
long, the wind howled dismally through the poplars, and the snow fell on
my tent. Nothing was to be seen of the golden temple roofs, and the
ground and the mountains were white; there was no one in the bazaar, and
no inquisitive visitors pestered us. It was just as in the Chang-tang.
[Illustration: 155. FEMALE PILGRIMS FROM THE NAM-TSO.]
[Illustration: 156. TIBETANS IN SHIGATSE.
Sketches by the Author.]
On March 4 Gulam Kadir paid me a farewell visit, for he was going next
day to Lhasa, which, according to his reckoning, was nine days' journey
distant. As he would pass through Gyangtse, he took a large letter-bag
to Major O'Connor. On the day before, he had sent off a caravan of 201
yaks laden with brick tea to Ladak. A yak carries 24 bricks, and a brick
costs in Shigatse 6 rupees, but in Ladak 9 to 11. It is only the refuse
of the tea, which is despised in China, but is good enough for Tibetans
and Ladakis. Gulam Kadir hires the yaks at a cost of 5 rupees a head
to Gartok--uncommonly cheap, but they follow the mountain paths and
their keep costs nothing. They are five months on the way, for the
caravan makes short marches and stays at places where grass grows
luxuriantly. From Gartok, where the Hajji Nazer Shah has a large
warehouse, managed by Gulam Razul, the tea is transported on other yaks.
By a single caravan of this kind the commercial house of the Hajji makes
a very large profit. Musk, coral, Chinese textiles, and other valuable
goods are forwarded on mules along the great highway which runs along
the Tsangpo and the upper Indus.
I had on several occasions met Kung Gushuk, the Duke, in the monastery,
and had thanked him for his kindness in sending my letters to the lakes,
but it was not till March 7 that I paid him a visit in his house. The
walls in the entrance hall are painted with tigers and leopards. In the
court, round which the stables and servants' quarters are situated, a
large black watch-dog, with red eyes and a red swollen ring round his
neck, is chained up, and is so savage that he has to be held while we
pass. After mounting two ladder-like staircases we come to the
reception-room, which is very elegant, and has square red pillars with
carved capitals in green and blue. Along the walls stands a row of
shrines of gilded wood with burning butter-lamps in front of them, and
over them hang photographs of the Tashi Lama which were taken in
Calcutta. The rest of the walls are draped with holy banners
(Illustration 167).
The trellised window pasted over with paper, which occupies nearly the
whole length of the wall towards the courtyard, and is draped with white
curtains on the outside, is placed rather high above the floor.
Immediately below the window runs a long divan mattress, on which a
square cushion covered with panther skin marks the seat of honour.
Before this cushion stand two small stool-like lacquered tables on
golden feet. Seated here one has on the left hand, against the shorter
wall, a cubical throne with steps leading up to it, and here the Tashi
Lama takes his seat when he visits his younger brother, now twenty-one
years of age.
Kung Gushuk is, then, quite young. He is very shy, and is evidently
relieved when his guest talks and he is not obliged to strain his own
small, poorly furnished brain. His recollections of India, whither he
had accompanied his illustrious brother, were very hazy: he did know
that Calcutta is a large town, and that the weather was excessively hot
there, but for the rest the journey seemed to be to him only an
unintelligible dream. He did not venture to give an opinion on the
journey before me, but said openly that the lamas did not like to see me
so often in Tashi-lunpo. His wife had sent to ask me if I would take her
portrait, and I now begged to be told what time would suit her. "Any
time." When I went away, Her Highness was standing with her black court
ladies at the other end of the open gallery surrounding a court (Illust.
168). I saluted her politely, and certainly fascinated the lady as I
passed; there was no danger, as she was quite _passée_, for she had
belonged in common to Kung Gushuk and an elder brother, who died in
Sikkim on the return from India. It is said that she rules the house and
keeps the finances in order, and with good reason, for Kung Gushuk leads
a fast life, is over head and ears in debt, and plays hazard. This is
bad form in a brother of the Tashi Lama.
[Illustration: 157, 158, 159. TIBETAN GIRL AND WOMEN IN SHIGATSE.
Sketches by the Author.]
On March 22 the portrait-drawing came off; it was executed in the large
saloon and in pencil. The Duchess is big and bloated, and asserted that
she was thirty-three years old--I should put her down at forty-five. Her
complexion is fair and muddy, the white of her eyes is dull. She had put
on for this occasion all the finery she could find room for; a pearl
pendant which hung on the left side of her façade had cost 1200 rupees.
In her hair were thick strings of pearls, bunches of coral and
turquoises. She was friendly and amiable, and said that she did not mind
how long she sat, if only the result were good. Her small carpet-knight
of a husband sat by and looked on, and round us stood the other inmates
of the house, including a small brother of Kung Gushuk and the Tashi
Lama. They drank butter tea, but did not offer me any, which made the
visit all the pleasanter (Illustration 170).
Then we were shown the other apartments, which even on sunny days are
dark as dungeons, for the windows are small, the paper thick, and the
white curtains outside help to increase the gloom. A small oratory with
red pillars was so dark that the images of the gods could scarcely be
distinguished. In the study of the Duke a low divan stood at the window,
with paper, inkstand, pens, and a religious book on a table in front of
it. The bedroom was adorned with _tankas_, statues, and cups. Here and
there butter-lamps struggled with the darkness, while braziers of brass
on stands of dark carved wood were used to counteract the chilliness of
the air. The whole house is like a temple, which is quite as it should
be when the owner is brother of the Grand Lama.
Two passages connecting parts of the upper storey are not covered in, so
are exposed to all the winds of heaven. A third staircase leads to the
top of the roof, which is surrounded by a parapet a yard high, and is
white-washed. A thicket of roof decorations and bundles of rods with
streamers frightens away evil spirits. There was a violent wind, and
dust and bits from the streets of Shigatse flew up in the air, so that
our eyes received their share. With the portrait-drawing the visit
lasted four good hours, and at the end I had become as intimate with the
family as if I had known them from childhood.
CHAPTER XXXI
POLITICAL COMPLICATIONS
In the first chapters of this book I described very briefly the
difficulties placed in my way by the English, and told how the Liberal
Government in London had not only refused the favours I had asked for,
but had even tried to suppress my expedition altogether. In consequence
I had been compelled to make a wide detour all through the Chang-tang,
where more than once our lives hung by a thread, and we had suffered
great losses. Then we met with a weak resistance on the part of the
Tibetans, but, nevertheless, came to Shigatse; it was pure good luck
that the patrols sent out to intercept us had not fallen in with us. On
February 14 the representatives of the Tibetan Government had intimated
to me that I had no right to make a prolonged sojourn in Tibet, and that
I must leave the country. As though I had not enough to do with the
English, Indian, and Tibetan Governments, the Chinese Government also
appeared on the scene on February 18. I was now opposed to a fourfold
combination of Governments, and wished all politics and diplomatists at
Jericho.
On this day the young Chinaman Duan Suen appeared on behalf of Gaw
Daloi, the Chinese political agent in Gyangtse. He brought me a letter
from him with the following curt contents:
[Illustration: 160. A CHINAMAN IN SHIGATSE.
161. A TIBETAN IN SHIGATSE.
162. A LAMA IN TASHI-LUNPO.
163. DOOR-KEEPER IN TSONG KAPA'S TEMPLE.
Sketches by the Author.]
Agreement between Great Britain and China, signed in Pekin in the year
1906, § 2: The Government of Great Britain binds itself not to annex
any Tibetan territory, and not to interfere in the administration
of Tibet. Convention concluded on September 7, 1904, § 9b: No
representative or agent of any foreign Power shall receive permission
to visit Tibet.
Duan Suen also conveyed to me by word of mouth Gaw Daloi's message that
I must on no account travel to Gyangtse, as I had forced my way to
Shigatse without a passport or permit, and that only one route was open
to me, that through the Chang-tang, by which I had come. I answered as
curtly that Gaw Daloi should apply to Major O'Connor, the British
representative in Gyangtse, if he wished to learn anything about me,
instead of sending me impertinent letters.
It had been my plan and desire to visit O'Connor. I knew him very well
by repute; he had loaded me with kindnesses, and I knew that he was one
of the very few who had a thorough knowledge of Tibet.
We had been in constant correspondence with one another since my
arrival. I had explained to him my ideas about the western continuation
of the great mountain system, and O'Connor had replied that he had
always longed to explore the extensive unknown parts in the interior of
Tibet, and had long suspected the existence of a mighty mountain system
to the north of the Tsangpo. I had still an imperfect knowledge of this
system, and therefore I proposed to O'Connor that we should in future
call the mountains Nien-chen-tang-la after the lofty peak on the south
shore of the Tengri-nor. It would have been of the greatest advantage to
me to meet a man like Major O'Connor just at this time (Illustration
171).
Meanwhile I soon began to regard the affair in a different light, for I
perceived that in Gyangtse I should find myself in a worse position than
in Shigatse. As long as I remained in Shigatse, the Chinese did not know
what to do with me, but in Gyangtse the provisions of the treaty would
at once become applicable to my case, and I might be obliged to retire
southwards to India. Gaw Daloi's prohibition with regard to Gyangtse
irritated me a little, but I suspected him of using it as a stratagem,
and all the more because the authorities of Shigatse offered at the same
time to let me baggage animals on hire for my journey thither.
Tsaktserkan, as well as Ma, knew that I had received a letter from Gaw,
and Ma had long negotiations with the gentlemen from Lhasa. Evidently a
political intrigue was going on, and all depended on my playing my cards
well.
As early as February 20 I had noticed that the lamas were afraid of the
Chinese because of my frequent visits to the monastery, and were
becoming more reserved daily. I, however, quietly continued to place
myself under their noses, and even to draw the Sakya-tubpa (Buddha). The
Chinese pretended to fear that the English would reproach them with a
breach of the treaty if they suffered me to sojourn on forbidden ground.
My English friends, on the contrary, rejoiced at my success and hoped
that I should continue to hold out. Meantime a change might come any
day, and therefore I lived in the greatest agitation.
In my answer to Gaw Daloi I begged him to have no anxiety lest I, a
Swede, should have any intention of annexing Tibetan territory, and as
to § 9, he had not quoted it fully, for it ran as follows: "The
Government of Tibet undertakes not to allow a representative or agent of
any foreign Power to visit Tibet without the previous consent of the
Government of Great Britain." This paragraph did not apply to my case,
for I was already in Tibet, and it did not concern me what agreements
the two Governments had made together. My case must be treated from
quite a different standpoint.
Ma had at first consented to send my letters to Gyangtse, but now he
refused, with the excuse that he might seem too ready to oblige me.
Therefore Muhamed Isa had to ride off on February 24 for Gyangtse, to
carry my letter and passport to Gaw Daloi, and also to take 3000 rupees
in sovereigns, which Major O'Connor had promised to exchange for silver
coins.
I also sent a long telegram to the English Prime Minister, asking for
the "consent of the Government of Great Britain," as the Government of
Tibet had hitherto placed no practical obstacles in my way. To this
telegram I received no reply.
[Illustration: 164. DANCING BOYS WITH DRUMS.
Sketch by the Author.]
On February 27 Gaw's answer arrived--not by Muhamed Isa, but by a
special messenger; this was diplomatic but imprudent. Gaw wrote that he
could not believe I would break a treaty between two great nations for
the sake of scientific exploration, that my Chinese passport was not
valid here, and that if I were allowed to travel about in Tibet,
Russians and Englishmen might claim the same privileges. He concluded
with the words: "I have received orders from my Government to arrest you
at once, should you come to Gyangtse, and send you with a guard of
soldiers across the Indian frontier." I afterwards learned that he had
not a single soldier, and that if he had had the whole Chinese army at
his command, he could not have used it against me, if I were staying in
Gyangtse as a guest in the British Agency. I replied, however, that I
was quite willing to set out, in a north-westerly direction, if Gaw
could provide me with a sufficiently large caravan.
On March 1 Ma visited me. He was quite beside himself. The Amban Lien in
Lhasa had sharply reprimanded him because, with 1000 native and 150
Chinese soldiers under his command, he had not been intelligent and
watchful enough to prevent my coming to Shigatse. He had now to inform
me that I must leave the town at once, and asked me to tell him on what
day I proposed to start. "Not for a good while yet," I replied. "The
caravan which is to take me back across the Chang-tang must be ready
first." The monks also had been advised from Lhasa to have as little to
do with me as possible.
My sojourn in Shigatse had, then, given rise to an exchange of notes and
telegrams between Lhasa, Gyangtse, Shigatse, Pekin, Calcutta, and
London, and quite against my will I had become a small apple of discord
among politicians. My position was so uncertain that I left no stone
unturned. The Swedish Minister, Herr G. O. Wallenberg, did all he could
in Pekin to obtain for me the permission of the Chinese Government and a
passport; he spoke with all the high mandarins, but they with the
greatest affability appealed to the treaties in force. The Japanese
Embassy in Pekin also made representations, at the request of Count
Otani (Kioto), but received the astonishing answer that, if I were in
Tibet at all, which was very doubtful, I must be at once expelled from
the country. So I met with refusals on all sides. But I was strong in
one respect: I stood alone, while my opponents were hampered by having
to pay respect to one another's susceptibilities.
Meanwhile I was initiated little by little into the mysteries of Tibetan
politics. Tsaktserkan, sent by the Tashi Lama, used to visit me at dusk.
He asked me how it came about that, after the English had been
victorious against Tibet, China reaped all the advantages of the
victory, and China's power increased in the country while England's
prestige declined. The Tashi Lama was much disturbed by the continued
absence of the Dalai Lama. Immediately after his return from India he
had sent presents to the Dalai Lama, and written several letters to him,
but had never received a reply. The Dalai Lama had been his tutor, and
he was grieved that he could not help him in his difficult situation.
The authorities at Lhasa were incensed against Tashi-lunpo, and asserted
that the Tashi Lama had been bribed by the English not to take part in
the war. The Tashi Lama sent to ask me if I thought that the Emperor of
China was angry with him because of his journey to India, to which I
answered that in my opinion the Emperor would be pleased if the Tashi
Lama maintained peace with his powerful neighbour to the south, and if
there was a good understanding between Tibet and India.
Then on March 5 I received a remarkable letter from Gaw Daloi. He
advised me "in strict confidence" to write to Chang Yin Tang (Tang
Darin, or the Imperial Chinese Chief Commissioner in Tibet), and to the
Amban Lien Yü in Lhasa, requesting Their Excellencies to grant me
permission as a particular favour to travel through Gyangtse to Sikkim;
he had no doubt that they would agree to the proposal. First, he had
written to me that his Government had ordered him to arrest me if I came
to Gyangtse, and now he advised me to go there. But by acting contrary
to the orders of his Government, he gave me a dangerous hold over him: I
had him now in my power, and regarded him as out of the running. I then
learned in a roundabout way that his letter had been written in
accordance with orders from Lhasa, where it was feared that I might not
be easily got rid of if I were permitted to penetrate further into Tibet
on my return journey. Ma informed me that he had orders to keep couriers
in readiness for me, and that a letter would reach Lhasa in five days.
I now wrote to the Tang Darin, telling him that I would on no account
act against the wishes of the Chinese Government by travelling through
Gyangtse, but intended to return towards the north-west, if His
Excellence would command that yaks should be placed at my disposal. As a
Swede, I belonged to a country which had from ancient times been on
friendly terms with China, and had no political interests in Tibet.
At the same time I wrote also to Lien Darin, and represented that
neither the Chinese nor the Tibetan Government had any reason to
complain of my journey to Shigatse; if my coming were displeasing to
them, they should have prevented me in good time. On the contrary, they
ought to be grateful to me for calling attention to the possibility of
traversing their country, and I advised them to be more watchful in
future if they wished to exclude Europeans. I should not think of
travelling to India, for my people were mountaineers and would drop down
in the heat like flies; they were, moreover, British subjects, and I was
answerable for their safe return to Leh. It was impossible to travel
through the Chang-tang, but I would willingly follow a route on the
north side of the Tsangpo, where there were nomads. If they wished to
get rid of me, they should not render my return more difficult, but
rather facilitate it in every way.
When, therefore, the Lhasa gentlemen and the deputies from the Shigatse
Dzong urged me that same day to start without delay, I was able to reply
that it could not possibly be done till ten days later, for it would
take so long to receive an answer from Lhasa.
Our position was still like an imprisonment, though everything was done
to get rid of us. On March 4 I was in Tashi-lunpo for the last time. Now
I was excluded from the monastery, for I had been expressly requested
to cease my visits for fear of the suspicion of the Chinese. I promised,
but on condition that I should first be permitted to see the Ngakang,
where the vestments and masks are stored. When this was declared
impossible, we at last came to an agreement that some vestments, masks,
and instruments should be brought to my garden, where I should have an
opportunity of sketching them. The objects were brought at night, and
while I drew them in the daytime, a watch was kept round the house so
that the lamas need not fear being caught. So we came to March 10, when
Tashi arrived with my last 13 yaks, which were so worn out that they
were handed over to a dealer at a nominal price.
[Illustration: 165. WANDERING NUN WITH A TANKA DEPICTING A RELIGIOUS
LEGEND AND SINGING THE EXPLANATION. (In our Garden in Shigatse.)]
[Illustration: 166. GANDÄN-CHÖ-DING-GOMPA, A NUNNERY IN YE.]
Under March 12 the following entry appears in my diary: "In this holy
land the spring is heralded in by kettle-drums and trumpets shriller
than any that are sounded at dawn from the temple roofs, and summon the
lamas to their first tea. Storms, dark masses of cloud, and dust
whirling along the ground, and hiding all the environs except the Dzong
fort, which peeps through dust-mist like a dismal phantom ship. The
temperature rises, and in the day is several degrees above
freezing-point, but there is no other sign of spring. It will come
sometime or other, if it is now turning in bed and trying to rub the
winter sleep out of its frozen eyes. To-day raged one of the most
violent storms we have experienced. The bells of the monastery rang like
storm bells, but their sound did not reach us amid the howling of the
tempest. The kitchen has been removed into the house, no one is seen on
the courtyard, and there is a cracking and whistling among the poplars.
Now and then are heard the bells of a courier's horse which canters by
the outer wall, and perhaps brings new instructions regarding me. Ma
makes no sign, Lobsang Tsering has disappeared, and Tsaktserkan comes
only when I send to ask him. We are more and more isolated, no one dares
associate with us. Our position is exciting and even interesting. It is
evident that we must leave Shigatse, but by which route? I have already
told them that I will not go through Gyangtse or Khatmandu (capital
of Nepal), as Ma proposed to me, and to equip here a caravan for the
Chang-tang is out of the question. I have only one goal, the north of
the Tsangpo, where most important discoveries await me. At the moment we
are on the point of leaving Shigatse we find ourselves for the first
time actually prisoners; as long as we remain here we have at any rate
freedom within our own walls. And as long as I am in Tibet, I am _tabu_
to the English, but as soon as I cross the British frontier I am done
for. I cannot go to Eastern Turkestan, for the Chinese Government has,
as I hear from Gaw, cancelled my passport, because it has been used for
another country. To travel direct to China with Ladakis will also not
do. But if I am compelled to make for Sikkim, I must dismiss the Ladakis
and travel alone to Pekin to explain the affair to the mandarins."
On March 15 the two gentlemen from Lhasa came to me again. They had been
to Gyangtse, and had received orders from Gaw to watch all my movements
carefully. Again they wished to know the day of my departure, and I
replied that I could come to no decision until I knew by what road I
should travel. If it were to the Chang-tang, they might count on a long
delay, and might meanwhile buy a house and marry at their leisure. They
now complained themselves of the increased power of the Chinese in
Tibet, and gave their opinion that only the unrest arising from the new
strict régime in Lhasa had rendered it possible for me to travel across
Tibet unnoticed.
In this they were probably quite right. The blunder of the Dalai Lama
and the unexpected change of front on the part of the English had given
the Chinese an opportunity of establishing their supremacy over Tibet
more securely than they had been able to do since the days of Kang Hi
and Kien Lung in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Of the
prestige of England I could not perceive a shadow, and I heard that the
Tashi Lama regretted his journey to India. Perhaps it was prudent of the
Liberal Government in London to give up Chumbi, and by barring the
frontier to exclude all possibility of boundary disputes and friction on
the Indian side; for in our times the old Asia is beginning to waken
out of its deep sleep, and the Great Powers of Europe which have
interests there should rather seek to retain what they already possess
than endeavour to make fresh acquisitions. At any rate the Chinese
statesmen exhibited on this occasion admirable prudence and vigilance,
and gathered in all that the English gave up. If ever the Dalai Lama
returns safely to Lhasa, he must content himself with the reverence
accorded to him in the Potala as an incarnation, and he will not be
allowed to have anything further to do with political affairs. The
country of Tibet will doubtless in the future be closed as strictly as
hitherto; for the supremacy over Tibet is a political question of the
first importance to China, not only because Tibet is, as it were, a huge
fortress with ramparts, walls, and ditches protecting China, but also on
account of the great spiritual influence which the two popes exercise
over all Mongolians. As long as China has the Dalai Lama in its power,
it can keep the Mongols in check, while in other circumstances the Dalai
Lama could stir them up to insurrection against China. And Mongolia is
also the buffer state between China and Russia.
On March 19 our prospects grew bright at last. Ma had had a meeting with
the two Lhasa gentlemen and the authorities of the Shigatse Dzong. The
last came to me and begged me to inform them whither I meant to travel.
I answered: "Along the Raga-tsangpo to its source."
The gentlemen who had held the meeting, had meanwhile apparently come to
the decision of taking the responsibility on themselves of the
consequences of my journey to the west. But they firmly insisted that I
must take exactly the same route back to Yeshung by which I had come,
that is, through Tanak and Rungma, or they would get into trouble.
When it was thus settled that we were not to go to Gyangtse, I sent
Muhamed Isa to Major O'Connor with all the maps, drawings, and the
results hitherto acquired; the whole despatch afterwards reached Colonel
Dunlop Smith in Calcutta in good condition. We had 3000 rupees more in
gold exchanged for silver money, and I wrote a letter of farewell to my
good friend O'Connor, and likewise to my numerous friends in India. I
also wrote home, as usual, in the form of a complete journal.
On the 20th Ma came through our gate, triumphantly waving a letter with
a large red seal, and called out from a distance: "From the Tang Darin."
The letter was dated on March 15 at Lhasa, and I reproduce it here as a
specimen of Chinese diplomatic correspondence:
DEAR DR. SVEN HEDIN--I was much pleased to receive your letter of the
5th instant, and to hear that you are come to Shigatse in order to
investigate the geography of the unknown parts of this country. I know
that you are one of the famous geographers of Europe, that you move
about here without meddling in the affairs of Tibet, political or
otherwise, and carry out only geographical work.
I have a great respect for you as a man of science, who seriously
advances the progress of earth knowledge. I always value such men most
highly and show them the greatest reverence.
But, to my great regret, I must inform you that the last treaty
between China and Great Britain contains a paragraph declaring that no
stranger, whether he be an Englishman or Russian, an American or
European, has any right to visit Tibet, the three market-towns,
Gyangtse, Yatung, and Gartok, excepted. You are, then, not the only
one to whom the country is closed.
I shall be glad, then, if you will return the same way you came, and
you will thereby put me under a very great obligation.
China and Sweden are really friendly Powers, and both peoples are true
brothers.
I hope you will not judge me harshly, for I am bound by the treaty not
to suffer you to travel further.
I have issued orders to the Chinese and native authorities along your
route to afford you all the facilities in their power.
Wishing you a successful journey, I am, yours truly,
CHANG YIN TANG.
The letter leaves nothing to be desired as far as obliging amiability is
concerned, but its contents are diplomatically obscure. Chinese and
native authorities in the Chang-tang, where we had not seen a living
soul for eighty-one consecutive days! Like Gaw, he falls back on the
treaty signed by Great Britain to close the most interesting country in
the world to exploration.
Ma knew the contents of the letter, and asked if it were still my
determination to follow the Raga-tsangpo upwards. If so, the route was
open to me. I answered in the affirmative, without showing any sign of
my satisfaction, for this road was not sanctioned by Tang's letter. Now
some of the gentlemen of the Dzong had to look after the procuring of
provisions--all by Tang's orders.
All of a sudden the authorities of Shigatse became very polite, and
showered down visits on me, after they found that I was in the good
books of the most powerful man in Tibet in temporal affairs. Six sacks
of _tsamba_, a sack of rice, and twelve cubes of brick tea were brought
to my courtyard, and exact information was asked for as to the points I
intended to touch on beyond the mouth of the Raga-tsangpo. However, I
did not satisfy them, but said that not a single name up there was known
to me. I thought to myself that it was most prudent not to excite
suspicion by too many details; the farther we got away from the central
authorities the greater prospect we had of being left alone. They
inquired how many horses we wanted, and I at once said 65, so as to be
well provided; they went away very quietly, as though they thought that
this was a very large number.
[Illustration: 167. DUKE KUNG GUSHUK, BROTHER OF THE TASHI LAMA.]
On March 24 Muhamed Isa came back with the silver money, more letters,
and all kinds of articles which Major O'Connor, with his usual kindness,
had procured for me. In the afternoon a great council was held: Ma, the
two Lhasa gentlemen, the whole Shigatse Dzong, and Tsaktserkan--in all,
nearly 20 officials, about 100 servants, Chinese soldiers, and
newsmongers; so that the whole court was filled. The new passport was
solemnly read to me. Therein the places were mentioned through which I
might pass: the Raga-tsangpo, then Saka-dzong, Tradum, Tuksum, Gartok,
Demchok, and the Ladak frontier. I must not stop at any point, must make
long day's marches, and travel straight along the valleys of the
Brahmaputra and the Indus. I considered it useless to make any
objections to the regulations; not a word was said of the country north
of the Tsangpo, where I suspected the existence of the great mountain
system. But I thought that we might contrive ourselves in some way or
other an excursion thither, and resolved to give them plenty of trouble
before they got rid of me. Two Chinamen, an official of the Labrang
and one from the Shigatse Dzong, were to accompany me for the first part
of the journey, and then be relieved by four others. The escort was
introduced to me. The gentlemen insisted that we should start next day,
but I declared that we required two days more to complete our
preparations. All the provisions they had hurriedly collected were
weighed in their presence, and paid for by me.
The brown puppy arranged for the morning of the 25th an interlude which
certainly was not unexpected. Inspired by uncivilized ideas about the
sanctity of my tent, the bitch had not ventured in for a long time, but
now, just as I sat writing my last letter, she came and scratched a hole
with her fore-paws in a corner of my tent, whined uneasily, laid her
head on my knee, and looked very unhappy, as though she wished me to
understand how helpless she felt. Before I was aware two very small
puppies lay squeaking at my feet. While the young mother was licking her
first-born with great tenderness, Muhamed Isa made a soft lair for the
family. Puppy had scarcely taken her place on it when two more puppies
made their entrance into this queer world. Then she probably thought
that this was enough, for after a good meal of meat and a bowl of milk
she rolled herself up with her well-tended young ones and went to sleep.
The new puppies were black as coal and small as rats. I bought a basket
for them to travel in until they could follow on foot the caravan in
which they were born, and become good caravan dogs. We had tried here,
too, in vain to get some good dogs, for our vagabonds from the
Ngangtse-tso were good watch-dogs but unpleasant companions. Now we had
suddenly a whole pack, and it would be an amusement to us to watch their
development. Whatever might be our future fate, we could not reach Ladak
in less than half a year, and by that time the puppies would have grown
big and comical. Henceforth Puppy was allowed to live in my tent, and we
became the best friends in the world, for I was as anxious and careful
about the young ones as she. But she would not allow any one to approach
who had no business here; scarcely half an hour after the catastrophe
she dashed at two boys who were loitering about the court. There was a
dreadful whining in the corner of the tent, but both the mother and
young ones were as well as could be expected under the circumstances, as
it is expressed in society bulletins.
In the meantime there was a very busy commotion in our courtyard. The
heavy baggage was packed; rice and _tsamba_ for the men, and barley for
the horses, sewed up in bags accurately weighed; Chinese macaroni,
cabbages, onions, fine wheaten flour, spices, potatoes, and as many eggs
as we could get, were brought in from the market. The books, which I had
received from O'Connor, filled a box to themselves, and would be thrown
away, one after another, as soon as they had been read. When all had
been packed up, my tent looked very bare.
On March 26, our last day in Shigatse, the packing was finished and Ma
Chi Fu, a young official in Chumbi, came from Lhasa, bringing me
greetings from Their Excellencies. He was a Dungan (Mohammedan), spoke
gently and politely, and was one of the noblest, most refined, and
sympathetic Chinamen whom I have known. He was also exceptionally
handsome, had large bright eyes, which had scarcely any characteristics
of his race, and pure Aryan features, and wore a valuable silken cloak.
He regretted that he had had no opportunity of showing me hospitality,
and begged me to believe that the escort would be only a guard; it was
only to watch over our safety, and had orders to serve us to the best of
its ability. Ma Chi Fu brought a kind letter from Lien Darin, the Amban
of Lhasa, in which he wrote:
I knew that you were a learned geographer from Sweden. I am sorry that
in consequence of the treaty I am not now able to make better
arrangements for you in Tibet, but you are a wise man, and will
therefore understand the difficulty in which I find myself much
against my will.
In all my personal contact and correspondence with the Chinese they
always showed me the greatest kindness and consideration. They were the
masters of the country, and I had no right to travel about in Tibet, yet
they never made use of hard words, much less of the means of actual
compulsion that were at their command, but carried their hospitality as
far as was consistent with loyalty to their own country. Therefore I
retain the most agreeable memories of this and all my former travels.
In the evening I bade farewell to good old Ma, gave him three useless
horses, which would, however, recover with good treatment, and thanked
him for all his kindness to me. He expressed a hope that we might meet
once more in this life. All who had been of service to us received
considerable presents of money, and Kung Gushuk demanded 45 rupees as
rent for his garden. I would have gladly given him several times the sum
for the memorable days I had spent under the slender poplars, when the
soughing of the spring winds roused me out of sleep.
CHAPTER XXXII
TARTING-GOMPA AND TASHI-GEMBE
I was awaked early on March 27. I mounted my horse, accompanied by
Robert, Muhamed Isa, and three men of the escort, while the fourth had
gone on with the caravan. Muhamed Isa conveyed my hearty greetings to
the Tashi Lama, and my wishes that the course of his life might run as
smoothly and happily as heretofore. Meanwhile, I paid a short return
visit to Ma Chi Fu, and had not yet left him when my excellent caravan
leader returned with the kindest greetings from the Tashi Lama and a
large silken _kadakh_, which I keep as a souvenir with the image he
presented to me. Then we rode in close order through the forbidden
streets for the last time, and the golden temple roofs disappeared
behind us. So, farewell for ever, grand, lovable, divine Tashi Lama!
[Illustration: 168. THE LITTLE BROTHER OF THE TASHI LAMA, THE WIFE OF
KUNG GUSHUK, AND HER FIVE SERVANTS.]
When we left the side valley of the Nyang-chu and came out into the
Tsangpo valley, we were exposed to the storm coming from the west and
covering all the country with a thick cloud of dust. The long white
foaming waves of the river rose so high that the farther bank was
invisible. The horses were restless and would not go into the skin boat,
but at last we brought them all safely over. I now rode a rather large
brown horse which I had bought in Shigatse. My small white Ladaki was
still in good condition, but he was exempt from work. Only three
veterans from Leh remained, two horses and a mule. Robert rode one of
the horses from the Ngangtse-tso, and Muhamed Isa a large white horse
from Shigatse, where we had also bought two mules; the baggage was
transported on hired horses and asses. The caravan had encamped in
the village of Sadung on the north bank of the Tsangpo. Ishe had carried
the four puppies in his dress on his breast, and had led Puppy with a
string, that the young ones might be suckled on the way.
Next morning we awoke in beautiful weather. Eastwards were seen a series
of brown mountain ridges with shading growing lighter and lighter as
they dipped to the river, which stood out in still brighter colouring.
The dwellers on the bank here called the Brahmaputra Tamchok-kamba, and
said that it would fall for two months more, and would then rise till it
attained its maximum at the end of July. Then it floods most of the
valley bottom, and rolls majestically down, while all around assumes a
fresher hue in the calm air of summer. At the end of September the level
of the water becomes lower, and the river freezes only in cold winters.
We again retire from the holy districts, and ride through villages
standing at the mouths of side valleys, past granitic promontories of
the northern mountains, over fields and dunes, and camp, as before, in
the garden of the Tashi Lama in Tanak. The four gentlemen that accompany
us have brought their servants with them, and provide their own shelter,
horses, and food. They have received on setting out a certain sum for
this purpose, but for all that live at the expense of the villagers, eat
and lodge free of cost, and order fresh horses for every day's march
without paying any hire. They keep their travelling money intact in
their pockets, and are therefore well pleased with their commission.
Both on the 28th and on the 29th, when we bivouacked in Rungma, we had
violent storms from noon onwards, which blew in our faces. Nothing could
be seen of the surroundings, and frequently I could not perceive the man
just in front of me. We were pestered with sand, which grated under our
teeth, irritated our backs, and made our eyes smart. Where the valley
was contracted, the compressed wind blew with double strength, and the
sand-clouds rolled in a greyish-yellow mass along the Brahmaputra
valley.
We went on the 30th on to Karu in brilliant weather, still along the
Tsangpo, which, green and free from ice, gently lapped against the
southern foot of the mountains. Occasionally a boat glided downstream.
The wild ducks on the shore are very tame, for no one is allowed to kill
them, and, indeed, no one wishes to do so. Only a slight local traffic
is noticeable. We miss the pilgrims we saw on the journey down; they are
now at home again. We leave on the right the small convent Chuding with
its nine nuns. On the steep mountain flanks are rocky paths used during
high water, for the road we follow is quite covered in summer when the
river is 5 feet higher.
In Karu wheat, barley, peas, and radishes are cultivated. We had made a
short march, and I had ample time to interrogate the wise men of the
village about the geography of the country, the means of communication,
the climate, the habits of the river, and the directions of the wind;
but I have no room for such particulars in this book. I would rather,
instead, introduce our escort to the reader. Vang Yi Tyn is a Dungan,
born in Shigatse; Tso Tin Pang has a Chinese father and a Tibetan
mother, has his home in Shigatse, holds the Lamaistic faith, and murmurs
prayers on the way; Lava Tashi and Shidar Pintso are pure Tibetans. All
four are friendly and ready to help, and tell me in confidence that they
mean to do their very best, that I may be pleased with them and give
them good testimonials.
The last day of the month of March is marked in my journal with an
asterisk. While the caravan marched straight towards Ye, the rest of us
rode up a side valley, at the mouth of which lies the village
Tarting-choro, surrounded by fields and willow trees. A small well-kept
_mani-ringmo_ is covered with stones polished by the river, in which the
usual formula is not incised, but another in red and blue characters,
namely, "Om mati moyi sale do." The figure [symbol: swastika] is many
times repeated, and indicates a connection with the Pembo sect, while
the figure [symbol: swastika] is a mark of the orthodox yellow-caps.
[Illustration: 169. THE LITTLE BROTHER OF HIS HOLINESS WITH A SERVANT.]
Farther up lies another village, having a _chhorten_ with a gilded
turret in a copse of old trees. A red house is the _lhakang_ (God's
House) of Tarting-gompa, and behind stands the house of the Grand Lama,
picturesque and unique, built in the usual cubical style, with white
steps and flat roof. Above it Tarting-gompa is throned on its hill like
Chimre or Tikze in Ladak (Illustrations 173, 174, 178).
We enter the court of the _lhakang_ with its red walls; on two sides a
roof is supported by posts, a shed for the riding horses, pack-mules,
men and women who carry firewood and goods--a cloister and a
caravanserai at the same time, where labour finds harbourage under the
protection of religion--and over it waves a long flag from a _tarchen_,
a mast standing in the midst of the court. The convent dog is chained
up. The gate has an unusually high threshold; on the side walls of the
entrance a tiger is painted in fresh colours. We now enter the
_lhakang_, and I must confess that I started with surprise in the
portal, for we had seen many halls of the gods in Tashi-lunpo, but never
yet one so large, ancient and so wonderfully fascinating in its
mysterious light.
What rich and subdued colouring! The Sego-chummo-lhakang, as it is
called, is like a crypt, a fairy grotto, recalling to mind the rock
temples of Elephanta; but here all is of red-painted wood, and 48
pillars support the roof. The capitals are green and gold, carved in
intricate and tasteful designs, and carved lions, arabesques, and
tendrils adorn the projecting beams of the ceiling. The floor consists
of stone flags, their cracks filled up with the dust of centuries, so
that it is smooth and even as asphalt. The daylight falls into the hall
through a square impluvium, spanned by a network of chains. There stands
the throne of the Tashi Lama, who visited the convent two years ago, and
is expected again in two years, and opposite is a pyramidal stand, which
is hung with lamps at certain festivals. A lama sits all day long at a
tall prayer-cylinder (_korlo_ or _mankor_) about 6 feet high, with a
pile of loose leaves a foot high in front of him, which he turns over
rapidly, and gabbles their contents so quickly that one wonders how his
tongue can move so fast. Frequently he beats a drum, then he clashes
cymbals, or turns the prayer-cylinder in the heterodox direction
(Illustrations 179, 254).
In another saloon, beside this, repose Grand Lamas of the Pembo sect,
high priests of Tarting-gompa. We find here the same four-sided passage
as round the sepulchres of Tashi-lunpo. But as I was going, as usual,
from right to left, lamas hurried up to stop me. The monuments are like
_chhorten_, and are covered with gold plaques and precious stones.
Twelve statues of deceased high priests have behind them huge gilded
halos, richly carved with carefully executed detail. Beside Shen Nime
Kudun's monument lie two black smoothly-polished round blocks,
apparently of porphyry or diabase. On one of them is seen the impression
of the foot of the above-named Grand Lama. On the edge of the other are
four impressions, his four fingers, just as though the flat hand with
the fingers a little expanded had been pressed against a piece of hard
butter. One can try it with one's own hand; the fingers fit in exactly,
and the hollows are about 3/4 inch deep. It is well and naturally
executed--_pia fraus!_
"When was the monastery founded?" I asked.
"That was so long ago that no one now living knows."
"Who founded it, then?"
"Gunchen Ishe Loto, long before Tsong Kapa's time."
The lamas spend all their lives in the convents, but have no idea how
old these are.
Then we ascend to the top of the hill, where several convent buildings
stand, and are received by a whole pack of vicious dogs. The chief
temple hall, Dokang-chummo, is built on the same plan as the one below,
and has numerous images, some of which are covered with strips and
silver cases. We are led from one sanctuary to another, and are
astonished at the extremely finely-executed frescoes that cover the
walls. A temple in an elevated situation is surrounded by an uncovered
passage with balustrades and prayer mills. A grand panorama of wild
fissured mountains extends all round.
[Illustration: 170. THE AUTHOR DRAWING THE DUCHESS KUNG GUSHUK.]
We had heard that the evening before our arrival an octogenarian lama
had died, and I begged to be allowed to see his cell. But the excuse was
made that some monks were reciting the prayers for the dead, and must
not be disturbed. However, the house of the deceased was pointed out
to us, and we went and knocked at the door of the courtyard. After a
long wait a man came and opened it. Half of the small court was occupied
by a black tent, where two men and a woman were cutting chips of wood 2
feet long, on which prayers and holy texts would be written, and then
they would be used to kindle the funeral pyre of the deceased. One was
drawing religious symbols and circles on a large paper, which would also
be burned. We mounted a short staircase and came to a narrow open
verandah before a store-shed with leathern chests containing the
clothing of the deceased, and a compartment where his servant lived, who
was now engaged in printing prayers in red, on white paper, with a
wooden stamp; 700 such strips of paper are burned with the body, and the
prayers follow the soul through the unknown realms of space.
From here we reach his cell, which is little more than double the size
of my tent. There sit two old monks, with their backs against the
trellised window. Books containing the prayers for the dead lie on a
table before them. Two others sit on the floor in the middle of the
room. All four must pray thrice twenty-four hours, day and night, for
the soul of the deceased. The cell has a pillar, and is full of idols,
holy vessels, banners, and books--a small museum. I asked if I might buy
any of the things, but was told that they must all be handed over to the
monastery.
The divan bed, partly draped with red hangings, stood against the
shorter wall, the head to the window. Here sat the body, bent very much
forward and with the legs crossed, and the back to the light. It was
dressed in coloured garments with shoes on the feet, a thin _kadakh_
over the face, and a head-covering of red and blue stuff somewhat like a
crown. Before it on the bed stood a stool with images, bowls, and two
burning candles.
The body is not consumed in this dress. A white frock is put on, and a
square cloth is spread over the knees, on which a large circle and other
symbols are drawn. A crown (_vangsha_) of paper is set on the head, a
square brimless hat, on which a button is fixed within eight broad
teeth; it resembles an imperial crown. Thus attired the body, in a
sitting position, is burned in the hollow of the valley below the
temple. A lama carries the ashes to Kang-rinpoche (Kailas), where they
are deposited in a holy _chhorten_.
At the age of five years this Yundung Sulting was consigned by his
parents in the year 1832 to the care of the confraternity of
Tarting-gompa, and his convent name was thenceforth Namgang Rinpoche.
He, too, was an incarnation, and stood in high repute for his holiness,
wisdom, and learning. On account of these merits he was burned, while
the other monks in Tarting are cut in pieces. His sister and only
relation, an old wrinkled woman, was present. The watchers of the dead
were just in the act of eating their dinner, which was placed on a
stool--cold dried meat, _tsamba_, and _chang_ (beer). They were shy and
astonished, had never seen a European, and did not know whether they
should answer my questions as I sat by them on the floor and took notes.
I noticed, however, that they were less concerned for themselves than
for the deceased. Twenty-four hours out of the prescribed seventy-two
had passed when I came to interrupt the masses for the dead, and to
disturb the soul which was nearly set free. But Namgang Rinpoche sat
still, meditating over the endless enigmatical perspective that the
formula "Om mati moyi sale do" opened out to him; and as long as I
remained in his cell, no awful wonders and signs were seen.
[Illustration: [Signature]
171. MAJOR W. F. O'CONNOR, BRITISH TRADE AGENT IN GYANGTSE, NOW CONSUL
IN SEISTAN.]
[Illustration: [Signature]
172. CAPTAIN C. G. RAWLING.]
For my part, I thought of the singular fate of the man whose life had
come to an end the day before. As a novice he had left for ever in
childhood the free existence among the black tents and grazing herds,
said farewell to the world and its vanities, and was received into a
community of monks, of whom none now remained alive. He saw his elders
die one after another, the young ones grow up to manhood, and new
recruits come in. They wandered for a season through the temple halls,
lighted the candles, and filled the water-bowls before the statues of
the gods, and then passed on to other scenes on the endless road to
Nirvana. Seventy-five years he had been an inmate of the monastery, and
had lived in the cell in which his body now lay. How many soles must
he have worn out on the same stone floor! For seventy-five years he had
searched the holy scriptures and had pondered over an easier existence
beyond the funeral pyre; for seventy-five years he had seen the westerly
storms driving the sand along the Brahmaputra valley. Only yesterday, at
the point of expiring, he had listened to the sound of the temple bells,
which, with their clappers bound with large falcon's feathers, had rung
in his passage to the world beyond. And then with tottering steps he had
followed the uncertain track of the brethren who had passed away before
him.
Such a life seems hopelessly sad and gloomy. And yet a man who will
venture to shut himself day and night within the walls of a dim convent
must possess faith, conviction, and patience, for it is a prison which
he in the tumult of his mind has chosen of his own free will. He has
renounced the world when he allows himself to be walled in alive in the
dark courts of Tarting; and when the smoke of his pyre ascends, it must,
if equal justice be meted out to all, be a pleasant savour before the
eternal throne.
But evening was coming on, and we must set out again. Below in a field a
woman was ploughing with two oxen. She was singing loudly and cheerily
to lighten her work. We rode on between low mountains, leaving
Tanka-gompa on our left. When we came down to the plain the darkness was
impenetrable, being made denser by thick clouds. A violent north wind
arose, bringing cold air from the Chang-tang. At length we caught sight
of comet tails of shooting sparks--our camp-fire in the Ye, where we had
halted for a night's rest two months before.
We remained two days in the Ye or Yeshung, and here took some liberties
which were not in accordance with the terms of our passport, but the
escort made no protest. On the first day we rode to Tugden-gompa, a row
of cubical, two-storeyed houses painted dark greyish-blue with vertical
white and red stripes. The monastery is said to be of the same colour as
the famous Sekiya, south-west of Tashi-lunpo, and also belongs to the
sect which allows lamas to marry under certain conditions. The convent
has thirty monks, and is directly under the Labrang (Tashi-lunpo). I
will not enter into a full description, but will only say that the
_tsokang_, the assembly saloon and reading-room of the lamas, had four
red pillars, divans in the nave, and handsome banners on the walls of
the side aisles, which were painted on Chinese silk, some with dragons
on the lower border, some without. The statues for the most part
represent monks of high rank (Lama-kunchuk, _i.e._ divine lamas or
incarnations). Before the portal stands a huge bundle of rods with
streamers in all the colours of the rainbow, which are already torn by
the wind. In an upper hall is enthroned a figure of Hlobun-Lama, a
regular bishop, with mitre, cassock, and crozier. Some of these statues
are very comical--fat, jolly old boys with a divinely gentle smile on
their rosy lips, wide-opened eyes, and chubby cheeks, sometimes with
moustaches and imperials. The likeness is probably more than doubtful,
but at any rate they are very unlike one another. Most of them are
wrapped in silken mantles. The Labrang here was closed, for the head
lama of Tugden was gone to the tent of a dying nomad to the north. We
visited a monk's cell instead. It had a yard, a stall for the monk's
horse, a small dark closet for a kitchen, where a cat kept company with
two pots, and a large lumber-room crammed with clothes, rags, images of
Buddha, books, and tools, in which a novice, the pupil of the monk,
lodged.
Immediately to the south-east of Tugden a small poor nunnery,
Ganden-chöding, lies buried among hills. The _dukang_, a dark crypt with
red pillars and neatly carved capitals, is reached through an
unpretending portal in the middle of the façade. Beggarly offerings,
scraps of iron and other rubbish, are hung on nails driven into the
pillars. The _serku-lhakang_, the holy of holies, receives its light
from the larger hall, and as this is dark, it must be pitch dark in the
inner shrine. The statues of Chenresi (Avalokiteswara) and of the
Tsepagmed (Amitayus) can only be seen with a lamp.
[Illustration: 173, 174. TARTING-GOMPA.]
[Illustration: 175. LINGA-GOMPA.]
[Illustration: 176. LUNG-GANDEN-GOMPA NEAR TONG.]
[Illustration: 177. INSCRIPTION AND FIGURE OF BUDDHA CARVED IN GRANITE
NEAR THE VILLAGE OF LINGÖ.
Sketches by the Author.]
The sixteen nuns of the convent are under the control of Tashi-lunpo,
and the Tashi Lama provides them with tea once a day; the rest of their
food they must beg in the houses and tents, so that some of them are
always on the road. Now there were only five sisters at home, all
dirty, with short hair, and poorly clad. Two were young and shy, the
others were old wrinkled women with silvery-grey bristles, and in
clothes which had been red once, but were now black with dirt, partly
soot from the kitchen--a miserable hole, where they spend most of the
day. I asked them whether they had attended the festival in Tashi-lunpo,
but they replied that their means would not allow them except when a
charitable person gave them travelling money. I always left a few rupees
in the convents I visited, and the inmates were never too holy to take
the valuable metal from the hands of an unbeliever.
The whole broad valley at Ye is begirt by a circle of monasteries. Our
Chinamen had given notice of my visit on April 2 to Tashi-gembe, a large
convent of 200 monks, who belong to the same colour as the monks of
Tashi-lunpo. We had an hour's ride to this town of white sanctuaries,
which are erected at the foot of a mountain spur. About 100 brethren
gave me a civil greeting at the entrance, and led me to the paved court
of ceremonies, which has the same appearance as the one in Tashi-lunpo,
is surrounded by pillared galleries, has numerous pictures of Buddha
painted in fresco on the walls, and a throne for the Tashi Lama, who
celebrates a mass here once a year. By a staircase of wood and stone,
between two pillars of the entrance hall, where the four spiritual kings
keep watch on the walls, we enter into a _dukang_, with the usual
pillars and divans. On two of these pillars hang complete suits of
armour with shirts of mail, casques and tasses of iron scales fastened
together with iron rings, maces, spears, tridents, and lances; on one of
these lances hangs a white pennant with a brown border; on the pennant
are written characters, and on the point of the lance a skull is placed.
Among the harness _tankas_ are suspended, which, surrounded by silken
cloths, look like escutcheons. Amid this harness and weapons, which are
worn by divine powers when contending with devils, one may fancy oneself
suddenly transplanted into an ancient Asiatic castle.
A gallery runs round three sides, and standards and banners hang down
from it, all in fresh colours, tasteful and handsome. In the middle of
the altar rank is enthroned Sakya-tubpa, the Buddha, and before the
statues stands a row of polished brass bowls with lights which, mingling
with the daylight, cast a magic gleam over the dusky hall. Some are
filled with crystal-clear water, the nectar of the gods.
On one of the longer sides the folios of the Kanjur, the collection of
canonical books contained in 108 volumes, as many as the beads in a
rosary, are arranged in pigeon-holes. The Tanjur, the other collection,
consists of 235 folios--a caravan of about 150 horses would be necessary
to carry the two bibles of the Tibetans. Only rich monasteries are able
to keep both. The thought that no one but themselves has waded through
these endless scriptures must inspire a feeling of security in the
monks. A layman is unable to confound a monk; he has never had an
opportunity of dipping deeply into these everlasting truths.
Above the idols and the altar runs a frieze of small Buddha images
forming, perhaps unintentionally, a highly decorative element of the
internal architecture of the hall.
Beside it lies the Kasang-lhakang, a temple with sixteen pillars and a
statue of the Sakya-tubpa. The hall is well lighted with skylights, and
abounds in gold and valuables, climbing flowers, sacred trees, and
lacquered shrines inlaid with gold. Here, too, are holy writings with
unusually elegant margins; an embroidered silk cover is laid over each
volume. A copper gong is sounded whenever fresh water is poured into the
votive bowls.
The Tsokang is a more elevated hall, which is draped with black hangings
striped white at the bottom.
Monks were sitting in a small open space with a quantity of small
articles before them; it was an auction, at which the worldly goods of a
departed brother were being sold. I acquired some wooden blocks with
which the holy scriptures are printed by hand.
[Illustration: 178. TARTING-GOMPA.]
[Illustration: 179. SEGO-CHUMMO LHAKANG IN TARTING-GOMPA.
Sketch by the Author.]
In the Ganden-lhakang we see two _chhortens_ of gold and precious
stones. In one of them are preserved relics of a Grand Lama, some of his
blood, his bones, and his intestines. In a room situated beside this
hall we saw with surprise six curious figures of cast iron, representing
Europeans in the dress of the thirties of the nineteenth century,
with tall chimney-pot hats, stiff folded neck-cloths, upstanding
collars, and dress coats with high collars, whiskers, and moustaches.
They had come from Pekin, and were quite out of place here before the
tasteful group of Buddhas, which was set up in a red lacquered niche,
where climbing plants, dragons, and small figures like Cupids or angels
were beautifully carved.
The Mankang-lhakang has figures of the higher gods on the walls, and in
the middle a prayer cylinder rises from the floor up to the ceiling, 11½
feet high, and of such circumference that I laid my outstretched arms
four times round it, measuring from finger-tips to finger-tips. Its red
surface is covered with gigantic golden characters, and round the middle
of the cylinder dances a string of goddesses. A smaller hall of the same
kind is called Mankang-chang. On the upper edge of its prayer cylinder
is a peg which, as the cylinder revolves, strikes against the clapper of
a bell. An old lama sat before it and kept the cylinder in constant
motion by means of a string attached to a crank on the iron axle. It is
the duty of himself and another monk to keep this monstrosity humming
all the day and half the night, or from sunrise to midnight. As he sat
turning, he said his prayers, but he did not murmur them in the usual
way. No, he bellowed, he howled out inarticulate sounds, so that he
foamed at the mouth, perspired, and groaned, throwing himself violently
back at each revolution, and then bending forward again. He was, so I
was told, in a religious ecstasy, and did not hear, however loudly one
shouted to him. I should prefer the oar of a galley slave to this
monster, which cripples any capacity of thinking freely in the darkness
of the crypt, where only musty dumb gods can be witnesses of its
rotations. I looked at my watch; the bell sounded nine times in a
minute, so that the machine makes 10,000 revolutions before the midnight
hour comes to release the weary monk.
We passed the whole day in the wonderful monastery Tashi-gembe, which,
after Tashi-lunpo, is the richest and finest I have seen in Tibet. As to
cleanliness and good taste, it surpasses all. The temple halls were
well lighted by numerous windows, the mid-day sun shone in between the
pillars and produced a bewitching play of light and shade, and revealed
a charming arrangement of colours between red and gold. Some monks sat
on a divan and conversed with our companions; they made a clear and
effective picture in the sunlight, red on a red background. Others
leaned against the pillars, solemn as Roman senators in their togas, in
a flood of sunshine, while a dense group of their brethren was dimly
seen under the shadows of the gallery. And where the sunbeams played on
the gold of Buddha's robe and broke on the leaves of the golden
lotus-flower, out of which he rises, reflexions were scattered through
the fairy hall, and the pillars shone like transparent rubies. We were
dazzled by these effects of light, and might have been transplanted to
the halls of the gnomes.
In contrast to all this wealth, an old blind man of eighty sat at a
street-corner with a staff in each hand, and sang a beggar's ditty.
Beside him lay a half-starved dog, his only friend in this world. The
pitying love of Sakya-muni did not extend so far as to release this old
man from the bonds of age and suffering. He also found a place in the
picture gallery of my sketch-book, which on this memorable day received
considerable additions. As ever, I felt myself to be only a passing
pilgrim, a wanderer who had crossed the threshold of Tashi-gembe for a
few hours, and a stranger and guest in the dreary valleys of Tibet and
its mysterious enchanting temples.
The sun had set when we rode home, but the crests of the eastern
mountains still glowed as in a rain of transparent gold. In the gently
rippling water-channels the wild-geese gathered, screaming, for their
spring migration, and the shadows of evening fell over the wide fields
of Yeshung.
[Illustration: 180. BRIDGE TO THE MONASTERY PINZOLING (ON THE RIGHT).]
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE RAGA-TSANGPO AND THE MY-CHU
On April 3 we journeyed steadily along the way to the west by smiling
villages and small convents, and again we approached the bank of the
Tsangpo, at a place where a swaying rope-bridge is stretched between two
loose blocks on the banks. Here the river forms rapids, and above this
point it is only 50 yards broad, often still less, and the valley above
the Yeshung expansion is narrow and confined. From the village Pusum,
where we encamp, is seen the mountain Nayala, one of the fixed points in
Ryder's triangulation. His and Rawling's expedition travelled to the
south of the Tsangpo, and it would be two months more before I should
first come in contact with their route. The river will rise a month
longer in consequence of the melting of ice in the higher parts of its
course in the distant west.
The village Pusum lies on a steep terrace above the river. Cones of
detritus descend to the bank, and steep mountains rise on the southern
side. The valley is narrow and quite straight, so that Pinsoling, the
end of the next day's march, can be seen from Pusum; it is perched on
its rocky promontory like a castle on the Rhine. The path passes over
steep disagreeable slopes of pebbles. Only grey and red granite, with
black schist, is seen both in the solid rock and in the débris.
Almost immediately south of Chagha, a village of a couple of stone
houses in a grove of old willows, the monastery and dzong of Pinzoling
appear on the right bank. The river is narrow, and the bank full of
round granite boulders a yard in diameter, so the necessary material
for a bridge is at hand. Two huge pyramids of stone are erected on the
banks, and two smaller ones behind them. Two thick chains are stretched
between them, which pass on to the smaller pyramids, and are made fast
again to them. Between the chains a network of ropes is stretched like a
hammock, and on this narrow planks are laid; on these passengers walk,
using the chains as hand-rails. The Pinzoling bridge has not been used
for three years; any one who wants to cross to Pinzoling from Chagha
must go upstream to Ladse-dzong and make use of the ferry there. I
inquired how old the bridge was. "As old as the monastery," was the
answer. "And how old is the monastery?" A villager answered at random,
"A thousand years." Another said that this was an exaggeration, for the
monastery had been founded two hundred and fifty years ago by a lama
named Yitsyn Tara Nara. Two hundred monks belong to the monastery of
Pinzoling, but half of them had gone on their travels. An official of
the dzong, with the title of Dsabo, lived in Chagha, and examined our
passport (Illustration 180).
The river was at its lowest level, but during high-water it is said to
come up to the chains of the bridge, which seems to me improbable, for
they hang fully 6 feet above the surface of the water at their lowest
part. A channel remains open in the middle of the river even in cold
winters. Boats reach the side valley in which Shigatse lies in four to
five days, but during the summer in two or three days, for then the
river flows down with tremendous velocity. It is considered less
dangerous to travel in a high flood, for then the boats glide smoothly
over boulders and sandbanks, and it is said that a man is very seldom
drowned, or a boat's cargo lost.
Black and dark-purple mountains rise around the village, their surface
only visible in some places in strips between belts of drift-sand; they
are like tiger skins. Near a ridge to the south-west lies a large dune
as though it were attached to it.
The order of the day for April 5 was that Muhamed Isa with the hired
animals and the baggage should encamp at the point where the
Raga-tsangpo flows into the upper Brahmaputra. The rest of us rode up to
a small pass, Tsukchung-chang, on a spur of the mountains which extends
to the bank of the main river. From the summit there is a grand view
over the main valley and its stream, which meanders over gravel and sand
in two arms. Below we caught sight of mule caravans, mere specks, but
their bells filled the valley with their noise. The way runs headlong
down to the valley bottom so that we had to engage extra men to carry
the baggage, with which the horses could not clamber down the
precipitous slopes. Large dark fish swam in a stopped-up arm of the
river, and here sat Shukkur Ali with his rod. Sand-dunes ten feet high
are a common occurrence, and on the steep side, turned from the wind,
that is, the east side, pools are often formed.
To the south-west opens a large portal with shelving mountains in the
background and short side valleys, the whole forming a beautiful scene.
Through this portal the Brahmaputra comes down towards the Raga-tsangpo,
but this river is known here in its lowest course by the name Dok-chu,
while the main river is known as the Dam-chu (= Tamchok). At the
confluence no tents were to be seen, and Muhamed Isa told me afterwards
that he could not stay there as the country was quite barren. We
therefore rode up the Dok-chu valley to the village Tangna, consisting
of ten stone houses. The inhabitants cultivate peas, wheat, and barley,
but cannot count with certainty on a harvest.
I would on no account miss seeing the confluence of the two rivers, and
therefore ordered my men to descend the Dok-chu valley next day to this
point. But the escort would not hear of it. It was clearly stipulated in
the passport that we must not go backwards and forwards as we liked, but
must march straight to Ladak. At last they yielded under the condition
that the excursion should not last more than one day.
In the morning Muhamed Isa took the boat and the oars down to the river,
while ropes, stakes, axes, poles, and provisions were carried by Ladakis
down to the confluence by the way we had come the day before. On
arriving at the bank I found the boat already put together, and took my
seat in it with a Tibetan who was familiar with the river and handled
the oars as skilfully as though he had done nothing else all his life,
but he was accustomed to steer his own boat between the banks at Tangna,
and knew the channel downstream.
Our voyage through the rapids is exciting and adventurous. The fall of
the river is by no means uniform, but changes from place to place,
roaring rapids alternating with deep quiet basins. Large and small
boulders have fallen into the river from the mountain flanks and
sometimes it seems impossible to get through them. But the oarsman knows
how to steer the boat. We hear the roar of the next rapid from a
distance, and keep a sharp look-out in front. Some of our Ladakis run
along the path on the bank and warn us of serious dangers.
[Illustration: 181. GROUP OF TIBETANS IN THE VILLAGE OF TONG.]
[Illustration: 182. INHABITANTS OF THE VILLAGE OF GOVO.]
The boat rushes flying downstream. The boatman sits silent with his
teeth clenched and his feet firmly planted against the bottom, and
grasps the oars so tightly in his horny hands that the knuckles become
white. We had passed successfully several rapids and were gliding
pleasantly over a reach of smooth water, when we heard the warning roar
of the next rapids, this time louder than ever, and two Ladakis stood
shouting and gesticulating. I got up in the boat and saw that the
Dok-chu split into two arms, and that the water dashed foaming among
dark sharp-edged boulders. The place looked impassable, the intervals
between the boulders seemed much too narrow for the boat, which might
any moment have its bottom torn by treacherously hidden stones; over
some of these the water poured in bright-green hillocks, and then was
scattered into foaming spray. "I shall be glad if all goes well," I
thought, but I left the boatman to his own devices. We were soon in the
sucking current, which endures no resistance, and flew quicker and
quicker towards the two rapids. With powerful strokes the oarsman forced
the boat to enter the left branch. The Ladakis stood speechless on the
bank, and waited till we were wrecked to wade into the rapids and rescue
us. Now we dashed towards the first block, but the boatman guided his
boat into the deepest water and let it slip down a small waterfall,
after which we received a thrust from the other side. Now the channel
became broader but also shallower, and we grazed the bottom, fortunately
only with the keel and without springing a leak. The current was strong
enough to carry us away over stones and rubbish.
After a while the two arms re-unite and the river becomes smooth and
deep. The boatman has never changed countenance, and now he helps on
with the oars. We are on the north side of the valley, and just at the
bend where the river turns southwards the water rages and boils more
furiously than ever, and here the undaunted boatman declares that we can
go no farther. I hold my breath at the sight of the white foaming water
which breaks over the threshold of the fall; the boat will be carried
away in a second by the suction of the water and will be infallibly
capsized. But just at the right moment the boatman steers our nutshell
aside into a bay with a back current, and we are able to land. The
Ladakis hurry up, draw the boat ashore, and set it afloat again below
the waterfall.
Now we float pleasantly past the steep rocky walls of the southern bank,
where the depth is sometimes 5 feet, and sometimes less than a foot. I
have a pole and help to hold off the boat from the bank. Again we are
carried to the northern side of the valley and dance and rock through a
series of small lively rapids, usually quite deep enough. Now and then
we graze the bottom, but the wooden keel resists the thumps. Below a
gigantic boulder lying in the middle of the stream is a sucking
whirlpool, into which we nearly stumble, but we get past safely, and at
last arrive at the point where the Dok-chu pours its snow-fed waters
into the flood of the Brahmaputra.
The tributary here forms a delta with two branches between gravelly
banks 5 feet high. A post was driven in on the left bank of the main
arm, to which we fastened one end of a rope, with the other end I rowed
over to the right bank, where the rope was fastened to another post. The
breadth was 59 yards. Then I measured the depth at eleven points at
equal distances apart, and found that it did not exceed 3-1/3 feet. The
velocity was measured on the surface, half-way down, and at the bottom,
with Lyth's current meter. Taking the breadth and the average velocity
we arrive at the discharge, which in the two arms of the Dok-chu
amounted to 1165 cubic feet per second.
Where the two streams unite the Dok-chu is rapid and tumultuous, the
Brahmaputra slow, deep, and quiet. Its breadth was 50 yards and its
maximum depth 15.3 feet; the bed is therefore narrow and very deeply
excavated. The discharge amounted to 2966 feet in the second, or two and
a half times that of its tributary the Dok-chu.
When I had finished this work, our friends Tso Ting Pang and Lava Tashi
accompanied me on a short excursion down the main stream, and then we
landed on a promontory where our men lighted a fire and served up the
best provisions we had, namely, hard-boiled eggs, slices of cold
chicken, and milk. A cordial and mixed party, a Swede among Tibetans,
Chinamen and Ladakis, we partook of our late dinner amidst the grandest,
and most boldly sculptured landscape conceivable. While the others
smoked their pipes and sipped their greasy tea, I drew a sketch of the
mighty gate of solid granite through which the Brahmaputra rolls its
volumes of water on its way to the east, to the valley of the Dihong and
the plains of Assam. We should have liked to stay here longer, watching
how moment after moment the insatiable stream gathers in its abundant
tribute from the Dok-chu, but it was growing dark and we had a long way
to go back, so we packed up our boat and stowed it on hired horses with
the other baggage, mounted into the saddle, and rode up the valley. As
had often happened before, we were to-day overtaken by the darkness.
Rabsang went in front with a Tibetan on either side, and all three
bellowed as loud as they could. All were in excellent spirits, it was so
fresh and pleasant under the twinkling stars, and the merry singers,
accompanied by the jingle of the bells on the Chinese horses, awoke a
shrill echo in the recesses of the mountains. At a dangerous place near
a village, where the road runs above the river over a ledge built up of
stones, men came to meet us with paper lanterns, and soon after we sat
resting in our tents after a hard but very instructive day's work. Next
day we marched gently up the Dok-chu valley in a north-westerly
direction, a charmingly beautiful road, where one would like to dismount
repeatedly to enjoy conveniently the wild mountain scenery.
But now I cannot loiter; one page after another of my journal must be
turned over if I am ever to come to an end of my description of this
journey on which so many hard experiences and disagreeable adventures
awaited us.
We ride through rubbish and coarse sand, the weathering products of the
grey granite, and pass a succession of transverse valleys and several
picturesque villages. One of these, Machung, is finely situated at the
foot of steep rocks on the northern side of the valley, from which an
oval block has fallen down and stands like a gigantic egg in the sand, a
pedestal waiting for an equestrian statue. On its eastern side, smoothly
polished by wind and weather, a regular tricolour is painted, white in
the middle, red on the left and blue on the right, but neither Bonvalot
nor Dutreuil de Rhins has left this memorial behind, for no traveller
has ever been in the neighbourhood. It is the inhabitants of the village
who have made this flag, and beside the tricolour is another symbolical
painting, a white cross on a black field. Near the village some gnarled
trees are reflected in a pool. The villagers stand staring at the
corners and in the house-doors, and a man offers my servants a drink of
_chang_ from a wooden bowl. The rocks are sculptured into singular
forms; the granite is in vertical dykes and stands in perpendicular
crags in the valley. We often pass by _mani_ cists, for we are in a
country where monasteries are numerous and the whole road is adorned
with religious tokens. At every cist the road divides, for no one,
except adherents of the Pembo sect, omits to pass it on the left, the
direction in which the prayer mills revolve. On the tops of many of the
rocks are seen ruins of walls and towers, a proof that the valley in
bygone times was more densely peopled. At two places sheltered clefts in
the rock harbour some stunted juniper trees. On the northern side of the
valley the river has at some time polished the base of the granite
wall, and on the smooth surface two rock drawings have been executed.
They consist of outlines of Buddha pictures, and are very artistically
drawn. The western has two others beside it, now scarcely traceable, and
below them all kinds of ornamentation, tendrils, and designs are hewn in
the granite. We encamped just above this spot in a very picturesque and
interesting expansion of the valley at the village Lingö.
Part of the inhabitants of Lingö migrate in summer with their herds, six
or seven days' journey northwards, for the soil round Lingö is very poor
and the harvest cannot be depended on. The Dok-chu cannot be crossed
here in summer except by boat; in the winter it freezes over, but seldom
so firmly that the ice will bear. The interesting point about this
expansion is that the Dok-chu, or Raga-tsangpo, coming from the west,
here unites with our old friend the My-chu, which discharges 534 cubic
feet a second. I had the day before calculated 1165 feet as the
discharge of the Dok-chu, so the difference of 631 cubic feet is the
volume of water brought down by the Raga-tsangpo, and consequently the
My-chu is only a tributary. On the other hand the Dok-chu pours through
several delta arms with rapids into the My-chu which lies lower and
flows more gently, and by this test the My-chu should be the main river;
it is all a question of choice.
We had another fine day on April 8, 52.5° in the shade at one o'clock.
We were to make a closer acquaintance with the My-chu, a river we had
hitherto known only from hearsay, but we had more knowledge of its
eastern tributaries which we had crossed on our journey south. As usual
we change our baggage horses in almost every village at which we encamp,
and Robert pays the hire to the villagers, that the escort may not have
an opportunity of putting it into their own purses, at any rate not in
our presence. Generally the caravan marches a little in advance, while
two villagers come with me and give me information about the country.
[Illustration: 183. LAMA IN TONG.]
[Illustration: 184. OLD TIBETAN.
Sketches by the Author.]
Immediately beyond Lingö we turn into the My-chu valley, riding
northwards, and now leave behind the westerly valley of the
Raga-tsangpo. Right at the turn we come to a colossal cone of round
blocks of granite, among which the path winds up and down in zigzags,
sometimes transformed to a staircase, which laden animals cannot
possibly pass. We therefore take with us some peasants from the village
to help in carrying the baggage. We have the river on our left, deep and
sluggish. The fallen boulders of grey granite contrast strongly with the
dark-green water in which whole shoals of black-backed fishes swim and
rise. On a surface of granite is a Buddhist rock-drawing half
obliterated by time. Then follows one _mani_ after another. A smith is
housed in a cave with a vaulted roof blackened with soot, and sheltered
by a small screen of stones, and offers his services to travellers. High
up on a rocky terrace stands Gunda-tammo, a small nunnery, and below a
chain bridge between two stunted pyramids spans the river. It is only
for foot passengers. The river bed is deeply excavated between its bank
terraces, and two strips of clear green ice yet remain. The bed is as
regular as a canal. On a rocky wall at the entrance of a side valley a
face 6 feet in diameter is painted in black, with eyes, nose, and mouth
in red.
The farther we go up the more frequently we are reminded that we are on
a hallowed road leading from one temple to another, a sacred way of the
monks, a pilgrim route on which "Om mani padme hum" is murmured more
repeatedly than on ordinary roads. Sometimes boulders and cliffs are
painted red, sometimes cairns are heaped beside the way, now we see
chimney-like monuments with bundles of rods decked with streamers, then
again long _mani_ mounds, one of them nearly 400 feet long. Two blocks
lying on the road are covered all over with raised characters--a
formidable piece of work. We are also in a great commercial artery, more
frequented than the bank of the Tsangpo. We constantly meet caravans of
yaks and mules, mounted men and foot-passengers, monks, peasants, and
beggars. They salute me politely, scratching their heads with their
right hands, while they hold their caps in their left, and putting their
tongues far out of their mouths, and they call out to me: "A good
journey, Bombo!"
Clear rivulets trickle across the road, the valley contracts and its
contours become bolder and more pronounced; the granite ceases and is
replaced by fine-grained crystalline schist. In the district of Tong,
where several villages stand high above the river, we encamp below the
monastery Lun-ganden-gompa (Illustration 176), in which 21 monks of the
Gelugpa sect live, and, as usual, a prior of Kanpo rank dwells in the
Labrang. We paid them a visit, but preferred the lovely view over the
valley to the images of the gods in the darkness. The brethren are
maintained partly by the Tashi Lama, and obtain the rest of their food
from the produce of their fields, for the convent has large glebe lands.
A blind man, who was not of the fraternity, sat like a machine at the
prayer mill, turning it for the monks, and complained of his hard lot.
The Gova, the district chief, of Tong rules over several villages in the
neighbourhood, and lives like a prince in his solid house.
On April 10 we continued along the course of the My-chu, past villages
and convents hitherto unknown. The villages stand just below the mouths
of side valleys where the water can be most effectively applied to
irrigation. A caravan of about 100 yaks, driven by men and women and
some carrying riders, had been at Tok-jalung and had sold there _tsamba_
from Tong; they had spent three months on their return from those
gold-diggings in western Tibet. They follow a route through the
mountains where there is suitable pasture for yaks. Thus the produce of
the soil in the more favoured parts of the country reaches the nomads,
who give in exchange for it wool, hides, and salt. After a short march
we bivouacked in Ghe, which has nineteen houses. An _angdi_ (musician)
scraped and plucked a two-stringed instrument (Illustration 185), while
his wife danced before us.
[Illustration: 185. STROLLING MUSICIANS.]
Here our escort from Shigatse turned back, after handing our passport to
four other men, the chief of whom was the Gova of Tong. They had done us
excellent service, so I gave them good testimonials and presents. They
were satisfied and would pray for my prosperity till their lives'
end. I felt particular sympathy for one of the Tibetans who had lost his
two sons in the battle at Guru; the one was twenty-three years old, and
the other twenty-five, and the father could not understand why they had
fallen, for they had done nothing wrong.
Next day the escort, jingling like a sledge party, accompanies us up the
My-chu, which retains the same character. Granite and schists alternate.
The river tosses about, though it has occasionally quiet reaches. In the
background of the side valleys are often seen great mountains lightly
covered with snow, and at their entrances villages with stone houses and
fields where only barley and peas are grown, seldom wheat. The black
tents we see occasionally belong to merchants who are on their way from
or to western Tibet. Bridges cross the affluents, flat slabs of stone on
a pair of beams between rather high slightly overhanging piers of stone.
The religious stone heaps are still numerous; one has caused a sand-dune
to be formed. Wild ducks, wood pigeons, and partridges occur here, and
the latter, sorely against their will, make acquaintance with Tsering's
kitchen. In the village Sir-chung the population is large, for here
several routes and side valleys converge. Among the crowds of spectators
was a young woman so extraordinarily pretty that I took two photographs
of her. She was twenty years old and was named Putön (Illustration 186).
The day following we visited the adjacent monastery Lehlung-gompa, where
the twenty-six monks belong to some heterodox sect, for they recognize
neither Tsong Kapa nor the Tashi Lama; the prior had shut himself up in
his dwelling sunk in deep speculations. A lama and three inhabitants of
the neighbouring village Nesar had died the day before, so our Tibetan
escort warned us not to go up to the monastery lest we should catch the
infection, and when we nevertheless went, they begged to be allowed to
stay behind. This dreary dilapidated monastery stood proudly on its
point of rock, pretty far up a side valley which descends from the left
to the My-chu. From its flat roof we had a splendid view and could make
out the topography of the My-chu valley. A novelty to us was a row of
stuffed yaks, hard as wood and dry as bone, with their horns, hoofs, and
hides, hung up on the ceiling of a verandah. None of the monks could
remember when they had been hung up. They looked very old, and
apparently were for the same purpose as the four ghostly kings and the
painted wild animals, that is, to scare away evil spirits.
Below the monastery twenty-four _manis_ stand close together in a row
like a parish boundary on a topographical map. All the way up these
sacred structures are so numerous that they even outnumber those near
Leh. The country assumes a more alpine character, and the valley becomes
wilder and more desolate; but some trees form a small thicket at
Lehlung-gompa. At length we ride over a pebble terrace, perhaps 130 feet
above the stream, which now pours over small falls and murmurs
pleasantly among boulders. The caravan has pitched its tents in the
narrow valley on the bank of the My-chu and not far from the side valley
Kathing. Most of the luggage has been carried by Tibetans, for no pack
animals were to be had, and now some hundred black-headed fellows sit in
groups by their fires among the large boulders.
Here we were at a height of 13,875 feet, and therefore had only mounted
up 1175 feet from Shigatse (12,700 feet). But the air was cooler; the
night before we had noted 23 degrees of frost.
[Illustration: 186. THE HANDSOME WOMAN, PUTÖN.]
CHAPTER XXXIV
TO LINGA-GOMPA
The day's march on April 13 takes us along the valley of the My-chu like
a hollow way excavated in the solid rock of fine-grained granite,
porphyry and crystalline schist, and the landscape is one of the
grandest I have ever seen. We follow the western bank, from which rise
wild precipitous rocks like the ruins of old walls and embattled forts.
A footpath runs along the left bank also, and looks extremely dangerous,
passing up above abrupt walls of rock. Here and there valleys open out
on the west side, affording views of part of a snow-covered crest in the
background. This is, however, a subsidiary range, for it branches off
from the Trans-Himalaya southwards and borders the basin of the My-chu
on the west. It in turn sends out ramifications eastwards, between which
flow the western tributaries of the My-chu. And these again give out
branches of the fourth and fifth order; the whole appears in a plan like
a tree with its branches and boughs.
The road runs on steep pebble terraces high above the river, which here
rages among the boulders in its deeply eroded bed and forms whirlpools.
On our left rocky precipices tower above our heads, and avalanches of
detritus have slipped down from them and fallen across the road. Many
are quite fresh; in other places there has been time to set up the
blocks in protecting walls on the inner side and in a breastwork at the
outer. And often we pass places where a new landslip may take place at
any moment, and where huge blocks are poised in the air and seem ready
to roll down the declivity. Flourishing hawthorns in large numbers grow
on the stony banks, and high up above rock pigeons have built their
nests. Still higher eagles soar with outspread pinions along the
mountain flanks. We are 150 feet above the river, where here and there
on the bank is room for small tilled fields; a juniper bush has in some
places struck root in a fissure of the rock.
The valley is like a trough, and I obtain fine views of constantly
changing scenes. We might fancy we were passing through a Gothic
cathedral with a colonnade of huge shafts attached to the walls and
spanned by a roof of grey and white canvas, the clouds to wit, between
which small patches of light blue cloth appear.
The guide, accompanying us on this day, is a half silly old fellow, who
laughs and chatters continuously, and frequently begins to dance on the
road, flinging his legs about, stamping on the ground and turning round
so quickly that his long pigtail flies round him. He tells us in
confidence that his wife is a wicked hideous old dragon, whom he has
long wished to carry off to the home of the vultures, for there will be
no peace in his house till he has done so. When I halt to sketch, he
takes his breakfast out of his coat, lays it out on the sand, fetches
water from the river in a small bag, shakes _tsamba_ from another into a
wooden dish, pours water over it, stirs it with his forefinger and then
swallows bowl after bowl of this delicious mixture. He hopes to receive
so much pay, that for once he can afford himself a plentiful meal while
his old woman cannot see him eat. As often as one looks at him, out
shoots his tongue and hangs like a fiery red flag in the middle of his
black face. When he has finished he licks his plate clean and rubs it
with sand to dry it. Then he wraps his things up in a bundle and hides
it under the stones. When Robert tells him that people are about who
have seen him hiding it, he quickly takes his bundle out again, thinks
over the matter for a while, rummages about and at last finds another
hiding-place. Then he sits down beside me, puts out his tongue as far
as it will go, winks at me with his little pig's eyes and takes a large
pinch of snuff. When he walks in front of my horse, he turns round every
hundred paces and puts his tongue out at me--a token of pure goodwill
and deep respect.
Beyond the nunnery Döle-gompa the valley of the My-chu unites with the
large side valley Lenjo running in from the west, in which, farther up,
three villages are situated. From this valley the My-chu receives a very
considerable tributary, which is crossed by a solid bridge of three
arches resting on four stone piers; thick belts of ice still lie along
the banks. Here we find two fine _manis_ with turrets at both ends,
where six-pointed stars are cut into the flat stones. These perpetual
_manis_ often stand in long rows so near together that they look like a
long luggage train, and one expects to see them move and start off for
the abodes of the blessed. Everything here denotes a great highway, a
mighty commercial artery connecting the sedentary people of the
lower-lying lands with the nomads of the plateaus. The road itself is
the largest and best kept that I have seen in all Tibet. Bridges span
all the affluents which might interrupt the traffic in summer and
autumn, and wherever a landslip has occurred, the road is repaired at
once. Sacred cairns, walls, and streamers indicate to the traveller at
every step that a monastery is near, where the monks expect a visit and
a present of money. We are always meeting caravans, riders, peasants,
and beggars who extort money from merchants returning home after a good
stroke of business. Many of these beggars turn into robbers and pillage
undefended huts, but when they meet us they begin to hobble, gasp, and
whine. After the harvest the traffic will be still more active than now.
The valley now contracts to a corridor, and the broad shallow stream
occupies all its bottom. On the right side, which we follow, the cliffs
of schist fall perpendicularly to the river, and the dangerous, narrow
road runs like a sill along the wall of rock. Here nature has opposed
endless insurmountable obstacles to the engineering skill of the
Tibetans. The baggage has to be carried past these dangerous places,
and it is astonishing that the horses can get past. Flat slabs of
schist, branches, and roots have been inserted into cracks and fissures
of the precipice 120 feet above the river, and on these planks, poles,
and stones are laid forming a gutter a foot broad, without a scrap of
railing, where one must even keep one's tongue in one's mouth lest one
should lose one's balance. Of course we traverse this stretch of road,
called Tigu-tang, on foot, leaning inwards and supporting ourselves by
the rock. We breathe freely again when we are safely over, and the great
basin lies before us where, at Linga, two important valleys converge.
Here is the confluence of the My-chu with a river flowing from the east,
the Sha-chu, which farther up is called Bup-chu, and which we crossed
two and a half months before on its thick coating of ice. On April 15
the Bup-chu brought down 215 cubic feet of water and the My-chu 222, so
the rivers were nearly equal, but the ratio may of course vary
considerably according to the distribution of the precipitation.
In a short valley in the western mountains the monastery Linga-gompa is
placed on the uppermost ledge of a steep flight of terraces, and is as
fantastic, fascinating, and attractive as a fairy castle. Its white
houses are perched like storks' nests on mountain pinnacles; a row of
_manis_ points out the way up to where the pious, blameless saints dwell
in deep silence, far above the riot and tumult of the villages and the
roaring and tossing of the stream. Below the monastery stands the
village Linga-kok, where our camp is pitched not far from a bridge of
ten arches on eleven piers which crosses the My-chu. A crowd of
Tibetans, black as Moors, dirty, ragged, capless and trouserless, watch
our arrival in silent amazement (Illustration 188).
[Illustration: 187. ON THE MY-CHU NEAR LINGA.]
[Illustration: 188. VILLAGE AND MONASTERY OF LINGA.]
Not a single tree is seen in the neighbourhood; only up at the monastery
there are two. This consolation, then, is no more, and only in our
memory do we hear the thick foliage of tree-tops rustling in the wind.
Again we may expect the moaning of the storm on the passes of bare
alpine ranges. Moreover, the spring has not set in in earnest, for in
the night there were still 30 degrees of frost.
I spent all Sunday till twilight in the monastery, with Rabsang and
Tundup Sonam. We mounted the acclivity past rows of well-kept _manis_,
which had the appearance of broken-down walls, with red-painted
inscriptions chiselled out of the blocks of schist and framed in red.
Then we passed through a gate in the convent wall, and mounted higher
and higher between forty old and more recent white houses clinging to
the rock. The situation is like that of the Hemis monastery in Ladak,
but there the houses are not so scattered. Several of them are
unoccupied, for the custom prevails here that, when a lama dies, his
relations claim possession of his house, lock the door and take away the
key. His movable property reverts to the convent. If a newly-come lama
takes a fancy to an empty house, he can buy it from the heirs of the
former owner; a good house is worth 100 rupees (Illustration 175).
Linga has thirty monks, some of whom accompanied us on our rounds and
were always pleasant and friendly, and never bold like the monks in
Kum-bum, which I visited in the year 1896. The monastery is subordinate
to Sekiya, and the Sekiya-Lama is its highest spiritual superior and
contributes towards its maintenance. Linga-gompa also possesses lands,
which, however, have not yielded much of late, for the crops have failed
several years in succession. The monks are not dependent on the Tashi
Lama, and have not a single statue of Tsong Kapa, whence it may be
concluded that their sect is older than the reformed church. But it was,
as usual, impossible to get any information about the age of the
monastery. It seems to be in the interest of the monks to date back its
origin to the remotest antiquity, of which no human records are extant.
I was told, however, that the abbot, Yimba Tashi, knew its age, which
was recorded in an old chronicle of the monastery. Unfortunately, he was
not at home, having gone northwards to a district called Kumna, there to
track out a band of robbers who had plundered him the year before and
carried off all his caravan animals.
Down below the convent is a gorge with a black slope of schist on its
side, on which the six holy characters are exhibited in fragments of
white quartz, and call out to heaven the eternal truth, "Om mani padme
hum," in all kinds of wind and weather.
A staircase of flags of schist leads up to the Dopcha, an open platform
paved with flagstones where the religious spectacles take place on feast
days. The usual flagmast stands in the centre, but there is no
breastwork of any kind, so that one dares not go there after dark, for
bottomless abysses yawn round the open sides. Here the monks had laid
carpets and cushions and invited me to tea. I enjoyed for a while the
fine view over the valley, the confluence of the two streams, the
scattered villages, and the fields like chessboards. Far to the east,
behind the Bup-chu valley, the lofty mountains are seen over which we
travelled on the way from the Ngangtse-tso.
On the south side of the square is the entrance to the chief temple
(_dukang_), which in all monasteries is in a red-painted stone building.
We enter, look round, and are carried away by the singular
mysteriousness, though we have often seen it before with trifling
variations. I sink on a divan and fancy myself in a museum crammed full
of modern trophies and flags of victory, where impenetrable darkness
lurks among the pillars, and rows of drums, gongs, prayer cylinders, and
trombones are set up. The hall is darker than usual, but bright light
falls through a skylight on to the images of the gods. They seem to be
soaring from their pedestals in the darkness into the glorious light of
the upper regions. The monks glide inaudibly like ghosts and shadows
among them, busied with the votive bowls. A wonderfully weird scene! We
have wandered into a cavern where gnomes and hobgoblins creep about.
This grotto resounds the whole time with the chant of the monks on the
divans, which rises and falls in rhythmical waves, like the roar of the
billows and the lapping of ripples on a strand. They sing in unison,
keeping faultless time and without exerting themselves, though with
astonishing rapidity. Among them are greyheaded men with cracked
voices, men in the prime of life, and youths and boys with fresh young
voices. The sound is like horses trotting quickly over an endless wooden
bridge; all the monks clap their hands and then the horses seem to trot
over a paved street, but the next moment they are on the bridge again
and the consonants roll like peas out the monks' lips. Now and then a
bass voice rises above the din calling out "_Laso, Laso_" (an
exclamation of thanksgiving). During a short pause there is tea. Then
the chant goes on again. There is no excitement, no hurrying of the
tempo, all goes on in the same even quick trot. The monks have no books
before them; they know their liturgy by heart. But the charm of the
rhythm seems to render them oblivious of time and space; they do not
suffer themselves to be disturbed, but trot on over the bridge that
leads to the home of the gods and to Nirvana. As we go out again we hear
the chant die away like the humming in a bee-hive.
We visited some other halls, where I noted down the names of the images.
At length there remained only two convent buildings on a sharp ridge of
rock. The first was named Chörigungkang, and had a sort of shed in which
swords, guns, drums, masks, tiger-skins, and other lumber were stored.
In the very front, on the point of the rock, is a cubical house called
Pesu. It is surrounded on three sides by a gallery without balustrades,
and here the abyss is deeper than elsewhere. Here I stayed to sketch the
panorama, but the weather was anything but pleasant, and snowstorms
veiled the mountains from time to time. Nevertheless it was hard to
leave this terrace. The flat roofs down below look no larger than
postage-stamps. Bright as silver, or dark, according as they are
lighted, the two rivers hasten to meet each other. Then I could not help
thinking how singular it was that the loftiest and grandest alpine
country in the world, which must surely impress the human mind more than
any other, had not been able to instil into the Tibetans a higher,
nobler form of religion than this narrow, limited, dogmatic Lamaism. I
grant that it was imported from India more than a thousand years ago and
was first modified into the so-called northern Buddhism, but after all
it flourishes vigorously in Tibet. One would think that the ancient Bon
religion with its copious demonology, its widespread superstition, and
its spirits haunting all the mountains and lakes, would be more suitable
here. But we have indeed, discovered that Lamaism has absorbed many of
its elements. At any rate the Linga monks have a splendid view of an
artistically sculptured corner of the world. From their loopholes of
windows and their flat roofs they can see winter spreading its white
carpet over the mountains and putting the rivers in fetters, and then
the spring shedding its gold over the valleys, the summer conjuring out
new fresh grass, and lastly the rain torrents of early autumn washing
the slopes and swelling the rivers.
We now ascended, as if the mountain itself were not high enough, two
steep pitch-dark flights of steps, where it is easy to break one's neck,
into the entrance hall of the Pesu temple. In a smaller room the flame
of a butter-lamp struggled vainly with the darkness, casting its dull
light on some idols. Pesu is the hall of the gods _par excellence_, with
innumerable statuettes of metal, very old, artistically worked and
certainly very valuable. Some figures were of medium size. I stood in
front of the altar rank and inspected the gods. _Tankas_ and long narrow
scarves in many colours hung from the ceiling. On the right was the
small, dark room, and on the left was a shutter creaking as it banged to
and open in the wind. Before the gods stood a row of bowls with barley,
wheat, maize cobs, and water. I asked a monk who had come up with me how
long it took the gods to eat it all. He smiled, and answered evasively
that the bowls must always be full; but on entering I had caught sight
of some mice which quickly scuttled away in the darkness. What cruel
irony, what a picture of self-satisfied vanity and religious humbug! The
serving brother has been in the Pesu, has filled the bowls and said his
daily prayers, has descended the steps and locked the door behind him.
When all is quiet the mice come out of their holes. They climb upon the
altar table, stand on their hind-legs, curl their tails round the
votive bowls, and consume the nectar and ambrosia of the gods.
Could I not buy some of these charming figures? No, it could not be. The
monk showed me a label which is attached with wire to each image. Every
object belonging to the furniture of the convent has its number, and
this number is entered in the general inventory. The prior is usually
elected for a fixed term of years, and when he resigns his office he
hands the list to his successor to be checked. If any object is missing,
he is responsible and must pay the value.
A monk came up to bring tea for Rabsang and Tundup, who had seated
themselves in the outer hall. I remained alone and gazed at the gods,
mesmerized by their smiling gilded faces, their portly double chins, and
their arched eyebrows. Then something wonderful happened. Their features
changed and all turned their heads and looked at me. A curious feeling
of awe took possession of me; had I insulted them through some want of
delicacy? No, next moment they turned their heads away again and stared
straight at the opposite wall. It was only a banner which in the draught
from the window had moved so as to alter the shadow on the faces and
give them an appearance of motion.
Linga is a ghostly castle, but Pesu was the most ghostly part of it all.
There large drums and grinning masks shimmered like ghosts in the gloom,
and the wind whistled mournfully through all the loopholes and openings.
A man of strong nerves would get the horrors if he were compelled to
spend a stormy autumn night alone in this hall of the gods, with the
light of the moon falling through the loopholes on the images. He would
listen with bated breath for every sound and crack. If the door below
banged against its frame, he would hear some one entering the
ante-chamber, and when the streamers on the roof fluttered in the wind,
he would imagine the unknown person was approaching the hall with light
steps and would in a second be bending over him; and the mice running
over the floor, and the shutters swinging in the wind on creaking
hinges, and the wind moaning in the window recesses and among the
rafters, all would strain his imagination to the utmost and make him
count the minutes till the dawn. After the gods had turned their heads
towards me I felt that I should not like to be in such a position, but
would rather go down again to my tent in the valley and sleep.
END OF VOL. I
[Illustration: 1. THE LATEST MAP OF TIBET.
From the _Geographical Journal_, 1906. Note the blank space north of the
Upper Brahmaputra with the word "Unexplored."]
[Illustration: 2. CARTE GÉNÉRALE DU THIBET OU BOUT-TAN.
(Avril 1733.) D'Anville, _Nouvel Atlas de la Chine, etc._ Paris 1737.]
[Illustration: 3. MAP OF SOUTHERN TIBET.
From _Selections from the Records of The Government of Bengal_. No.
XXVII. Papers relative to the Colonization, Commerce, Physical
Geography, etc. etc. of the Himalaya Mountains and Nepal. By Brian
Houghton Hodgson, Esq., M.R.A.S. Calcutta, John Gray, _Calcutta Gazette_
Office, 1857. Hodgson's "The Nyenchhen Thangla Chain, separating
southern from northern Tibet" is only hypothetical, and does not
represent the actual configuration.]
[Illustration: 4. THE SOURCE-REGION OF THE BRAHMAPUTRA.
After Major Ryder, 1904. The Chema-yundung is drawn as the main river,
while the Kubi-tsangpo is shown as an affluent. In reality the
Kubi-tsangpo is the source-stream, and the Chema-yundung, which receives
the Marium-chu, only a tributary.]
[Illustration: 5. SKETCH-MAP OF WEBBER'S ROUTE IN 1866.
_The Forests of Upper India._ By Thomas W. Webber. London, Edward
Arnold, 1902.]
[Illustration: 6. SAUNDERS' MAP OF SOUTH TIBET.
From _Narratives of the Mission of George Bogle to Tibet and of the
Journey of Thomas Manning to Lhasa_. By Clements Markham. London,
Trübner and Co., 1879. Hypothetical form of the Trans-Himalaya ("Gangri
Mountains") from 81° to 88½° E. long. Quite incorrect.]
[Illustration: 7. THE SOURCE-REGION OF THE BRAHMAPUTRA.
After Nain Sing, 1865. His route is shown by a dotted line.]
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