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Title: Trans-Himalaya, Vol. 2 (of 2) - Discoveries and Adventurers in Tibet
Author: Hedin, Sven Anders, 1865-1952
Language: English
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TRANS-HIMALAYA
[Illustration]
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO
ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
[Illustration: Aron Jonason Photogr.
189. SVEN HEDIN.
_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. II
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON
1910
_First Edition 1909_
_Reprinted 1910_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER XXXV PAGE
IMMURED MONKS 1
CHAPTER XXXVI
OVER THE CHANG-LA-POD-LA 12
CHAPTER XXXVII
TARGO-GANGRI AND THE SHURU-TSO 25
CHAPTER XXXVIII
TO THE OUTLET OF THE CHAKTAK-TSANGPO IN THE
BRAHMAPUTRA 38
CHAPTER XXXIX
MUHAMED ISA'S DEATH 52
CHAPTER XL
ALONG BYWAYS TO TRADUM 64
CHAPTER XLI
A PEEP INTO NEPAL 77
CHAPTER XLII
IN SEARCH OF THE SOURCE OF THE BRAHMAPUTRA 89
CHAPTER XLIII
THE SOURCE OF THE SACRED RIVER--A DEPARTURE 99
CHAPTER XLIV
A NIGHT ON MANASAROWAR 110
CHAPTER XLV
MORE LAKE VOYAGES 122
CHAPTER XLVI
A STORMY VOYAGE OVER THE HOLY LAKE 133
CHAPTER XLVII
ON THE ROOF OF THE GOSSUL MONASTERY 144
CHAPTER XLVIII
OUR LAST DAYS ON TSO-MAVANG 154
CHAPTER XLIX
ADVENTURES ON LANGAK-TSO 166
CHAPTER L
THE SOURCE OF THE SUTLEJ 178
CHAPTER LI
A PILGRIMAGE ROUND KANG-RINPOCHE 189
CHAPTER LII
OM MANI PADME HUM 200
CHAPTER LIII
THE DISCOVERY OF THE SOURCE OF THE INDUS 207
CHAPTER LIV
A RESOLUTION 215
CHAPTER LV
A NEW CHAPTER 226
CHAPTER LVI
UP TO THE HEIGHTS OF DAPSANG 237
CHAPTER LVII
ON THE ROOF OF THE WORLD 248
CHAPTER LVIII
FORTY DEGREES BELOW ZERO 258
CHAPTER LIX
IN THE SNOW 267
CHAPTER LX
DEATH OF THE LAST VETERAN 272
CHAPTER LXI
THIRTY DAYS OF STORM 282
CHAPTER LXII
ADVENTURES OF OURSELVES AND PUPPY IN NAGRONG 292
CHAPTER LXIII
THROUGH THE HIGHLANDS OF BONGBA 302
CHAPTER LXIV
TSONGPUN TASHI 313
CHAPTER LXV
BUPTSANG-TSANGPO, ONE OF THE LARGEST RIVERS OF THE
HEART OF TIBET 321
CHAPTER LXVI
IN THE ROBBERS' PARADISE 332
CHAPTER LXVII
APRIL 24 343
CHAPTER LXVIII
HIS EXCELLENCY THE GOVERNOR OF SAKA 353
CHAPTER LXIX
KAMBA TSENAM, FATHER OF THE ROBBERS 364
CHAPTER LXX
THE SEVENTH CROSSING OF THE TRANS-HIMALAYA--TO THE
HEAVENLY LAKE OF THE THRONE MOUNTAIN 374
CHAPTER LXXI
ANOTHER JOURNEY ACROSS THE WHITE PATCH 385
CHAPTER LXXII
THE LAST DAYS IN UNKNOWN COUNTRY 395
CHAPTER LXXIII
THE TRANS-HIMALAYA 401
CHAPTER LXXIV
SIMLA 415
INDEX 425
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
189. Sven Hedin _Frontispiece_
190. Hermit's Grotto near the Chang-la-Pod-la 12
191. Robert and Rabsang by the Ice on the Way to the
Chang-la-Pod-la 18
192. A Lhadse decked with Mani-Stones and Prayer-Streamers 18
193, 194. Nomads south of Targo-gangri 24
195. Mendicant Lama blowing on a Human Bone 24
196. Tibetan Boy 24
197. Kubi-gangri from Camp 201 26
198. Targo-gangri from a Hill near Camp 150 26
199. The Chomo-uchong Group from the Kinchen-la, May 23, 1907 26
200. Lundup's Squadron. To the left a part of Targo-gangri, Camp
150 28
201. Lundup (on horseback to the left) and his Retinue prevent me
from proceeding to the Dangra-yum-tso 30
202, 203, 204. Targo-gangri from the South 32
205. The Shuru-tso, with Targo-gangri in the Background 34
206. On the Upper Raga-tsangpo 36
207. Angden-la 36
208. Chomo-uchong from the east 36
209, 210. Angden-la, a Pass on the Trans-Himalaya 38
211. Manis on the Way to the Angden-la 40
212. Chomo-uchong from Lamlung-la 44
213. Panorama from the Ta-la. The Brahmaputra Valley and the
Himalayas in the Background 44
214. Beggar at Tashi-gembe 50
215. Young Tibetan at the Mouth of the Chaktak-tsangpo 50
216. Wandering Lama with a Wooden Glove in his Hand, such as is
used to protect the Hands in the Prostration Pilgrimage
round the Holy Mountain Kailas 50
217. The Corpse of Muhamed Isa 54
218. Muhamed Isa's Funeral Procession 56
219, 220, 221. The Interment of Muhamed Isa 58
222. Woman at the Mouth of the Chaktak-tsangpo in the Tsangpo 64
223. Tibetan of Saka 64
224. Lama in Saka-dzong 64
225, 226, 227, 228. Tibetan Boys and Girls of Saka and Tradum 70
229. Woman of Nyuku 74
230. Two Tibetans 74
231. The Gova of Tuksum 74
232. Girl at Pasa-guk 74
233. View from the Kore-la towards the south-west 78
234. Gulam Razul's Tents in Gartok 82
235. Landscape in Upper Nepal 82
236. A Chhorten in Nepal 84
237. Group of Tibetan Women 84
238. Women in the Village of Namla 88
239. Inhabitants of the Village of Namla 88
240. Lama in my Boat 92
241. Loading the Boat with Boxes on crossing the Brahmaputra 92
242. Panorama of Kubi-gangri and the Langta-chen Glacier, with the
Source of the Brahmaputra (from a height of 16,453 feet,
July 13, 1907) 102
243, 244, 245. The Mountains at the Source of the Brahmaputra 106
246. Tibetans on the Bank of the Soma-tsangpo 110
247. Group of Natives of Langmar 110
248. Robert in the Boat 118
249. Sheep-shearing at Tugu-gompa on Manasarowar 124
250. The God of the Lake rising from Tso-mavang 130
251. Temple Hall of the Lake-God of Tso-mavang 134
252. Chenresi's Image in Tugu-gompa 134
253. The Lhakang Hall in Tugu-gompa 138
254. Lama with Prayer-Drum 140
255. Lama before the Temple Door in Tugu-gompa 140
256. Yanggo-gompa 146
257. Interior of the Temple, Tugu 146
258. A Dreamer. Lama in Yanggo-gompa on Manasarowar 148
259. The old Nun in Yanggo-gompa 150
260. The Holy Lake Manasarowar from Tugu-gompa, with Kailas
in the Background _Coloured_ 152
261. Boy on the Upper Tsangpo 162
262. The young Prior of Langbo-nan 162
263. Temple Vessels in Chiu-gompa 166
264. Two Children in Shigatse 166
265. Kailas behind Nyandi-gompa 170
266. My Pack-Sheep 170
267. Part of Kailas 174
268. Kailas from Diri-pu 182
269. Confluence of the Two Arms of the Indus 182
270. Tibetan Female Pilgrims at Kailas 188
271. The Gova by whose help the Source of the Indus was
discovered (seated) and Tibetans at Kailas 194
272. Gulam Razul beside Bales of Chinese Brick-Tea 198
273. Tibetan Tent 202
274. Monastery of Gar-gunsa 202
275. Images at Chushut 202
276. The Policemen from Simla 206
277. My Boat on the Indus 206
278. Ladaki Women 206
279, 280, 281. At the Monastery Door in Tashi-gang between Gartok
and Ladak 210
282. Dancing Women in Chushut, a Village on my Way back to Ladak 212
283. Old Woman 216
284. Lama in Chushut 216
285. On the Way to Tankse 220
286. In the Indus Valley on the Way to Ladak 220
287. The new Horses and Mules at Drugub 220
288. Robert in Winter Dress 224
289. Abdul Kerim, the new Caravan Leader 226
290, 291, 292. Lobsang, Gulam, Kutus--my last trusty Followers 228
293. Beggars 230
294. Abdul Kerim's new Tent 230
295. My Brown Puppy with my Cook, Tsering 234
296, 297, 298. My White Ladaki Horse 234
299. Panorama from Camp 422, Bongba 238
300. Panorama from Camp 277, Shyok Valley 238
301. View from Camp 307 _Coloured_ 258
302. The small salt Lake south of Camp 309 _Coloured_ 258
303. Horses going to drink at the Lake near Camp 310. Abdul Kerim
on the left _Coloured_ 258
304. Mountain north-east of Camp 310; the freshwater Lake in the
Foreground _Coloured_ 258
305. Storm Clouds over the Snowy Mountains south of Camp 312
_Coloured_ 258
306. Camp 307 262
307. Camp 333. The Beginning of a Storm 262
308. Camp 335. Lemchung-tso, looking east 262
309. Camp 401. Kanchung-gangri from the north 262
310. My Dying Pony 264
311. Lost beyond Recovery 268
312. "If this continues a few days longer, we are lost" 270
313, 314, 315, 316, 317. Panoramas from the Camps 318, 333, 335,
359, 360; in the last two, Sha-kangsham 284
318. The Author as a Shepherd 298
319, 320, 321. The Summits of Lunpo-gangri from Camps 379, 381,
and 383 326
322. Wrestling 332
323. Two Guides 332
324. Boy with Hat 332
325. Shepherd Boy 332
326. Sonam Ngurbu, Chief of the Chokchu Province 334
327. Dorche Tsuen, Governor of the Saka Province 334
328. Man with a singular Cap, in Sonam Ngurbu's Escort 334
329. Tagla Tsering, the Chief who refused to let me go to the
Dangra-yum-tso 334
330. Travelling Ladaki Merchant in West Tibet 340
331. Oang Gye, Son of the Governor of Saka 340
332. Panchor, the Yak-slayer, my Guide on the Journey to the
Teri-nam-tso 340
333. Woman of Yumba-matsen 340
334. Tibetans with Yaks 344
335. Dorche Tsuen on the March 344
336. Farewell Entertainment for the Tibetans on May 5, 1908 348
337, 338, 339, 340. The Dancers at the Camp-fire: Tubges, Kunchuk,
Suen 350
341. Inner Court of Selipuk 354
342. Dorche Tsuen and Ngavang on Horseback 354
343. The Author in Tibetan Dress 358
344, 345. Soldiers of the Garrison of Saka-dzong, belonging to our
Escort 360
346. Armed Tibetan from the Country between the Teri-nam-tso
and the Dangra-yum-tso 360
347. Boy with small Gun on the southern Shore of the Teri-nam-tso 360
348. Trooper of the Escort 364
349. Tibetan of Teri-nam-tso 364
350. Young Shepherd of Bongba 364
351. Guests at the Opening of my Tent on the Bank of the
Teri-nam-tso 366
352. The Yaks fording the River Soma-tsangpo 366
353. Nima Tashi, Commander of the Government Escort on the
way to the Teri-nam-tso _Coloured_ 368
354. Nuns of Mendong _Coloured_ 368
355. A High Lama of Chokchu _Coloured_ 368
356. The Prior of Selipuk _Coloured_ 368
357. Two Lamas of Mendong 370
358. My Sheep crossing the River Soma-tsangpo 370
359. Village below Lunkar-gompa on the Tarok-tso _Coloured_ 374
360. Mendong Monastery west of the Teri-nam-tso _Coloured_ 374
361. Selipuk Monastery south-west of the Nganglaring-tso
_Coloured_ 374
362. Holiday Costumes and Ornaments of Tibetan Women of Kyangrang
in the Trans-Himalaya _Coloured_ 374
363. Crossing the Kangsham River 376
364. The Village of Lunkar 378
365. Group of Tibetans at the Teri-nam-tso 378
366. The Village of Lunkar from the Temple Hill 382
367. The southern Shore of Manasarowar with grazing Yaks 382
368. Lunkar-gompa 386
369. Selipuk-gompa 386
370. The Trans-Himalaya from Abuk-la 388
371. Storm over the Trans-Himalaya 388
372. Sonam Ngurbu and his Followers on Horseback 392
373. Some of our Horses on the Way to Kamba Tsenam's Tent 392
374. Lama of Chokchu taking leave of the Prior of Selipuk 396
375. Lama of Chokchu on Horseback 396
376, 377. Boys sitting 398
378. Young Lama 398
379. Old Woman 398
380. Colonel T. G. Montgomerie 404
381. Abbé Huc 404
382. Altar Table with Images of Gods in Mangnang-gompa _Coloured_ 406
383. The Author in Tibetan Costume at the Mission Station in Poo 408
384. The last Members of the last Expedition in Poo 412
385. My Puppy 416
386. Takkar in his new Home with the Missionaries in Poo 416
387. Simla 418
388. The last Members of the Expedition at the Entrance of the
Viceregal Lodge in Simla 420
MAPS
8. The Sources of the Brahmaputra, Sutlej, and Indus.
9. A Map of the Trans-Himalaya by Dr. Sven Hedin.
10. A Map of Tibet showing Dr. Sven Hedin's Routes 1906-1908.
(_At end of Volume._)
CHAPTER XXXV
IMMURED MONKS
We had heard of a lama who had lived for the last three years in a cave
in the valley above the monastery of Linga, and though I knew that I
should not be allowed to see either the monk or the interior of his
ghastly dwelling, I would not miss the opportunity of at least gaining
some slight notion of how he was housed.
On April 16, 1907, eighteen months to a day after I had left Stockholm,
dreary windy weather prevailed, with thickly falling snow and dense
clouds. We rode up to Linga, past rows of fine _chhortens_, left the
last dormitories behind us, saw an old tree-trunk painted white and red,
passed a small pool with crystal-clear spring water thinly frozen over,
and heaps of _mani_ stones with streamer poles, and then arrived at the
small convent Samde-puk, built on the very point of a spur between two
side valleys. It is affiliated to the Linga monastery, and has only four
brethren, who all came to greet me heartily at the entrance.
It is a miniature copy, outwardly and inwardly, of those we have seen
before. The _dukang_ has only three pillars and one divan for the four
monks, who read the mass together, nine prayer-cylinders of medium size
which are set in motion by leathern straps, a drum and a gong, two masks
with diadems of skulls, and a row of idols, among which may be
recognized several copies of Chenresi and Sekiya Kongma, the chief abbot
of Sekiya.
A few steps to the south-west we passed over a sheet of schist with two
stone huts at its foot containing brushwood and twigs for burning. In
Samde-pu-pe were two small temples with altars of mud. In one of them
were idols of medium size and sea shells, and before them incense
smouldered, not in the usual form of sticks, but in powder. It was
strewn in a zigzag line, was lighted at one end, and allowed to smoulder
away to the other. Within was a statue of Lovun with two lights before
it, and a shelf with writings called Chöna. Rain water had percolated in
and formed white vertical channels in the plaster, and under the ceiling
_kadakhs_ and draperies fluttered in the draught. Here the mice were
less disturbed than in the ghostly castle Pesu.
Close at hand at the foot of the mountain is the hermitage, _dupkang_,
in which a hermit spends his days and years. It is built over a spring
which bubbles up in the centre of the single room, a square apartment
with each side five paces long. The walls are very thick, and are in one
solid mass, unbroken by windows. The doorway is very low, and the wooden
door is shut and locked; but that is not enough, so a wall of large
blocks and smaller stones has been built before the door, and even the
smallest interstices between them have been carefully filled up with
pebbles. Not an inch of the door can be seen. But beside the entrance is
a tiny tunnel through which the hermit's food can be pushed in. The
amount of daylight which can penetrate through the long narrow loophole
must be very small; and it does not shine in direct, for the front of
the hut is shut in by a wall, forming a small court, which only the monk
who brings the anchorite his daily ration may enter. A small chimney
rises from the flat roof, for the hermit may make himself tea every
sixth day, and for this purpose some sticks of firewood are pushed
through the loophole twice in the month. Through the chimney, too, a
feeble light may fall, and by means of these two vents the air is
renewed in the cell.
"What is the name of the lama who is now walled up in this cell?" I
asked.
"He has no name, and even if we knew it we durst not utter it. We call
him merely the Lama Rinpoche" (according to Köppen, lama means _quo nemo
est superior_, one who has no one over him; and Rinpoche means gem,
jewel, holiness).
"Where has he come from?"
"He was born in Ngor in Naktsang."
"Has he relations?"
"That we do not know; and if he has any, they do not know that he is
here."
"How long has he lived in the darkness?"
"It is now three years since he went in."
"And how long will he remain there?"
"Until he dies."
"May he never come out again into the daylight before his death?"
"No; he has taken the strictest of all oaths, namely, the sacred vow
only to leave the cell as a corpse."
"How old is he?"
"We do not know his age, but he looked about forty."
"But what happens if he is ill? Cannot he get help?"
"No; he may never speak to another human being. If he falls ill he must
wait patiently till he is better again or dies."
"You never know, then, how he is?"
"Not before his death. A bowl of _tsamba_ is pushed every day into the
opening, and a piece of tea and a piece of butter every sixth day; this
he takes at night, and puts back the empty bowl to be filled for the
next meal. When we find the bowl untouched in the opening we know that
the immured man is unwell. If he has not touched the _tsamba_ the next
day our fears increase; and if six days pass and the food is not taken,
we conclude he is dead and break open the entrance."
"Has that ever happened?"
"Yes; three years ago a lama died, who had spent twelve years in there,
and fifteen years ago one died who had lived forty years in solitude and
entered the darkness at the age of twenty. No doubt the Bombo has heard
in Tong of the lama who lived in the hermitage of the monastery
Lung-ganden-gompa for sixty-nine years, completely shut off from the
world and the light of day."
"But is it not possible that the prisoner may speak to the monk who
pushes the _tsamba_ dish into the loophole? There is no witness present
to see that all is correct."
"That could never happen and is not allowed," answered my informant with
a smile; "for the monk outside would be eternally damned were he to set
his mouth to the loophole and try to talk to the recluse, and the latter
would break the charm if he spoke from within. If the man in there were
to speak now, the three years he has passed there already would not be
put down to his credit, and he would not like that. If, however, a lama
in Linga or Samde-puk falls ill, he may write his complaint and a
request for the anchorite's intercession on a piece of paper, which is
placed in the _tsamba_ bowl and pushed into the opening. Then the
recluse prays for the sick man, and if the latter has faith in the power
of prayer, and holds no unseemly conversation in the meantime, the
intercession of the Lama Rinpoche takes effect after two days and the
patient gets well again. On the other hand, the recluse never makes any
communication in writing."
"We are now only a couple of paces from him. Does he not hear what we
are saying, or, at least, that some one is talking outside his den?"
"No, the sound of our voices cannot reach him, the walls are too thick;
and even if it were the case, he would not notice it, for he is buried
in contemplation. He no longer belongs to this world; he probably
crouches day and night in a corner, repeating prayers he knows by heart,
or reading in the holy books he has with him."
"Then he must have enough light to read by?"
"Yes, a small butter lamp stands on a shelf before two images, and its
light suffices him. When the lamp goes out it is pitch-dark inside."
Filled with strange thoughts, I took leave of the monk and went slowly
down the path which the recluse had only passed along once in his life.
Before us was the splendid view which might never delight his eyes. When
I had descended to the camp I could not look up the monastery valley
without thinking of the unfortunate man sitting up there in his dark
hole.
Poor, nameless, unknown to any one, he came to Linga, where, he had
heard, a cave-dwelling stood vacant, and informed the monks that he had
taken the vow to enter for ever into darkness. When his last day in this
world of vanity dawned, all the monks of Linga followed him in deep
silence, with the solemnity of a funeral, to his grave in the cave, and
the door was closed on him for the rest of his life. I could picture to
myself the remarkable procession, the monks in their red frocks, silent
and grave, bending their bodies forward and turning their eyes to the
ground, and walking slowly step by step as though they would let the
victim enjoy the sun and light as long as possible. Were they inspired
with admiration of his tremendous fortitude, compared with which
everything I can conceive, even dangers infallibly leading to death,
seems to me insignificant? For, as far as I can judge, less fortitude is
required when a hero, like Hirosé, blockades the entrance of Port
Arthur, knowing that the batteries above will annihilate him, than to
allow oneself to be buried alive in the darkness for forty or sixty
years. In the former case the suffering is short, the glory eternal; in
the latter the victim is as unknown after death as in his lifetime, and
the torture is endless, and can only be borne by a patience of which we
can have no conception.
No doubt the monks escorted him with the same tenderness and the same
sympathy as the priest feels when he attends a criminal to execution.
But what can have been his own feelings during this last progress in the
world. We all have to pass along this road, but we do not know when. But
he knew, and he knew that the sun would never again shine warmly on his
shoulders and would never produce lights and shadows on the
heaven-kissing mountains around the grave that awaited him.
Now they have reached their destination and the door of the tomb stands
open. They enter in, spread a mat of interlaced strips of cloth in a
corner, set up the images of the gods, and lay the holy books in their
place; in one corner they place a wooden frame like those go-carts in
which infants learn to walk, and which he will not use till death comes
upon him. They take their seats and recite prayers, not the usual
prayers for the dead, but others which deal with the glorified light
and life of Nirvana. They rise, bid him farewell, go out and close the
door. Now he is alone and will never hear the sound of a human voice
except his own, and when he says his prayers no one will be there to
hear him.
What were his thoughts when the others had gone, and the short hollow
echo had died away of the noise he heard when the door was shut for the
last time, only to be opened again when he was a corpse? Perhaps
something like what Fröding has expressed in his verse:
Here breaks the soul from every bond
That fetters to this life its pinion;
Here starts the way to the dark beyond,
The land of eternal oblivion.
He hears the brethren rolling the heavy stones to the door with levers,
piling them up one on another in several layers, and filling up all
chinks with smaller stones and fragments. It is not yet quite dark, for
there are crevices in the door, and daylight is still visible at the
upper edge. But the wall rises. At length there is only a tiny opening
through which the last beam falls into the interior of his tomb. Does he
become desperate; does he jump up, thrust his hands against the door and
try to catch one more glimpse of the sun, which in another moment will
vanish from his sight for ever? No one knows and no one will ever know;
not even the monks who were present and helped to block up the entrance
can answer this question. But he is but a man and he saw how a flagstone
was fitted over the hole through which a last ray of daylight fell; and
now he has darkness before him, and wherever he turns there is
impenetrable darkness.
He assumes that the other monks have gone down again to Samde-puk and
Linga. How shall he pass the evening. He need not begin at once to read
his holy books; there is plenty of time for that, perhaps forty years.
He sits on the mat and leans his head against the wall. Now all his
reminiscences come with great distinctness into his mind. He remembers
the gigantic characters in the quartzite, "Om mani padme hum," and he
murmurs half dreaming the holy syllables, "Oh! thou jewel in the lotus.
Amen!" But only a feeble echo answers him. He waits and listens, and
then hearkens to the voices of his memory. He wonders whether the first
night is falling, but it cannot be darker than it is already in his
prison, his grave. Overcome by the travail of his soul, he sleeps, tired
and weary, in his corner.
When he awakes, he feels hungry, crawls to the opening and finds the
bowl of _tsamba_ in the tunnel. With water from the spring he prepares
his meal, eats it, and, when he has finished, puts the bowl in the
loophole again. Then he sits cross-legged, his rosary in his hands, and
prays. One day he finds tea and butter in the bowl and some sticks
beside it. He feels about with his hands and finds the flint, and steel,
and the tinder, and kindles a small fire under the tea-can. By the light
of the flame he sees the interior of his den again, lights the lamp
before the images, and begins to read his books; but the fire goes out
and six days must pass before he gets tea again.
The days pass and now comes autumn with its heavy rains; he hears them
not, but the walls of his den seem to be moister than usual. It seems to
him a long time since he saw the sun and the daylight for the last time.
And years slip by and his memory grows weak and hazy. He has read the
books he brought with him again and again, and he cares no more for
them; he crouches in his corner and murmurs their contents, which he has
long known by heart. He lets the beads of his rosary slip through his
fingers mechanically, and stretches out his hand for the _tsamba_ bowl
unconsciously. He crawls along the walls feeling the cold stones with
his hands, if haply he may find a chink through which a ray of light can
pass. No, he hardly knows now what it is like outside on sunny paths.
How slowly time passes! Only in sleep does he forget his existence and
escape from the hopelessness of the present. And he thinks: "What is a
short earthly life in darkness compared to the glorious light of
eternity?" The sojourn in darkness is only a preparation. Through days
and nights and long years of solitude the pondering monk seeks the
answer to the riddle of life and the riddle of death, and clings to the
belief that he will live again in a glorified form of existence when his
period of trial is over. It is faith alone which can explain his
inconceivable fortitude of mind.
It is difficult to picture to oneself the changes through which the lama
passes during successive decades in the darkness of his cell. His sight
must become weak, perhaps be extinguished altogether. His muscles
shrink, his senses become more and more clouded. Longing for the light
cannot pursue him as a fixed idea, for it is in his power to write down
his decision to curtail his time of trial, and return to the light, on
one of the leaves of his books with a splinter dipped in soot. He has
only to place such a paper in the empty _tsamba_ bowl. But the monks had
never known a case of the kind. They only knew that the lama who had
been walled in for sixty-nine years had wished to see the sun again
before he died. I had heard from monks who were in Tong at the time that
he had written down his wish to be let out. He was all bent up together
and as small as a child, and his body was nothing but a light-grey
parchment-like skin and bones. His eyes had lost their colour, were
quite bright and blind. His hair hung round his head in uncombed matted
locks and was pure white. His body was covered only by a rag, for time
had eaten away his clothing and he had received no new garments. He had
a thin unkempt beard, and had never washed himself all the time or cut
his nails. Of the monks who sixty-nine years before had conducted him to
his cell, not one survived. He was then quite young himself, but all his
contemporaries had been removed by death, and new generations of monks
had passed through the cloisters; he was a complete stranger to them
all. And he had scarcely been carried out into the sunlight when he too
gave up the ghost.
In analysing the state of such a soul, fancy has free play, for we know
nothing about it. Waddell and Landon, who took part in Younghusband's
expedition to Lhasa, and visited the hermits' caves at Nyang-tö-ki-pu,
say that the monks who have there retired into perpetual darkness first
underwent shorter experiences of isolation, the first lasting six
months, and the second three years and ninety-three days, and that those
who had passed through the second period of trial showed signs that they
were intellectually inferior to other monks. The cases which the two
Englishmen have described seem not to have been so severe a trial as the
one I saw and heard about in Linga, for in the Nyang-tö-ki-pu caves the
lama who waited on the recluse tapped on a stone slab which closed the
small opening, and at this signal the immured lama put his hand out of
this door for his food; he immediately drew the stone shutter to again,
but in this way he would at least see the light of the sun for a moment
every day. In the cases described by Waddell and Landon the immured
monks had passed some twenty years in confinement. Waddell, who has a
thorough knowledge of Lamaism, believes that the custom of seclusion for
life is only an imitation of the practice of pure Indian Buddhism, which
enjoins periodical retreats from the world for the purpose of
self-examination and of acquiring greater clearness in abstruse
questions. In his opinion the Tibetans have made an end of the means.
Undoubtedly this opinion is correct, but it is not exhaustive. It may be
that the future hermit has in religious delusion come to the decision to
allow himself to be buried alive. But does he clearly conceive what this
means? If he became dull and insensible like an animal in his cell, all
his energy and his power of will would be deadened, and what seemed to
him, when he entered, to be worth striving for, would gradually become
more and more indifferent to him. But this is not the case, for he
adheres firmly to his decision, and therefore his energy must remain
unimpaired. He must possess a steadfast faith, an immovable conviction,
which is exposed to a harder trial because he is alone and death alone
can visit him in his cave. Possibly he becomes by degrees a victim of
self-delusion, so that his longing for the last hour in the long night
of his den gives place to the feeling that he is always at the moment
when the hour-glass of time has run down. He must have lost all idea of
time, and the darkness of the grave appears to him only as a second in
eternity. For the means he formerly had of marking the flight of time
and impressing it on his memory no longer exist. The changes from winter
to summer, from day to night, are only made known to him by the rise or
fall of the temperature in his den. He remembers that several rainy
seasons have passed by, and perhaps they seem to him to follow closely
on one another while his brain is clouded by monotony. It is
inconceivable that he does not become insane, that he does not call out
for the light, that he does not jump up and run his head against the
wall in the agony of despair, or beat it against the sharp edges of the
stones till he bleeds to death and frees himself by committing suicide.
But he waits patiently for death, and death may delay its coming for ten
or twenty years. His remembrance of the world and life outside his cell
becomes fainter and fainter; he has long forgotten the dawn in the east
and the golden clouds of sunset; and when he looks up his dimmed eyes
perceive no stars twinkling in the night, only the black ceiling of his
cave. At last, however, after long years have passed in the darkness,
suddenly a great brilliancy flashes out--that is, when Death comes,
takes him by the hand, and leads him out. And Death has not to wait,
entreat, and coax, for the lama has waited and longed for his welcome
and only guest and deliverer. If he has had his mind still clear, he has
taken the little wooden stand under his arms so that he may die in the
same sacred position in which Buddha is represented in all the thousands
of statues and pictures which have come under our notice in our
wanderings through the cloister temples of Tibet.
When the _tsamba_ bowl, which has been filled daily for so many long
years, remains at last untouched and the six days have expired, the cave
is opened and the abbot of the monastery sits down beside the deceased
and prays for him, while all the other monks pray in the _dukang_ hall
for five or six days together. Then the body is wrapped in a white
garment, a covering called _ringa_ is placed on his head, and he is
burned on a pyre. The ashes are collected, kneaded together with clay,
and moulded into a small pyramid, which is deposited in a _chhorten_.
The Linga monks said that an ordinary lama, when he dies, is cut in
pieces and abandoned to the birds. This process is performed here by
five lamas, who, though they belong to the monastery, attend the service
in the _dukang_, and drink tea with the other monks, are still
considered unclean, and may not eat with the other brethren. Also when
nomads die in the neighbourhood, their services are required, but then
the relatives are bound to provide them with horses and to undertake
that the property of the deceased shall pass into the possession of the
monastery.
For days and weeks I could not drive away the picture I had formed in my
mind of the Lama Rinpoche, before whose cell we had stood and talked.
And still less could I forget his predecessor, who had lived there forty
years. I fancied I could hear the conch which summoned the monks to the
funeral mass of the departed. I pictured to myself the scene in the cave
where the lama, crouching in rags on the floor, stretches out his
withered hands to Death, who, kindly smiling like the skull masks in the
temples, gives him one hand while he holds a brightly burning lamp in
the other. The features of the monk are transfigured in a reflexion of
Nirvana, and forgetting the "Om mani padme hum" that for tens of years
has reverberated from the walls of his den, he raises, as the trumpet
blasts sound out from the temple roof, a song of victory, which calls to
mind the following strophe from the myths of another people (_Frithiof's
Saga_, Blackley's translation):
Hail, ye deities bright!
Ye Valhalla sons!
Earth fadeth away; to the heavenly feast
Glad trumpets invite
Me, and blessedness crowns,
As fair, as with gold helm, your hastening guest.
CHAPTER XXXVI
OVER THE CHANG-LA-POD-LA
We had stayed three days near the monastery Linga, when we went on
north-westwards on April 17 up the narrow My-chu valley, in which the
volume of water was now considerably diminished. Space does not permit
me to describe in detail this wonderful road and its wild beauty. From
the expansion of the valley at Linga routes run eastwards and westwards
into the mountains, with branches to numerous villages, of which I noted
down the names and approximate positions. The traffic is now much less,
but still numerous _manis_ and other religious symbols stand beside the
solitary path.
We ride along the steep slopes of the right bank; below us the river
forms rapids, and the way is dangerous, especially with a horse that is
not sure on its feet. Robert's small bay filly stumbled and fell, so
that the rider was thrown headlong to the ground. Had he rolled down the
slope he would have been lost; but fortunately he fell towards the
mountain.
We encamped in the village Langmar, consisting of a few scattered
houses, at the entrance of the small side valley Langmar-pu.
[Illustration: 190. HERMIT'S GROTTO NEAR THE CHANG-LA-POD-LA.]
We still have hired horses, and now yaks also, and the caravan is
divided into the same detachments as before. Sonam Tsering and Guffaru
command their sections. Tsering's party sets out last and is the last to
come to rest, and Muhamed Isa supervises the whole. In the evening he is
massaged by two men selected for the purpose, of whom Rehim Ali is one.
There is still _chang_, the harmless, but still intoxicating, beer.
Among the singers at the camp-fires, Tsering, as usual, deserves the
first prize. He gives me no end of amusement; he sings like a cow, or at
best like a burst temple drum. His voice cracks continually, and he
loses the time and the melody without being the least put out. But he
considers his singing very fine, and the others take pleasure in it; one
can tell from a distance that the tears are coming into his eyes.
Sometimes he pauses to explain the subject of the ballad and take a
drink, and then he goes on again. When all the others are asleep, and
all is so quiet in the camp that the rushing of the stream is audible
and from time to time the bark of a dog, Tsering's rough voice trilling
harshly still resounds among the mountains.
Next day we draw near to the main crest of the Trans-Himalaya, for to my
great surprise and delight we have been conducted in this direction.
Granite still predominates, and in it erosion has excavated the wild
forms of the valleys; the way is tolerably good, but very stony; small
strips of ice lie along both banks of the stream, within which the
bright green water fills the valley with the roar of its impetuosity.
The dark green of a kind of juniper called _pama_ is a relief to the
eyes, which otherwise perceive nothing but grey slopes of detritus.
The river here is named Langmar-tsangpo, but it is really only the upper
course of the My-chu. It is formed by the Ke-tsangpo coming from the
north and the Govo-tsangpo from the west. The former, called in its
upper course Ogorung-tsangpo, descends from the main watershed of the
Trans-Himalaya, and must therefore be considered the main stream. I was
told that its source may be reached in a day and a half from the
junction of the valleys. On the left bank of the Govo a thicket of
_pama_ shrubs grows, and a safe bridge of three arches spans the river.
Over this bridge runs the important trade route to Tok-jalung which I
have mentioned above. Herds of yaks and flocks of sheep graze on the
slopes, and circular penfolds remind us of our life in the Chang-tang. A
little farther up we cross the Govo, which is half frozen over; springs
and brooks from the side valleys adorn the scene with cascades of ice.
The river is said to be here so swollen in summer that it cannot be
crossed at any point. To the north and south snowy mountains are
visible.
In the village of Govo, consisting of seven stone houses, barley is
cultivated and yields a moderate crop; but the inhabitants are not
dependent on the harvest, for they also possess sheep, goats, and yaks,
with which they migrate northwards in summer. Govo is the last village
where agriculture is pursued, so we here find ourselves on the boundary
between tillage and grazing, and also between stone houses and black
tents (Illust. 182).
We have, then, still time to look into an ordinary Tibetan stone hut
belonging to a family in comfortable circumstances. The walls are built
of untrimmed bare stones, but the crevices are stopped with earth to
keep out the wind. Through a labyrinth of walls and over round stones
where the tripping foot seldom touches the ground we come to two yards
where goats and calves are kept. In a third is a loom, at which a
half-naked coppery-brown woman is working, and in a fourth sits an old
man engaged in cutting up _pama_ shrubs.
From this yard we entered a half-dark room, with a floor of mud, and two
openings in the roof, through which the smoke escapes and the daylight
enters. The roof consists of beams overlaid with a thatch of brushwood,
which is covered all over with soil and flat stones--it must be nice and
dry when it rains. There sat an elderly woman telling off her _manis_ on
a rosary of porcelain beads.
The next room is the kitchen, the general living-room and the principal
apartment of the house. At a projecting wall stands the stone
cooking-range with round black-edged holes for saucepans and teapots of
baked clay. A large earthen pot, standing on the fire, contains barley,
which is eaten parched; a stick with a stiff piece of leather at the end
is twirled round in the barley between the palms so that it may be
roasted equally. It tastes delicious.
I went about, turned over all the household utensils and made an
inventory, and not in Swedish only, but also in Tibetan. There were many
different vessels of iron, clay, and wood for all kinds of purposes, a
large wooden ladle, a tea sieve of sheet-iron, an iron spoon, an ash
shovel, iron fire-tongs, and a thing called a _thagma_, an iron blade
fitted into a piece of wood, something like a closed pocket-knife, and
used to dress newly woven material. A large clay jug was filled with
_chang_. A small cubical vessel divided into four by small cross pieces
of wood is used to measure corn. Brick-tea is pulverized with a stone
shaped like a cucumber in a deep wooden cup. A knife-blade with a haft
at either end is used in preparing and tawing hides. Under one of the
smoke vents stood a small hearth for an open fire with an iron tripod. A
large leathern sack was filled with _tsamba_, and two sheep's stomachs
held fat and butter. On a rack a quantity of sheep's trotters, dusty and
dirty, were arranged; when they are several months old they are used to
make soup, which is thickened with _tsamba_. Tea, salt, and tobacco are
kept in large and small bags.
We saw likewise all kinds of religious objects, votive bowls,
joss-sticks, and small image cases; also bales of home-woven textiles,
coloured ribands for sewing on skin coats and boots, knives, hatchets,
sabres and spears, which, we were told, are for fighting thieves and
robbers; a pair of bellows, two sacks of dry dung for fuel, baskets,
hand-mills for grinding barley, consisting of two round flat stones with
a handle on the upper one; lastly, an oil-lamp and an oil-can, and a
cylindrical tub with iron hoops full of water. In a corner lay heaps of
skins and garments, and against the wall were two sleeping-places still
in disorder.
In another store-room there were provisions in sacks, barley, green
fodder, peas, and great joints of meat. Here three young women and a
troop of children had taken refuge; we left them room to escape, and
they ran away screaming loudly as if all the knives in the house were at
their throats. In the room were balances for weighing, consisting of a
rounded staff with a stone weight at one end and a dried yak hide at
the other. Behind a partition straw was kept. There are high
inconvenient thresholds between the rooms, and the usual bundles of rods
on the roof to protect the house from evil spirits.
After this expedition we inspected the tents of our escort, where a fire
was burning in a broken clay pot, and a skillet stood over it on a
tripod. The smoke escapes through the long slit between the two halves
of which the tent is composed. The owners of the tent were writing their
report to the authorities in Shigatse, informing them that we were on
the right road. At the same time they were eating their dinner of
mutton, a year old, dry and hard; it must not come near the fire. One of
them cut it into strips and distributed it among his comrades. He had
been for twenty years a lama in the monastery Lung-ganden in Tong, but a
few years before had been ejected from the confraternity because he had
fallen in love with a woman. He spoke of it himself, so it was doubtless
true.
Robert's bay horse was reported dead on the morning of April 20. His
late tumble now seemed to us like an omen; though fat and sleek, he died
suddenly about midnight. We now ride on again towards higher regions
over uncomfortable blocks of stone, but the valley becomes more open and
the relative heights diminish. Though the little that is left of the
stream still swirls and foams, the ice becomes thicker, and at last
covers almost all the bed, and the water is heard rushing and murmuring
under it. Juicy moss skirts the banks, the view becomes more extensive,
and the whole character of the landscape becomes alpine. We saw ten men
with guns in a sheepfold, carrying gun-rests with yellow and red
pennants on one of the prongs; perhaps they were highway robbers. Dark
clouds sweep over the ridges, and in a minute we are in the midst of
icy-cold drifting snow, but it does not last long.
The last bit of road was awful, nothing but boulders and débris, which
we could sometimes avoid by riding over the ice of the river. The
camping-ground was called Chomo-sumdo, a valley fork in a desolate
region, but the escort had seen that some straw and barley were brought
up on yaks for our horses.
From here we had to ride on the ice, smooth and firm after 27 degrees of
frost in the night. The neighbourhood is not, however, uninhabited, for
yaks and sheep were seen grazing in many places, belonging to nomads
migrating northwards or merchants coming from Tok-jalung. At two black
tents the people were packing up for the day's march; they had goats,
with strips of red cloth bound round the ears.
A little farther up is a precipitous rock on the right side of the
valley, and two caves open their black mouths in the wall. The lower one
(Illust. 190) is the entrance to a passage leading to the upper, where a
famous hermit has fixed his solitary abode. The upper opening has a
partly natural balcony decorated with streamer-poles and ribands. Below
the lower stand _mani_ cairns, long garlands of string with coloured
prayer-strips, a prayer-mast, and a metal idol in a niche of the rock.
We tethered our horses at the edge of the ice and went up to the lower
grotto. Here two young nuns from Kirong (on the border of Nepal) met us,
and two mendicant monks from Nepal, one of whom spoke Hindustani, so
that Robert could converse with him. The nuns were pretty, well-grown,
sun-burnt, and somewhat like gypsies; their large black eyes had the
shimmer of velvet, and their black hair was parted on the forehead and
fell in luxuriant waves over their shoulders; they were clothed in red
rags and wore Tibetan boots adorned with red ribands. They spoke
cheerfully and pleasantly in strikingly soft, extremely sympathetic
voices, and were not in the least timid. Their simple dwelling, which we
saw, was in the great entrance of the grotto, under a smoke-blackened
vault, surrounded by a small wall and a palisade of _pama_ branches, and
partly hung with cloth. A sleeping-place was made of rugs of interwoven
strips of cloth, and a tea-kettle was boiling on the fire. One of the
men had a thick pigtail and a red lama frock; the other wore a
sheepskin, and had not had his hair cut in the present, twentieth,
century. The dwelling proper was situated in a higher part of the
cavern.
All four had come in autumn, and were waiting for the warmer season to
proceed to Lhasa, and return thence home again. In the meantime they
voluntarily waited on the two holy hermits sojourning in this mountain,
and thereby earned their living and gained merit, according to the ideas
of their order. When they go off again on their wanderings, other
serving brethren and sisters will be found ready to take their place.
A winding staircase on the left, partly natural and partly constructed
of flagstones, leads to the upper regions of the cavern. At first it is
dark, but becomes lighter as we approach a loophole in the rock. Here
and there are streamer-poles, and the holy syllables are incised. From
the loophole the staircase turns steeply to the right; if we slipped on
the smooth stone we should tumble down right into the nuns' kitchen,
which from here looks like the bottom of a well. The passage ends at a
point where a small stone staircase goes up to a trap-door covered with
a slab. Pushing aside the slab, one reaches the larger grotto chamber of
which we had seen the opening from the valley. But the serving brothers
and sisters would not take us so high.
In this upper grotto, Choma-taka, the 100-years-old hermit, Gunsang
Ngurbu, of high repute in all the country for his holiness, has dwelt
for seven years. Gunsang means hermit, and Ngurbu is a very common name
signifying precious stone. Every seventh day his attendants place
_tsamba_, water, tea, and fuel on the steps under the trap-door, and
these things are taken in by the old man, who may not speak with men,
but only with the gods. Through a hole under the slab I caught sight of
a _chhorten_ constructed of stones and mud, and some painted pictures of
gods on the wall of the grotto. Behind the _chhorten_, and unfortunately
out of sight, the old man sat in a niche in the wall, crouching down and
saying his prayers; now and then he blows a shell horn.
[Illustration: 191. ROBERT AND RABSANG BY THE ICE ON THE WAY TO THE
CHANG-LA-POD-LA.]
[Illustration: 192. A LHADSE DECKED WITH MANI-STONES AND
PRAYER-STREAMERS.
(N.W. of the Kore-la.)]
I wished to push aside the shutter and mount into the upper grotto, but
the consciences of my companions would not permit such a thing for
all the money in the world. It would disturb the old man in his
meditations, and interrupt the period of his seclusion, and, moreover,
the old man would throw stones at us. The life of the hermit Ngurbu must
be idyllic compared to that of the immured Linga monks, for he sees the
valley, the sun, the whirling snow, and the stars sparkling in the sky;
but he must suffer from ennui. In another grotto, side by side with
Ngurbu's, lives another hermit, but the two have never met and know
nothing of one another. They may eat no meat, only _tsamba_ and tea, and
they receive these from the neighbouring nomads and the travellers
passing along the road.
After this digression we cross the ice of the river again and pass up
over the ever-present detritus. Before us is the flattish saddle of the
Chang-la-Pod-la. We accomplish the ascent with great effort, the icy
wind blowing right in our faces. I cannot commence my observations at
the cairn till I have warmed my hands over a dung fire. The view is
limited, flat, and of little use for orientation. However, towards the
way we have come, we can see the deeply eroded valleys, and we seem to
be higher than the ridges enclosing them. The height is 18,284 feet.
Chang signifies north, north country; Pod or Pö, Tibet, _i.e._ Tibet
proper, chiefly inhabited by a settled population. Chang-la-Pod-la is,
then, the pass between the northern tableland of the nomads and the
country to the south having drainage to the sea. It is this property of
a boundary between these two regions which renders the Trans-Himalaya of
such prime importance, and therefore there are many passes called
Chang-la-Pod-la. Often and often I was told that a pass, whatever might
be its especial name, was a Chang-la-Pod-la when it lay on the watershed
between the inland drainage of the north and the river basin of the
Tsangpo in the south. I had then crossed the Trans-Himalaya a second
time by a pass lying 44 miles to the west of the Sela-la, and had been
able to ascertain that the huge range of the Nien-chen-tang-la extends
thus far. It was still more my earnest desire to follow it step by step
to the west.
After we had encamped on the pass, where the thermometer fell at night
to -9½°, we rode on April 22 slowly down the valley of the Shak-chu
river, which gradually becomes broader, and is begirt by flat rounded
mountains, in which rock _in situ_ seldom occurs. We have passed from
the maze of mountains intersected by the affluents of the My-chu,
abundantly fed by the rains, on to the wide plains of the plateau
country, and notice again that the Trans-Himalaya is also an
extraordinarily important climatological boundary.
The Lapsen-Tari is a heap of clods with a sheaf of rods stuck in the
middle, from which streamer strings are carried to other rods. From this
point there is a fine view over the plateau and its wreath of mountains.
To the north, 55° west, we see the Targo-gangri again, but more
majestic, more isolated, and more dominant than from the Ngangtse-tso,
where, shrouded in clouds and surrounded by other mountains, it was less
conspicuous.
Just at the mound we passed the last corner which obscured the view, and
suddenly the whole grand mountain appeared in its dazzling whiteness,
shining like a lighthouse over the sea of the plateau, in a mantle of
firn fields and blue glistening ice, and rising bold and sharply against
the sky of purest azure blue. The mound is therefore placed where the
traveller coming from Shigatse first comes in sight of the holy
mountain. Our guides bared their heads and murmured prayers. Two
pilgrims, whom we had seen at the grotto of the hermits, lighted a fire
and threw into it a scented powder, an offering of incense to the gods
of Targo-gangri. South and south-west runs a lofty range, of uniform
height, with patches of snow glittering in the sun on its
brownish-purple summit--another part of the Trans-Himalaya.
As we sat here a trading caravan came along the road to Penla-buk, which
lies on the west side of the Dangra-yum-tso, and is a rendezvous for
gold-prospectors and wool-dealers. Our tents formed a little village on
the Kyangdam plain, where wild asses abound, and some sixty nomads of
the neighbourhood encamped around it.
In the evening the escort from Ghe presented themselves to inform me
that as we were now in the Largep district, subject to the Labrang, they
would return home and consign us to a new guard. The latter consisted of
five men far advanced in life. Their leader was a small grey-headed man
with trembling hands and very indistinct enunciation. When the Ghe men,
who longed to return to their warmer villages, had gone off next morning
in spite of a violent storm, I had a serious talk with the new men. They
intended to lead us over the pass Sha-la (Trans-Himalaya) in the
south-west, where the Targo-tsangpo rises, on the banks of which we had
passed the day. According to Nain Sing's map this river flows round the
east side of Targo-gangri, and then enters the Dangra-tso, as the holy
lake is called here. But Nain Sing was never there, and I wished to gain
an insight into the geography of the country. So we came to an agreement
that we should travel north-westwards; and I pointed out to the men that
Raga-tasam was put down in our passport as the next place; that two
roads led thither, one over the Sha-la, the other deviating northwards
to the Targo-gangri, and that I had chosen the latter. The passport
prohibited us from visiting Lhasa, Gyangtse, and the monastery
Sekiya-gompa, but contained not a single word about the road to the
Dangra-yum-tso. They ought then to comply with my wishes. The old man
hesitated, pondered awhile, and summoned his followers to a council. His
tent was soon full of black, bare-headed men in grey sheepskins. Then
the consultation was adjourned to Muhamed Isa's tent. After some
consideration they agreed to my proposals, on the condition that I
should pay them a whole _tenga_ per day for each yak instead of half a
_tenga_. I rejoiced at the hope of seeing the holy mountain coming
closer and closer, and its finer details becoming more conspicuous, of
beholding it in cloud and sunshine, disappearing behind the hills and
peeping out again like a man-of-war in a rough sea with high white waves
round the bow, or, more correctly, like a ship under full sail on the
sea of the plateau. Of course I exposed myself to annoyances by ignoring
the passport, but geographical discoveries were concerned and all
considerations must be set aside.
On Vega day, April 24, we had a strong wind in our faces, it was cold,
and Targo-gangri partly disappeared behind the clouds. Escorted by the
old gentleman and four horsemen who were as much alike as if they had
been cast in the same mould, and who had all matchlocks on their backs,
I rode along the bank of the Targo-tsangpo in the contracting valley
which slopes with an extremely gentle gradient, imperceptible to the
eye, to the lake. At last the valley becomes so narrow that the ice
fills all its bottom. The road therefore leaves the river on the left,
and passes over flat hills, among which we cross a succession of small
affluents. Black tents, tame yaks grazing, stone folds for sheep, wild
asses, and millions of field mice recall to mind the Chang-tang. The
wild yak, however, does not occur in this country. The feathered kingdom
is represented by ravens, wild ducks, and occasionally a small bird.
When we came to the Bumnak-chu, a right-hand tributary of the
Targo-tsangpo, a large number of men came to meet us, saluting with the
tongue, and gazing at us cheerfully and good-temperedly with their long
black unkempt hair, their small grey skins, and their torn boots.
On April 25 we rode over the Ting-la pass; at its foot is a _mani_ in
good preservation, with a yak skull as ornament, a form of prayer being
incised in the frontal bone between the horns. From the top of the pass
Targo-gangri is seen expanded into a row of peaks covered with snow. The
whole region is like a sea with a strong swell on, and the Targo-gangri
is as white foaming surf on the coast. A little later the summits of the
mass stood clearly out white on a background of bluish-black clouds; the
highest two, twin peaks, had the form of a Tibetan tent on two poles.
Our camp in the Kokbo valley contained not fewer than eleven tents, for
now we had about forty companions of all ages, and at least a hundred
yaks. The loads were transferred to other yaks on the march to spare the
animals. When the caravan moves over the rounded hills it is like a
nomad tribe on the march. Most of our Tibetans ride yaks or horses.
We had made a short march, and plenty of time was left for me to go
about, make a visit to each tent, and see how the men were getting on.
They were all drinking tea and eating _tsamba_, their greatest pleasure
in life. The dung fire burns in the middle, and the form of the tent
certainly is the cause of the draught which prevents smoke from
collecting inside. Round about stand kettles, teapots, and wooden cups.
A huge quantity of provisions lies at the sides. Saddles and harness are
deposited in a row before the tent. When I enter, all rise, but I beg
them to sit down again and go on eating, while I take a seat on a barley
sack at the door of the tent. All have the right arm bare, and many both
arms; when they let their sheepskins fall down their backs the whole
body is naked down to the waist. They are copper-brown and covered with
a layer of dirt, but well-grown, powerful, manly, and in good
proportion. The cook of the tent community pours out tea for all, and
then each one brings out his own bag and takes out a pinch of _tsamba_
to sprinkle into his tea. They eat meat either raw or boiled in a pot.
They are all quiet and orderly, no angry words are heard, no quarrelling
and shouting, they are all the best of friends, and make themselves
comfortable after their day's march, talking and laughing together.
Their wigs are dust-traps and make them look like Indians. Most of them
wear a pigtail, consisting mostly of plaited threads with white bone
rings and small silver image boxes which have a couple of turquoises
inlaid in the lid. Some have the pigtail wound round the head, forming a
singular crown, the diadem of the wilderness.
In another tent the dinner was finished and the "covers" were empty.
There a man sat with an awl, cobbling a torn boot; another sewed the
girths of his saddle on firmly; and a third lay on his back, with legs
crossed and an arm supporting his head, and took his after-dinner nap.
Seen from above he makes a very absurd figure with his huge nostrils,
into which mice might easily walk in mistake for their holes. A smirking
youth is smoking his pipe, while his neighbour busily and carefully
searches for suspected lodgers in his sheepskin.
I drew several of them without exciting the least uneasiness; on the
contrary, they made a joke of the sitting, and laughed heartily when
they saw their counterfeits, which they embellished with prints of their
buttery fingers on the margin. They asked me why I drew them, and for
what purpose I wished to know their names and ages. They were all
sympathetic, polite, and friendly, and I enjoyed their society (Illusts.
193, 194).
A begging lama, too, looked in; he was on the way to Kailas, and was
quickly sketched, to the intense amusement of the other men. He bore a
lance with a black tassel and red strips, a timbrel, an antelope horn to
protect himself against snappy dogs, and a trombone of human bone, which
he set in a corner of his mouth when he blew it. It caused him much
amusement to be the object of universal attention, and he took advantage
of it to make acquaintance with the nomads with a view to an appeal to
their liberality (Illust. 195).
[Illustration: 193, 194. NOMADS SOUTH OF TARGO-GANGRI.]
[Illustration: 195. MENDICANT LAMA BLOWING ON A HUMAN BONE.]
[Illustration: 196. TIBETAN BOY.
Sketches by the Author.]
CHAPTER XXXVII
TARGO-GANGRI AND THE SHURU-TSO
Hitherto we had experienced no difficulties, but at Kokbo the state of
affairs seemed disquieting. Our old man informed me that he had sent a
message to the nomads at the Targo-gangri mountain, asking them to hold
yaks in readiness. They had answered that they could not think of
serving a European without express orders, and that they would resort to
force if our present guards led us to the lake. The old man, however,
was not put out, but believed that he could soon bring them to their
senses.
On April 26 we march north-westwards in a sharp wind over the pass
Tarbung-la. The sacred mountain exhibits all the beauty of its sixteen
peaks, and north, 33° west, is seen the gap where we expect to find the
Dangra-yum-tso. The view is of immense extent. The valley widens out and
passes into that of the Targo-tsangpo. Four antelopes spring lightly
over the slopes; black tents are not to be seen.
When we again reach more open ground, one of the most magnificent views
I have seen in this part of Tibet opens out to the west-south-west, a
gigantic range of uniform height, with snow-covered pinnacles and short
glaciers between, which is scarcely inferior to Targo-gangri in imposing
beauty and massiveness. The chain is bluish black below the snowy
points; at its foot lies a lake unknown to us, the Shuru-tso. The
journey to the Ngangtse-tso north-north-east by the way of the
Shangbuk-la pass is reckoned as only three days' march. On the eastern
flank of Targo-gangri five glaciers are deeply embedded, while to the
east of the mountain the flat open valley of the Targo-tsangpo comes
into sight, which we gradually approach, passing over five clearly
defined terraces, relics of a time when the Dangra-yum-tso was much
larger than now. Two wolves make off in front of us, and the old man
gallops after them, but turns back when they stop as if to wait for him.
"If I had had a knife or a gun," he says, "I would have killed them
both."
At length we descend to the valley of the Targo-tsangpo down a bold
terrace with two ledges, and here the river is divided into several
arms, and wild ducks and geese swarm. Brushwood grows on the banks. On
the right bank lies our camp, No. 150, not far from the foot of the
majestic Targo-gangri (Illust. 198).
Thus far we were to come, but no farther. Here a troop of twenty
horsemen armed to the teeth awaited us, who had been sent by the
Governor of Naktsang from Shansa-dzong, with orders to stop us "in case
we should attempt to advance to the holy lake." This time they had kept
a sharper watch, and had anticipated that I would take all kinds of
liberties. They had left Shansa-dzong fifteen days before, and had been
camping here three days, awaiting our arrival. If we had hurried we
should have been before them again. One of the two leaders was the same
Lundup Tsering who, as he told me himself, had stopped Dutreuil de Rhins
and Grenard, and had been in January with Hlaje Tsering at the
Ngangste-tso. He informed me that Hlaje Tsering was still in office, but
had had much trouble because of us, and had been obliged to pay a fine
of sixty _yambaus_ (about £675) to the Devashung. When I remarked that
Hlaje Tsering had told me himself that he was so poor that he had
nothing left to lose, Lundup answered that he had extorted the money
from his subordinates. All, too, who had sold us yaks and served us as
guides had been heavily fined. The next European who attempted to get
through without a passport would have no end of difficulties to contend
with (Illust. 200).
[Illustration: 197. KUBI-GANGRI FROM CAMP 201. S. 19° E., Ngomo-dingding
(1), with the Ngomo-dingding Glacier below. S. 2° W., Absi (2), with the
Absi Glacier, S. 21°-35° W., the Massive of Mukchung-simo (3).]
[Illustration: 198. TARGO-GANGRI FROM A HILL NEAR CAMP 150. N. 32° W.,
Sershik-gompa (4). N. 26°-13° W., the Dangra-yum-tso (5) in the
distance.]
[Illustration: 199. THE CHOMO-UCHONG GROUP FROM THE KINCHEN-LA, MAY 23,
1907 (cf. Illustration 212).
Sketches by the Author.]
Lundup pointed to a red granite promontory, 200 yards north of our camp,
and said: "There is the boundary between the Labrang (Tashi-lunpo) and
Naktsang (Lhasa). So far we can let you go, but not a step farther;
if you attempt it, we have orders to fire on you."
They read the passport from Shigatse, and affirmed that the words
therein, "on the direct way to Ladak," did not mean that we had
permission to make all sorts of detours, and, above all, we might not go
to the Dangra-yum-tso, which is holy and is in the territory of Lhasa.
Gaw Daloi had given orders that he should be informed daily which way we
were travelling. If they did not obey this order they would lose their
heads. It was evident, then, that I should have to give up the
Dangra-yum-tso for the third time, and just when I was only two short
days' march from it.
The outline of the mountain stood out sharp and white in the moonshine
against the blue-black starry sky. The next day there was a storm, and
not even the foot of Targo-gangri was visible, much less the icy-cold
heights where the winds sing their heavenly choruses among the firn
fields. In the evening, however, when the weather had cleared, the whole
mass stood clearly out, covered with freshly fallen snow.
Again we held a long palaver with the horsemen from Naktsang. I told
them that I would not leave this camp till I had at least seen the lake
from a distance. To my delight they replied that though they were
obliged, much against their inclination, to cause me the disappointment
of not visiting the lake, they would not prevent me from seeing it from
a distance, but that they would keep a good watch lest I should ride off
behind yonder red mountain to the north.
They had scarcely gone when our old Kyangdam guide came to complain that
the horsemen from Naktsang had threatened his life because he had
brought me here. I sent for the Naktsang men again and impressed on them
strongly that they had no cause of complaint against my escort, for it
was entirely my fault that we were here. They promised that they would
not again treat the Kyangdam men harshly, as they had most fortunately
caught me just at the right moment. The Kyangdam men could not thank me
enough for restoring peace, and their joy was still greater when I
presented the whole party with money to supplement their scanty store of
provisions. They gave vent to their delight by performing games, dances,
and wrestling bouts in front of my tent, and their happy laughter and
shouts were echoed till late in the night from the mountains.
Then came twelve more soldiers from Naktsang with fresh orders that we
were under no circumstances to be allowed to proceed farther northwards.
But all were friendly and polite; we joked and laughed together, and
were the best of friends. It is singular that they never lose their
patience, though I am always causing them worry, perplexity, and
troublesome journeys.
The chief of Largep was more unyielding than our old friends the
Naktsang gentlemen. He would not let me climb the red mountain, but
insisted that we should leave the district next day and travel straight
to Raga-tasam. However, I snubbed him, demanding how he, a small
chieftain in the mountains, could dare to speak so peremptorily. Even
the Chinese in Lhasa, I said, had treated us pleasantly and had left us
the fullest freedom. I would not leave the spot until I had seen the
lake. I threatened to tear the Shigatse passport in pieces, and send off
at once a courier to Tang Darin and Lien Darin, and wait for their
answer at the foot of Targo-gangri. Then the chief became embarrassed,
got up in silence, and went away with the others. But they were with me
again in the evening, and with a humble smile they said that I might
ride up the red mountain if I would promise not to go to the shore of
the lake.
A thin veil of mist lay over the country all day long. But when the sun
set, the western sky glowed with purple flames, and the cold glaciers
and snowfields were thrown up by a background of fire.
[Illustration: 200. LUNDUP'S SQUADRON. TO THE LEFT A PART OF
TARGO-GANGRI. CAMP 150.]
At last, on April 29, we take to the road and ride up the affluent
Chuma, flowing down from the right and called in its upper course
Nagma-tsangpo. We climb higher and higher up regularly curved lake
terraces; the view widens out the nearer we approach the summit, where
the Ladakis are waiting for us with a fire. The southern basin of the
Dangra-yum-tso was clearly visible as a bluish sabre-blade, and the
valley of the Targo-tsangpo widens out like a trumpet to the broad plain
beside the shore. It was the easier to trace the course of the river to
the neighbourhood of the lake because it was marked all along by white
glistening ice flakes and dark spots where bushes grow. At the end of
July the river is said to rise so high that it cannot be crossed. So
when letters have to be delivered to nomads on the eastern foot of the
mountain they are weighted with a stone and thrown across a narrow part
of the stream.
The water of the lake is said to be as salt as that of the Ngangtse-tso,
and is not fit for drinking; but nevertheless pilgrims drink it, because
it is holy. At this time the winter ice was breaking up, and long sheets
of ice lay only at the shore. In contrast to most other lakes of Tibet,
the Dangra-yum-tso runs north and south, and it narrows in the middle,
just as Nain Sing has drawn it on his map; but he has made the lake a
little too large, and has especially exaggerated the dimensions of the
southern basin. A horseman can travel round the lake in five ordinary or
seven short days' journey; the pilgrim road closely follows the lake
shore. The pilgrims always make the circuit of the lake in the direction
of the hands of a watch, if they are orthodox; but if they belong to the
Pembo sect, like the monks of the Sershik-gompa, they begin their march
in the opposite direction. Most of them come in late summer or autumn. I
was told that the pilgrimage round the lake, which of course must be
made on foot, was in honour of Padma Sambhava, the saint who came to
Tibet in the year 747, became the founder of Lamaism, and enjoys almost
as great a reputation as Buddha himself. He is called in Tibet Lopön
Rinpoche, and his image is generally found in the temples.
Sershik-gompa, of which we had frequently heard, and which Nain Sing
names Sasik Gombas on his map, stands on an even slope at the eastern
foot of the mountain. The monastery is under the Devashung, and has
twenty Pembo brethren and an abbot named Tibha. Some of the monks are
said to be well off, but on the whole the convent is not rich; it is
supported by nomads in Naktsang, Largep, and Sershik. The monastery is
constructed chiefly of stone, but it also contains timber transported
hither from the Shang valley. There is a _dukang_ and a number of small
images of gods. The Targo-gangri massive can also be travelled round,
and only one pass has to be crossed, namely the Barong-la (or Parung),
which lies between Targo-gangri and the mighty range on the west of the
Shuru-tso.
The short, lofty, meridional range which is called Targo-gangri, and is
rather to be considered an isolated massive, ends in the north not far
from the lake, the flanks of the last peak descending gently to its flat
plain. Nain Sing calls the massive Targot-la Snowy Peaks, and the
district to the south of the mountain Tárgot Lhágeb (Largep). The river
is marked Targot Sangpo on his map. His Siru Cho to the east of the lake
is known to no one here, and his Mun Cho Lakes marked to the south of it
actually lie to the west of the lake. His representation of the
mountains to the south of the lake is confused and fanciful. Some nomads
named the holy mountain Chang-targo-ri.
On the way back I took levels, assisted by Robert, and found that the
highest recognizable terrace lay 292 feet above the level of the river.
The Targo-tsangpo is here certainly not more than 6½ feet higher than
the surface of the lake. As the Dangra-yum-tso is surrounded,
particularly on the south, by rather low, flat land, the lake must
formerly have been of very large extent. At that time the Targo-gangri
skirted the western shore as a peninsula.
In the night there was a noise like an avalanche falling; it became
feebler and died away. The horses and yaks of the Tibetans, frightened
by something or other, had stormed the detritus slope of the terrace.
Half an hour later I heard whistling and shouting; the men were coming
back with the runaways.
[Illustration: 201. LUNDUP (on horseback to the left) AND HIS RETINUE
PREVENT ME FROM PROCEEDING TO THE DANGRA-YUM-TSO.
Targo-gangri and the river Targo-tsangpo in the background.]
Before we took leave of our troublesome friends they were photographed
on horseback (Illust. 201). They all wore roomy, dark cerise-coloured
mantles, and, unlike the bare-headed Largep men, a bandage round the
head, in many cases drawn through silver rings like bangles. One had a
tall white hat like a truncated cone, with a flat brim, a head-covering
I remembered seeing in Nakchu. Their guns, with the military pennants on
the forks, they had slung over their shoulders, and their sabres stuck
out horizontally from their girdles in silver-bound scabbards decorated
with three pieces of imitation coral. Over the left shoulder some
carried a whole bandolier of _gao_ cases with glass fronts, through
which were visible the little innocent gods which bring their wearers
good fortune on their journey. Their fat little horses stamped and
snorted, longing for their old well-known pastures on the shores of the
Kyaring-tso. They also were decked with needlessly heavy but dainty
ornaments. The white horses with red riders on their backs made a
particularly striking picture. It was a varied scene in the blazing
sunshine, with the snowy summits of Targo-gangri as a background and
Nain Sing's lake to the north. I begged them to greet Hlaje Tsering
heartily from me, and tell him that I hoped to see him again.
And then they struck their heels into their horses, drew together into
close order, and trotted gaily up to the level surfaces of the river
terraces. Captivated by the appearance of the departing troop I ran
after it, and watched the dark column grow smaller at the red spur,
where the old shore lines seemed to run together. Singular people! They
rise like goblins from the depths of their valleys, they come one knows
not whence, they, like us, visit for a few short days the foot of the
snowy mountain, and then they vanish again like a whirlwind in the dust
of the horses' hoofs and beyond the mysterious horizon.
We, too, set out, and I left the Dangra-yum-tso to its fate, the
dark-blue waters to the blustering storm and the song of the rising
waves, and the eternal snowfields to the whisper of the winds. May the
changing colours of the seasons, the beauty of atmospheric effects of
light and shade, gold, purple, and grey, pass over Padma Sambhava's lake
amidst rain and sunshine, as already for untold thousands of years, and
the steps of believing, yearning pilgrims draw a chain around its
shores.
Accompanied by Robert and our aged guide, I rode across the river, which
carries about 140 cubic feet of water, and up to a spur of Targo-gangri
in order to procure a rock specimen. One glacier tongue after another of
the long series on the east side of the mountain passes out of sight,
and now the gap disappears through which we had seen a corner of the
lake, and far away to the north on its other side the outlines of
light-blue mountains.
Six hundred sheep were grazing on a slope without shepherds. Now and
then a hare was started in the thick tufts of steppe grass. From the
screes on our right was heard the pleasant chirp of partridges. When we
were far away two shepherds came up out of a gorge and drove the sheep
down to the river. At the lower end of the moraine of a glacier stood a
solitary tent. I asked our old man what the spot was called, but he
swore by three different gods that he had no notion. The most southern
outskirt of Targo-gangri hid the rest of the range, but before we
reached camp No. 151 it appeared again foreshortened. This camp stood on
the left bank of the river.
[Illustration: 202, 203, 204. TARGO-GANGRI FROM THE SOUTH.]
May 1. Spring is come; we have, indeed, had as much as 29 degrees of
frost during the preceding nights, but the days are fine and clear, and
it is never as trying as in the Chang-tang, even riding against the
wind. At camp No. 150 we had been at a height of 15,446 feet; now we go
slowly down, following the river at first, but leaving it on the left
when we see it emerge from the mountains as through a gate. Over a
singularly uniform and continuous plain without fissures or undulations
we now approach in a south-westerly direction the threshold which
separates the Shuru-tso from the Dangra-yum-tso. On the south-west side
of Tangro-gangri appear six glaciers, much smaller than those on the
north and east, and rather to be regarded as spurs and corners of the
ice mantle which covers the higher regions of the massive. The Shuru-tso
is seen as a fine blue line. We approach its shore and find that the
lake is completely frozen over. We make a halt to photograph and to
draw a panorama. Our old man smokes a pipe, and Robert and Tashi try
which can snore loudest. When I am ready we sneak off quietly from the
two sleepers. Tashi is the first to awake, understands the joke, and
also sneaks off. At last Robert awakes and finds himself alone, but he
soon overtakes us on his mule.
Now we have the lake close on our right. To the south rise grand
mountains, one of the loftiest chains of the Trans-Himalaya, raven black
beneath the sun, but the firn-fields glitter with a metallic lustre.
Considerable terraces skirt the bank, and the valleys running down from
the east to the lake cut through them, forming hollow ways in which a
solitary tent stands here and there guarded by a savage dog. We encamp
on the terrace above the Parva valley, our eight black tents contrasting
strongly with the yellow soil (15,594 feet). Our old Tibetans from
Kyangdam now bid us farewell and receive double payment as a present. In
front of us are the congealed waters of the Shuru-tso, longing to be
released by the warm spring winds; to the south rises the Do-tsengkan, a
mighty elevation clothed in eternal snow; in the south-west the sun
sinks behind the huge crest of the mountains and the shadows pass
silently across the ice. Soon the evening red lingers only on the peaks
of Targo-gangri and Do-tsengkan, and then another night falls over the
earth. It is a pity that the Tibetans do not understand the relations of
the sun and the planets, for they might regard the solar system as a
unique immeasurable prayer-mill revolving in space to the glory of the
gods. In the darkness the lofty mountains to the north-west are misty
and indistinct, but when the moon rises they and the lake are
illuminated alike and seem to be connected. From our terrace we seem to
have a bottomless abyss below us.
On May 2 we ride southwards along the shore (Illust. 205). Like the
Dangra-yum-tso, the Shuru-tso runs almost north and south, lying in a
longitudinal valley which has this direction, so unusual in Tibet. There
is open water along the bank, and the waves splash against the edge of
the porous ice, on which wild ducks sit, often in long rows. Owing to
the swell the water on the bank is black with decayed algæ and rotting
water-weeds, in which wild geese cackle and scream. As we come to the
regularly curved southern shore of the lake, with its bank of sand, we
see the well-known signs of a storm on the plain before us, white dust
swirls, stirred up in spirals from the ground by the wind, like the
smoke of a shot. After a time we find ourselves in the path of the
storm--it will not need many such storms to break up the whole lake and
drive its loosened ice-sheets to the eastern bank. We ride across the
river Kyangdam-tsangpo, which comes from the Trans-Himalaya, and bivouac
on its western terrace (15,548 feet). Here we have the whole lake in
front of us to the north, and behind it Targo-gangri, now smaller again.
Here our attendants were changed. The Largep chief, who had been so
overbearing at first, was as meek as a lamb at the moment of parting,
and gave me a _kadakh_, a sheep, and four skins of butter. Every morning
when the caravan sets out Ishe comes to my tent to fetch my two puppies;
Muhamed Isa has the third, which he means to train up to be a wonderful
animal, and the fourth has been consigned to Sonam Tsering. They have
grown a deal already, and howl and bite each other on the march, when
they ride in a basket on the back of a mule. They are graceful and
playful, and give me great amusement with their tricks.
From the little pass Dunka-la we had a grand and instructive view over
the great Shuru-tso, which is of a somewhat elongated form and is convex
to the west. Next day we crossed the pass Ben-la in a south-westerly
storm. It raged and blew day and night, but the air remained quite
clear. On the 6th we rode up a steep path to the Angden-la. In the
rather deep snow and the tiring rubbish the horses can get on only a
step at a time, and have often to stop and rest. Tsering rides past us
with his yak caravan, and four Ladakis have stayed behind in the valley
suffering from acute headache. At the top of the pass (18,514 feet)
stands a huge cairn with strings and streamers, their prayers rising to
the dwellings of the gods on the wings of the wind (Illusts. 207, 209,
210).
[Illustration: 205. THE SHURU-TSO, WITH TARGO-GANGRI IN THE BACKGROUND.]
No words can describe the panorama around us. We stand above a sea of
mountains with here and there a predominant peak. To the south we see
the Himalayas clearer and sharper than before, and can perceive where
the valley of the Brahmaputra runs on this side of the white ridge. To
the north the Shuru-tso is much foreshortened, and the Dangra-yum-tso is
hidden by Targo-gangri, which is sharply defined, though we are six
days' journey from it. Nay, even the contours of the mighty mountains on
the north-east shore of the lake, which we saw in winter from the north,
are distinguishable, and they lie fully ten days' journey from here. I
sit at the fire, drawing and making observations, as on all the passes.
I am again on the Trans-Himalaya, 53 miles from the Chang-la-Pod-la, and
now cross it for the third time. Northwards the water drains to the
Shuru-tso, southwards to the Raga-tsangpo. My feet stand on the oceanic
watershed, my eyes roam over this huge system, which I love as my own
possession. For the part where I now stand was unknown and waited
millions of years for my coming, lashed by innumerable storms, washed by
autumn rains, and wrapped in snow in winter. With every new pass on the
watershed of the gigantic rivers of India which I have the good fortune
to cross, my desire and hope become ever greater to follow its winding
line westwards to regions already known, and to fill up on the map the
great white blank north of the Tsangpo. I know very well that
generations of explorers will be necessary to examine this mighty
intricate mountain land, but my ambition will be satisfied if I succeed
in making the first reconnaissance.
We leave the cairn and the fire, its smoke covering the summit of the
pass as with a torn veil, and follow the brook, of which the water will
some day reach the warm sea after a thousand experiences. I turn a page
and begin a new chapter in my life as an explorer; the desolate
Chang-tang remains behind me, and Targo-gangri sinks below the
horizon--shall I ever see its majestic peaks again?
We descend rapidly with the wind in our faces. Large blocks of ice fill
the valley bottom between walls of black schists and porphyry. Several
large side valleys open into ours, and deserted hearths are signs of the
visits of nomads in summer. Our valley unites with the large Kyam-chu
valley, which is 6 miles broad and descends from the Sha-la, the pass of
the Trans-Himalaya over which our Tibetans had wished to guide us. The
land round the nomad tents of Kyam is flat and open.
On May 7 we march on in a terrible wind with the blue mirror of the
Amchok-tso on the south. The ground is flat and hard. A hare runs like
the wind, as if his life were in danger, over this flat, where he cannot
find the slightest cover. Eight sprightly antelopes show us their
graceful profiles as they spring lightly along, rising from the horizon
against a background of sky. Robert has drawn his fur over his head, and
sits in the saddle like a lady, with both his legs dangling on the
sheltered side, while Tashi leads his mule. But as the wind still blows
through him, he lays himself on his stomach across the saddle. My horse
sways when the wind catches the broad breast of its rider. The wind
howls and moans in my ears, it whines and whistles as it used to do in
the Chang-tang, a whole host of indignant spirits of the air seem to
complain of all the misery they have seen in the world.
The plain is called Amchok-tang, and we march over it, following the
main stream. Amchok-yung is a village of five tents, where are some fine
_manis_ bedecked with yak skulls, antelope horns, and slabs of
sandstone, one of them, of a regular rectangular form, measuring 40
inches. The inhabitants of the village disappeared as if by magic; only
an old man gave us his company as we inspected two of the tents. But
when we had ridden on, the people crept out again from behind dung
heaps, hillocks, and grass tufts, where they had hidden themselves.
The wind bores thick yellow sand out of the ground into a spout, which
is so dense that it looks black on the shady side. It winds up in
cyclonic spirals like the smoke of a tremendous explosion and, like a
strange ghost, dances across the plain, and does not fall to pieces till
it reaches the foot of the eastern mountains.
[Illustration: 206. ON THE UPPER RAGA-TSANGPO.]
[Illustration: 207. ANGDEN-LA.]
[Illustration: 208. CHOMO-UCHONG FROM THE EAST.]
In our camp of this day, situated on the north-west shore of the
Amchok-tso, we heard Chinese and Tibetan officials spoken of who were
shortly to ride through the country in all directions, counting the
tents, people, and herds. It was thought that this inspection was
connected with the new taxation which the Chinese intend to introduce.
My boat lay ready on the strand, for May 8 was to be devoted to an
excursion on the Amchok-tso.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
TO THE OUTLET OF THE CHAKTAK-TSANGPO IN THE BRAHMAPUTRA
The lake was free from ice, and only on the northern shore some blocks
rocked on the surf. A south-west wind swept constantly over the country,
and there was no prospect of good weather. A dozen Tibetans followed me
at a respectful distance. I begged them to come nearer and see us start.
The boat was brought down to the water, Rehim Ali and Shukkur took their
places, and Lama carried me to the boat through the slowly deepening
water. A promontory to the south, 34° E., was fixed as our goal, and the
oarsmen began their struggle with the waves. For the first hour the lake
was so shallow that the oars struck the bottom and stirred up inky-black
mud. Shukkur cries out in time with the oars, "Shubasa, ya aferin,
bismillah, ya barkadiallah"--to cite only a few words of his
inexhaustible repertoire. Rehim Ali's oar gives me a splash as it dips
in, but I am soon dry again in the wind. The swell stirs up the mud from
the bottom, and the water is so shallow that the waves show a tendency
to break even out in the middle of the lake.
[Illustration: 209, 210. ANGDEN-LA, A PASS ON THE TRANS-HIMALAYA.]
Now the sandspouts begin their threatening dance on the western shore,
and in that direction the water gleams white. The storm sweeps over the
Amchok-tso, and the two Mohammedans must put forth all their strength to
force the boat forward against wind and water. The swell grows heavier,
the depth is 7.9 feet, and the water assumes a greener hue. Shukkur Ali,
our old fisherman, puts out his line, but nothing but floating algæ will
bite. In several places are seen wild ducks, gulls, and wild geese.
Nomads have just arrived and are putting up their tents in a gorge on
the eastern shore. At length we reach the promontory, having sounded a
maximum depth of only 12 feet.
After observations have been taken, a panorama sketched, and dinner
eaten, we again set off in a northerly direction, and the boat dances
before the brisk wind lightly as a wild duck over the waves. We sail
past three more tents, sound 10.2 feet, and approach the northern shore,
where the water is only 20 inches deep, and is a muddy soup. We run
aground at a distance of 100 yards from the bank. Rabsang comes up
running, leading my horse by the bridle, and some other Ladakis follow
him. They help us to land, and light a much needed fire at the foot of
the sand terrace which here rises from the bank.
The river Kyam-chu enters the Amchok-tso on the north side, and only 1¼
miles to the west of its muddy delta the Dongmo-chu flows out of the
lake towards its confluence with the Raga-tsangpo in the east. Properly
speaking, the Dongmo is only the continuation of the Kyam-chu, with the
lake hanging like a bag on its right bank.
After the boat has been folded up, Muhamed Isa has to show us the way on
horseback over the grass-grown sandhills. He guides me across the twenty
shallow and treacherously swampy delta arms of the Kyam-chu. It is dark,
but a beacon fire has been lighted in the camp, and the cakes of dung
are heated to whiteness in the strong wind, and shine like electric
light.
Next day I was up before the sun, in order to take an observation. The
thermometer had sunk in the night to 0.3°, and the wind blew regularly
as a trade-wind. It is pleasant to see the day dawn in the east, and
life begin anew among the tents. The hired yaks have lain tethered
during the night, and now they are allowed to wander freely over the
pasture. Sleepy yawns are heard in the tents, and men come out and make
up the fires; the jug bubbles in which the morning tea is stirred up
with butter, and kettles are set on three stones over the fire. The
puppies play in the open, and are glad that they have not to roll about
to-day in a basket.
The days and months fly by to a chorus of storms, and spring still
delays its coming. In the evening songs of the Ladakis I fancy I hear an
undertone of home-sickness, and they rejoice at every day's march which
brings us a little further westwards. When we woke next morning, it blew
as fresh as ever, and Robert had made himself a mask with Tibetan
spectacles sewed into the eye-holes; he looked very comical in this
contrivance, which was very appropriate in this land of religious
masquerades.
The road, ascending the broad valley of the Pu-chu, led over open,
slightly undulating ground to Serme-lartsa. Here old Guffaru was
reported sick; he suffered from colic, and was well nursed. But late at
night Robert came breathless to my tent to tell me the old man was
dying. When I came to the tent the son, whose duty it was to keep the
shroud ready, sat weeping beside his father, while the other men warmed
their caps over the fire and applied them to the body of the patient. I
ordered him a cold compress, but he asked me, to the intense amusement
of others, just to go back to my tent again. Muhamed Isa laughed till he
rolled over. Guffaru sat upright on his bed, moaned and groaned, and
begged me to go away. I gave him a strong dose of opium, and next
morning he was so brisk that he walked all the way, though a horse was
at his disposal. The remains of Burroughs and Wellcome's medicine chest
had saved his life; he was thankful and pleased that his shroud was not
required this time.
[Illustration: 211. MANIS ON THE WAY TO THE ANGDEN-LA.]
On May 11 we mounted to the pass Lungring (17,697 feet) in a bitterly
cold snowstorm, and descended the valley of the same name to the bank of
the upper Raga-tsangpo. On the 12th we marched upstream; the valley is
broad, and is bounded on the north by great mountains. The thermometer
had sunk to -0.8°, and the storm was dead against us. Occasionally it
abated so much that we could hear the footfalls of the horses on the
detritus, but we were benumbed when we came to the camp. Thick snow
fell all the afternoon. My puppies sat together in the tent door and
growled at the falling flakes, but when they saw it was no use, they
snapped at the flakes as though they were flies and pawed at them. Then
they went back into the tent, lay on the frieze blanket in the corner,
and let it snow on.
On the next day's march we passed Kamba-sumdo, where the two head
sources of the Raga-tsangpo unite; the one, coming from the west, is
named Chang-shung, the other, from the south-west, Lo-shung, _i.e._
"Northern" and "Southern Valley." The Chang-shung is the larger. The
Lo-shung we had to cross twice, and found the bed full of stones
connected by slippery ice. In the west a large snow-covered ridge
appeared, the Chomo-uchong, or "High Nun," which was discovered by Nain
Sing. Ryder measured it and produced an exact map of it. Belts of snow
descend from the white summits down the dark flanks. Other Tibetans
called it Choor-jong (Illust. 212).
Still marching south-westwards we approached at an acute angle the great
main road between Lhasa and Ladak, the so-called _tasam_. As though to
show its importance a caravan was just at the time travelling westwards
in three columns. It moved so slowly through the landscape that we had
to watch the mountain spur behind to convince ourselves that the small
black lines were moving at all. Soon afterwards we pitched our tents in
Raga-tasam (16,234 feet), a station on the great high-road, where we
came in contact with the route of the English expedition under Ryder and
Rawling for the first time since leaving Shigatse. Whatever the
immediate future had in store for me, it was above all things my desire
to avoid this route as much as possible. For the map which Ryder and
Wood had executed is the best that has been surveyed of any part of
Tibet; I could add nothing new to it with my modest equipment. But if I
passed to the north or south of their line of march, I could supplement
their map with my own explorations. In this I actually so far succeeded
that out of eighty-three days' marches to Tokchen on the Manasarowar
only two-and-a-half days' march ran along their route.
As I now perceived that we should have to travel on the road which Nain
Sing in the year 1865, and Ryder and Rawling and their comrades in 1904,
had passed along, I wrote, after consultation with Robert and Muhamed
Isa, to Tang Darin and Lien Darin in Lhasa. I represented in an urgent
appeal to the former, the High Commissioner, that it could not clash
with any treaty if I, being already in Tibet, travelled to Ladak by one
road or another, provided that I actually did go thither, and that I
therefore begged permission to take the following route: I wished to
take my homeward way past the lake Tedenam-tso, of which Nain Sing had
heard, then to visit the Dangra-yum-tso, and thence to proceed to Tradum
and to the Ghalaring-tso, the holy mountain Kailas, the Manasarowar
lake, the sources of the Indus and the Brahmaputra, and lastly Gartok.
To the other, the Amban of Lhasa, I also wrote about the way I desired
to take, and promised to send him a report about it from Gartok. I told
both that I wished for a speedy answer, and would wait for it in
Raga-tasam.
As soon as I had come to a decision, I called Tundup Sonam and Tashi,
and told them to get their sleep over by midnight. Then I wrote the
above-mentioned letters and letters to my parents and to Major O'Connor.
When my correspondence was ready, it was past midnight. The camp had
lain several hours in sleep when I made the night watchman waken the two
messengers and Muhamed Isa. Their orders were such as they had never
received before. They were to travel day and night along the 220 miles
to Shigatse and hand over my letters to Ma. They need not wait for an
answer, for I had asked the Mandarins to send me special couriers.
Provisions they need not take, for they would be able to get everything
on the great high-road, and I gave them money to hire the horses they
required. They would be able to reach their journey's end in ten days,
and in a month we ought to have an answer. If they did not find us in
Raga-tasam on their return, they were to follow in our track.
Tundup Sonam and Tashi were in good spirits and full of hope when
Muhamed Isa and I accompanied them outside the camp, and watched them
disappear into the dark night. They made a detour to avoid the twelve
black tents standing here, lest the numerous dogs of the village should
bark. It was not far to the great high-road, and at the next _tasam_, as
the stations are called, they could hire horses at daybreak. Muhamed Isa
and I sat a while in my tent in lively conversation about our prospects.
Not till I had crept into bed after a tiring day did it occur to me that
it was perhaps cruel to let the two men ride alone day and night through
Tibet. But it was too late, they must now fulfil their mission.
There was no hurry now. We stayed here seven days. Westwards the way was
open, but not the way I wished to take, and therefore we were prisoners
in our own tents. "Patience," whispered the ceaseless winds. The unknown
land lay to the north; I could not give it up till all my efforts had
proved fruitless. We had cold unpleasant weather, with frequently more
than 36 degrees of frost, and on the night of May 15 as much as 46.4
degrees. The Tibetans said that this neighbourhood is always cold, even
when spring reigns all around.
I lay on my bed and read _David Copperfield_, _Dombey and Son_, and _The
Newcomes_, for I had now a whole library to read through, the gift of
the obliging Major O'Connor. Robert gave me lessons in Hindustani, and I
drew types of the people. A puppy of the same age as our own warily came
up to my tent and got a breakfast. Mamma Puppy was by no means pleased
with this wayside guest, who looked comical, as shy and quiet as a
mouse; he sat by the hour together at the fire and looked at me, at
length falling asleep and turning on his side. When he appeared again at
dinner, he was thoroughly worried by Puppy, but nevertheless went calmly
to the family mat and laid himself down. Puppy was furious, but so
dumbfoundered at this unexpected impudence that she laid herself down on
the ground beside the mat.
Tibetans came every day to my tent and implored us to make a start. When
this proved useless, they declared at length, that they could no longer
supply us with provisions, for no more were to be had in the
neighbourhood. I asked them, as an experiment, whether they would
forward two letters to the Mandarins in Lhasa, but they replied that
they had no authority to do this. They were much astonished when they
heard that I had sent off letters five days previously. For two days I
lay in bed, for I was quite at an end of my strength, and made Robert
read to me.
On Whitsunday, May 19, we had another long palaver. The Tibetans read to
me the instructions they had received from Lhasa, which were dated "on
the tenth day of the second month in the year of the fiery sheep." I was
there called Hedin Sahib, and the orders contained the following
clauses: "Send him out of the country. Let him not turn aside from the
_tasam_, and guide him neither to the right nor to the left. Supply him
with horses, yaks, servants, fuel, grass, and everything he wants. The
prices he must pay are the usual prices fixed by the Government. Give
him at once anything he asks for and refuse him nothing. But if he will
not conform to the directions on his passport, but says he will take
other routes independently, give him no provisions, but keep firm hold
of him and send off messengers at once to the Devashung. Do not venture
to think for yourselves, but obey. Any one in the provinces who does not
obey will be beaten; so run the regulations you have to conform to. If
he gives no trouble, see that the nomads serve him well and do him no
harm on the way to Gartok. Then it will be the business of the Garpuns
(the two Viceroys) to take him under their protection."
And yet I was not satisfied. I told them that I could not think of
conforming to my passport, which was contrary to my religion, and that I
must go northwards from the Chomo-uchong to Saka-dzong. They were quite
at liberty to send messengers to the Devashung. We would wait. Then they
held a council, and at length agreed to let us take the northern route,
but we must set out on May 21.
[Illustration: 212. CHOMO-UCHONG FROM LAMLUNG-LA.]
[Illustration: 213. PANORAMA FROM THE TA-LA. (The Brahmaputra Valley and
the Himalayas in the background.)
Sketches by the Author.]
I lay on my bed and dreamed of the tramp of horses coming both from the
east and the west, of the roads open to me to the mysterious mountain
system in the north, round which my plans and my dreams circled
continually like young eagles.
So we set out on May 21, north-westwards, and saw the summits of the
Chomo-uchong disappear behind its outskirts. From the camp we could see
several valleys in the north-west drained by the source streams of the
Raga-tsangpo. Just beyond Raga-tasam we again left the route of the
English expedition, and on the 22nd climbed up to the pass Ravak-la,
which lies on a low ridge between two of the source streams of the
Raga-tsangpo. On the 23rd we crossed four passes. The Kichung-la is the
watershed between the Raga-loshung and the Chungsang, a river which
takes an independent course to the Tsangpo. The ascent to the fourth
pass, the Kanglung-la, was very tiresome, the ground consisting of wet
alluvium, wherein the horses sank so deep that we preferred to go on
foot and splash through the mud. We were now on the heights whence the
water flows down to three of the northern tributaries of the
Brahmaputra; the third flows to the Chaktak-tsangpo, which runs to the
west of Saka-dzong. Here and there the snow, owing to wind, melting and
freezing again, has assumed the form of upright blades, two feet high
and sharp as a knife. Far to the south appear parts of the Himalayas,
and we are here in a grand landscape of wild and fantastic relief. Now
and then the view is obscured by dense showers of hail.
On the morning of the 24th all the country was hidden by thickly falling
snow, and the weather at the end of May was more winterly than on the
Chang-tang in December. We ride between steep cliffs down a deeply
eroded valley, and side valleys run in with narrow deep openings. In one
of them is a frozen waterfall. We often cross the clear water of the
river which rushes along on its way to Saka-dzong and the
Chaktak-tsangpo. Violent gusts of snow sweep through the valley from
time to time, and then we can hardly see our hands, and the ground and
the mountains become white. In the beautiful junction of valleys called
Pangsetak our tents and those of the Tibetans were heavily weighted with
snow.
On the 25th we go down further. Nomad tents are as rare as on the
preceding days, for people come here only in summer. The path runs
frequently up along the left terrace, high above the valley bottom,
where the river has formed two large basins of dark-green water. We
amused ourselves with rolling stones down the steep slope; they knocked
against other boulders, dashed with a thundering noise into the valley,
tearing up sand and dust, bounced up from the ground, and finally
plunged into the basin, raising a cloud of spray. It was childish but
very diverting. The valley passes into a plain, in the southern part of
which runs the great high-road between Raga-tasam and Saka-dzong. The
river we had followed down is the Kanglung-bupchu, but in Saka it is
called Sa-chu-tsangpo. We pitched our camp in the mouth of the valley
Basang on the north side of the plain.
From here to Saka-dzong is a short day's journey. But, instead of
travelling along this road, which Ryder has already laid down on his
map, I wished to see the place where the Chaktak-tsangpo unites with the
upper Brahmaputra. That would involve a long detour of four days'
journey, and to this our friends from Raga would not consent without the
permission of the Governor of Saka. We therefore stayed a day in the
Basang valley, while a messenger was sent to him. When the answer came
it was, to our surprise, in the affirmative, but under the condition
that the main part of the caravan should proceed straight to Saka-dzong.
I even received a local passport for the excursion.
Among other natives who at this time sat for me as models was a youth of
twenty years, named Ugyu, who had lived some years before with his
mother and sisters in a valley to the north, where their tent was
attacked and pillaged by robbers. They had defended themselves bravely
with sabres and knives, but the robber band had had firearms, and Ugyu
had been struck by a bullet, which had passed through his shoulder-blade
and lung, and had come out at his breast. Large scars showed the course
of the bullet. When one remembers that the leaden bullets of the
Tibetans are as large as hazel-nuts, one is astonished that the boy did
not die of internal hæmorrhage. He appeared, on the contrary,
extraordinarily healthy and blooming, and had an amiable, sympathetic
disposition.
I sat on a barley sack before Muhamed Isa's tent and sketched.
Meanwhile, the baggage and provisions were made ready for the excursion.
My excellent caravan leader stood, tall and straight as a pole, watching
the others filling the sacks we were to take with us. He had the boat
also and everything we wanted for river measurements packed up. In the
evening he arranged a farewell ball for Tsering, Shukkur Ali, Rabsang,
Islam Ahun, and Ishe, who were to accompany Robert and me to the
Tsangpo. He had bought in Shigatse a large fine guitar, on which he
played himself in his tent. This evening the dancing and singing went
off more gaily and merrily than ever. We expected good news from Lhasa,
and were glad that the people in Saka had granted the permission I had
asked for.
On the morning of May 27 the weather was really fine after a minimum of
only 23°; had the spring come at last? The main caravan had already gone
off westwards to Saka, and my party was ready when Muhamed Isa came to
say farewell. He was ordered to remain in Saka till I returned, and to
try by all means to gain the confidence of the officials by friendliness
and prudent conduct. My small caravan was on the road to the south, and
we stood alone on the deserted camping-ground. After he had received his
instructions we mounted into our saddles at the same time and I rode
after my men. I turned once more in the saddle and saw Muhamed Isa's
stately form upright on his grey horse, his pipe in his mouth, his green
velvet cap on his head, and the black sheepskin loose on his shoulder,
trotting quickly in the track of the caravan. It was the last time I saw
him thus.
Soon we cross the great high-road, the _tasam_, and ride slowly up to
the pass Gyebuk-la (15,846 feet), marked by four _manis_, which are
covered with green flags of schist with incised Buddha images. The
well-worn path, and three caravans of yaks which are just coming over
the pass on the way to Saka-dzong, show us that this is an important
trade-route. Two of the caravans came from the great town Tsongka-dzong,
which lies five days' journey southwards, not far from the frontier of
Nepal. From Saka the caravans go over the Gyebuk-la, cross the
Brahmaputra, ascend the Samderling valley, and by the Sukpu-la and
Negu-la passes reach Tsongka-dzong, which supplies the nomads living in
the north with barley. From Gyebuk-la there is a grand view over the
sharp peaks and the glacier tongues of the Chomo-uchong. On the southern
slopes of the pass there are _pama_ bushes almost everywhere, and it is
pleasant to see their fresh green needles again.
The road runs down the Kyerkye valley. On a smooth wall of rock "Om mani
padme hum" is hewn in characters a yard high. At camp No. 167 the
Tibetans of the neighbourhood came kindly to meet me and bid me welcome,
and two of them led my horse by the bridle to my tent, as is the custom
in this country.
Next day we march down the valley with fresh guides, and see several
ruins telling of happier times now gone by. Terraced structures for
irrigating the fields indicate that barley is grown in the district. In
front of us is now the broad valley of the Brahmaputra, and we come to
an arm of the river where a ferry is established to transport caravans
and goods on the way between Tsongka-dzong and Saka-dzong from one side
of the river to the other.
Camp No. 168 was pitched at the extremity of the tongue of gravel
between the two rivers. The Chaktak-tsangpo had here a breadth of 92.2
feet, a maximum depth of 2.4 feet, an average velocity of 4.56 feet, and
a discharge of 664 cubic feet per second. Its water was almost quite
clear, and in consequence of its greater velocity forced its way far
into the muddy water of the Brahmaputra. The latter had at mid-day a
temperature of 48.9°, while the water of the tributary was a little
warmer, namely, 49.8°. Our companions told us that all who come to the
great river drink of the water, because it comes from the holy mountain
Kailas, or Kang-rinpoche, in the far west.
Shukkur Ali sat with his ground line at a deep bay with slow eddies and
pulled out of the water ten fine fish, a species of sheat with four soft
barbs. He had raw meat as bait on his five hooks; at one end of the line
a stone was tied, so that it could be thrown far out into deep water,
and the other end was made fast to a peg driven in to the bank, and a
stone was laid on the line so lightly in the fork of the peg that it
fell when a fish bit. The fisherman can then occupy himself meanwhile
with some manual work, such as mending shoes. He puts his fish in a
small enclosed basin. The fish had white flesh, and were delicate.
On May 29 we measured the main river at a place where a low island
divides it into two channels 175.5 and 180.4 feet broad respectively,
with a maximum depth of 3.8 feet. Here the Brahmaputra carries 2532
cubic feet of water, and 3196 after receiving the Chaktak-tsangpo. At
the confluence of the Dok-chu we had found only 2966 cubic feet, but the
measurement was made a month and a half earlier. The ratio of the
Brahmaputra to the Dok-chu was 5:2, and of the Brahmaputra to the
Chaktak-tsangpo 7:2. The Dok-chu is therefore considerably larger than
the Chaktak-tsangpo.
On May 30 we followed the broad valley of the Chaktak-tsangpo towards
the north-west and west-north-west till we came to a district named
Takbur, whence we intended to ride next day over the Takbur-la to
Saka-dzong. But it did not come off; for before I was awakened, came a
chief with five attendants and made a horrible disturbance with my men
and our Tibetans from Kyerkye. The latter he beat with the flat of his
sword, and he took away from the former the milk and butter they had
bought the evening before, saying that no one had permission to sell us
provisions. He told Robert that he had orders not to let us pass through
to Saka-dzong, and that he would make us stay here three months. We
might not hire yaks also--which was very inconvenient, as we had only a
horse and a mule after all the hired animals had gone. We might not buy
provisions; but this was not of much consequence, for Robert had shot
four wild-geese and found a large quantity of eggs, and the river was
full of fish.
I accordingly sent Islam Ahun and Ishe to Saka with a message that
Muhamed Isa should send us five horses immediately. Then I summoned the
supercilious chief to my tent, where he confirmed the accounts of my
men. He declared that I had no right to deviate a single step from the
great high-road, and that the district in which we were was under him,
not under Saka-dzong, and therefore the local passport was worthless. He
intended to carry out the orders he had received, as he valued his head.
When I told him that I should report his uncivil behaviour to the
Mandarins in Lhasa, he jumped up and drew his sword threateningly, but
when he saw that my composure could not be shaken he quieted down. In
the evening he came to tell us that we might cross the Takbur-la, and
brought us both yaks and provisions. Who he was we could never discover,
for in Saka no one would acknowledge that he knew him. Perhaps it was
only a childish attempt to cure me of further deviations from the main
road. However, it was a pity that we had lost a day here. When the
morning of June 1 dawned, Islam Ahun and Ishe came with our horses,
which we did not now need, and brought me greetings from Muhamed Isa,
who sent word that all was well with the caravan; they were on friendly
terms with the authorities, and were permitted to buy all they required.
We set off again northwards and marched through the Takbur valley, where
there was abundance of game--hares, pheasants, and partridges--some of
which Tsering shot, and foxes, marmots, and field-mice. In the distance
we saw a grey prowling animal which we took for a lynx. There were also
kiangs, which seemed very unconcerned. North-west, north, and north-east
huge snowy mountains were seen from the Takbur-la (16,621 feet), of
which Ryder and Wood had taken bearings. Like those Englishmen, I
considered it certain that these peaks lay on the watershed of the
Tsangpo, and belonged to the crest of the Trans-Himalaya. I had
afterwards an opportunity of proving that this was a mistake. From the
pass a river runs down to join the Sachu-tsangpo. Here we saw a number
of yaks in the luxuriant grass, and a nearly tame kulan kept them
company.
[Illustration: 214. BEGGAR AT TASHI-GEMBE.]
[Illustration: 215. YOUNG TIBETAN AT THE MOUTH OF THE CHAKTAK-TSANGPO.]
[Illustration: 216. WANDERING LAMA WITH A WOODEN GLOVE IN HIS HAND, SUCH
AS IS USED TO PROTECT THE HANDS IN THE PROSTRATION PILGRIMAGE ROUND THE
HOLY MOUNTAIN KAILAS.
Sketches by the Author.]
Where the river emerges into the Saka plain, we passed on its left side
over a last small spur of the mountain on which the pass is situated,
and here I rested for an hour with Robert, to draw a panorama of the
interesting country. Tsering marched on with his men, and disappeared as
a speck on the great plain. To the east-north-east the white houses of
Saka-dzong could be seen in the distance, and with the glass we could
make out the camp, two black tents and a white, the latter Muhamed
Isa's.
Then we too passed across the plain. On the left stood four tents, where
the sheep were being driven into the fold for the night. At one place
the road divides; travellers who have nothing to do in Saka-dzong take
the southern road. We cross the Sa-chu river and the overflow of a
spring; there is a strong wind from the west, and we long for the tents
and the warmth of the camp-fires. At last we are there. Guffaru comes to
greet us, and all the others call out to us "Salaam!" and "Ju!" I look
in vain for Muhamed Isa's stalwart figure, and inquire for him. "He is
lying in bed and has been ill all day," they answer. I suppose that he
has his usual headache again, go to the brazier in my tent, and let
Robert, as usual, unpack the things I require for my evening work. We
were tired and chilled through and longed for our supper.
CHAPTER XXXIX
MUHAMED ISA'S DEATH
We had not been sitting long when Rabsang came to say that Muhamed Isa
had lost consciousness, and did not answer when he was spoken to. I now
perceived that he had had an apoplectic fit, and hurried off with Robert
to his tent, which stood close beside mine. An oil-lamp was burning
beside the head of his bed, where his brother Tsering sat weeping. The
sick man lay on his back, tall, strong, and straight. The mouth was a
little drawn on the left side, and the pupil of the left eye seemed very
small, while that of the right eye was normal. The pulse was regular and
strong, beating 72. I at once ordered hot bottles to be laid at his
feet, and a bag of ice on his head. His clothes were loosened; he
breathed deeply and regularly. The eyes were half open, but were
lustreless. I called his name loudly, but he gave little sign; he tried
to turn his head and move his right arm, uttered a low groan, and then
remained still again. Robert was shocked when I told him that Muhamed
Isa would not see the sun rise again.
While we were sitting beside his bed I inquired the circumstances from
Rehim Ali and Guffaru, who had been with him all day long. During the
four days they had waited for us here, he had been quite well, and had
never complained of headache. He had tried, in accordance with the last
instructions I had given him at the camp in the Basang valley, to win
the friendship and confidence of the authorities. The day before he had
been still in excellent spirits, had drunk tea with his most intimate
friends in the caravan, and had sung to the accompaniment of the
guitar.
On this day, June 1, he had got up with the sun, drunk tea, and had had
a stormy interview with two Tibetans from the dzong. They had refused to
supply the caravan with provisions, and then insisted that the caravan
should leave the place at once. He had answered that the Sahib would
soon be back, and that it would go badly with them if they did not obey
him. They had gone away in anger, and then Muhamed Isa had breakfasted
about ten o'clock, and had slept an hour. When he rose, he had
complained of headache.
When the sun had reached its noonday height he had gone to look out for
us, and had then had a violent attack of sickness, fallen on his left
side and lain senseless. The other men hurried up, carried him to his
tent, and massaged his body. He was restored thereby to consciousness,
and spoke much but indistinctly, and chiefly with the god of Islam:
"I was a Lamaist but went over to Islam; help me now, O Allah, out of
this severe illness; let me recover; forgive me my sins and all the
wrong I have done to others; let me live, O Allah, and I will always
keep thy commandments and will never omit my prayers."
Then he had admonished the others to do their duty as heretofore, and
thanked them that they had so patiently assisted him in his misfortune.
Now and then he had asked for cold water. He had felt his left arm with
his right hand, and asked whose arm it was, and had also said that he
did not feel the shoe on his left foot. The whole left side was quite
paralysed. Sitting upright, and supported by cushions, he had made the
following request to Guffaru: "Thou, who art old, and keepest the
commandments of religion, wilt not pollute thy hands if thou takest a
knife and cuttest my neck; cut deep down to the spine, for that will
relieve my infernal headache." In his fearful suffering he struck his
right hand against a box. About an hour later another stroke deprived
him of speech, and after that he had only made a sign with his right
hand, as though in despair at the approach of death. Towards four
o'clock Tsering had come and thrown himself over him, weeping loudly.
Muhamed Isa had also wept, and pointed to his lips to intimate that he
could not speak. When we entered his tent about five o'clock his
consciousness was almost gone. He remained in the same condition for an
hour and a half, breathing quietly, with his mouth closed. I went
therefore to my dinner, which Adul had prepared for me.
Robert and I studied Burroughs and Wellcome's medical handbook, to see
that nothing had been omitted. About eight o'clock we returned to the
sick-bed. Muhamed Isa was now breathing with his mouth open--a bad sign,
showing that the muscles of the jaws were relaxed; the pulse beat 108,
and was very weak. The despair of old Tsering when I told him all hope
was gone, was heart-rending. Half an hour later the breathing became
slower and weaker, and about nine o'clock the death-rattle commenced,
and the struggle of the muscles of the chest to supply the lungs with
sufficient air. About every fortieth respiration was deep, and then
there was a pause before the next came. They were followed by moans. His
feet grew cold in spite of the hot bottles, which were frequently
changed. At a quarter-past nine the breathing became still slower and
the intervals longer. A death spasm shook his body and slightly raised
his shoulders; it was followed by another.
The Mohammedans whispered to Tsering that he should leave his place at
the head, for a Mohammedan must hold the lower jaw and close the mouth
after the last breath. But the sorrowing brother could only be brought
to leave his place by force. A third and last spasm shook the dying man,
produced by the cold of death. After a deep respiration he lay still for
20 seconds. We thought that life had flown, but he breathed again, and
after another minute came the last feeble breath, and then old Guffaru
bound a cloth under the chin and covered the face with a white kerchief.
Then all was still, and, deeply moved, I bared my head before the awful
majesty of Death.
[Illustration: 217. THE CORPSE OF MUHAMED ISA.]
Horrified and dismayed, the Mohammedans poured into the tent, and the
Lamaists after them, and I heard them from time to time call out in
low tones, "La illaha il Allah!" Tsering was beside himself: he knelt by
the dead, beat his forehead with his hands, wept aloud, nay, howled and
bellowed, while large tears rolled down his furrowed sunburnt face. I
patted him on the shoulder, and begged him to try and compose himself,
go into his tent, drink tea, and lie down and rest. But he neither heard
nor saw, and the others had to carry him to his tent, and I heard him
wailing in the night as long as I lay awake. Yes, Death is an awful
guest. We could hardly realize that he had so suddenly entered our
peaceful camp.
I had a long conversation with Robert in my tent, and old Guffaru was
sent for to receive my orders for the funeral. The Mohammedans were to
watch in turn beside the body through the night. Early next morning the
permission of the authorities would be obtained for the choice of a
burying-place, and then the interment would take place.
At midnight I paid a last visit to my excellent, faithful caravan
leader, who had fallen at his post in the prime of life. He lay long and
straight, swathed in a shroud and a frieze rug, in the middle of his
tent. At his head burned his oil-lamp, slightly flickering in the
draught. The dead watch of five men sat mute and motionless, but rose
when I entered. We uncovered his face; it was calm and dignified, and a
slight smile played round the lips; the colour was pale, but slightly
bronzed from the effect of wind and sun (Illust. 217). Arched over him
was the half-dark bell of the tent--the tent which had fluttered in all
the winds of heaven on the way through the Chang-tang, and from which
Muhamed Isa's merry jests had so often been heard in quiet cold Tibetan
nights amidst the sound of flutes and guitars. Now depressing silence
reigned around; only the stars sparkled with electric brilliancy.
How empty and dreary everything seemed when I woke on Sunday, June 2,
the day of Muhamed Isa's funeral! I went out and looked at the grave; it
lay about 300 yards to the south-west of the camp. The Mohammedans had
been early in the village to borrow a door, and had washed the body on
it. Then they had wrapped it in Guffaru's shroud, which was of thin
linen, but quite white and clean. Muhamed Isa and I had often laughed
together over the old man's singular fancy of taking this death garment
on the journey. Over the shroud (_kafan_) they had wrapped a grey frieze
rug. The body lay now in the bright sunshine before the tent, on a bier
consisting of the bottom of the two halves of the boat fastened
together, and provided with four cross-poles for the bearers.
When all was ready the eight Mohammedans raised the bier on to their
shoulders, and carried their chieftain and leader, royally tall,
straight and cold, to his last resting-place. I walked immediately
behind the bier, and then came Robert and some Lamaists; the rest were
occupied at the grave, and only two remained in the camp, which could
not be left unguarded. From Tsering's tent a despairing wailing could
still be heard. He had been persuaded not to come to the grave. He was
heart and soul a Lamaist, and now he was troubled at the thought that he
would never see his brother again, who had looked forward to the
paradise of the Mohammedans. Some Tibetans stood at a distance. Slowly,
solemnly, and mournfully the procession set itself in motion (Illust.
218). No ringing of bells, no strewn fir-branches, no chants spoke of an
awakening beyond the valley of the shadow of death. But above us the
turquoise-blue sky stretched its vault, and around us the lofty,
desolate mountains held watch. In deep mournful voice the bearers sang,
"La illaha il Allah," in time with their heavy steps. They staggered
under their burden, and had to change it frequently to the other
shoulder, for Muhamed Isa was big, corpulent, and heavy.
[Illustration: 218. MUHAMED ISA'S FUNERAL PROCESSION.]
At length we ascended a gravel terrace between two source streams. The
bier was placed at the edge of the grave, which was not quite ready
(Illusts. 219, 220, 221). It was deep, lay north and south, and had a
cutting or niche on the left side, under which the body was to be laid,
so that the earth might not press on it when the grave was filled in.
Four men stood in the grave and received the body, and placed it,
wrapped only in the white shroud, under the arch, arranging it so that
the face was turned towards Mecca, where the hopes of all true believing
pilgrims are centred.
Scarcely was all set in order when a painful incident occurred, an evil
omen: the overhanging vault of loose, dry gravel fell in, burying the
corpse completely, and partly covering the four men. There was silence,
and the men looked at one another irresolute. Shukkur Ali broke the
oppressive silence, jumped into the grave, out of which the others
clambered, dug out the body again, and removed the gravel from the
shroud as well as he could. A wall was then erected of sods cut from the
bank of the brook so as to protect the body, the outer space was filled
in with sand and stones, and finally a mound a yard high was thrown up
over the grave, two stone slabs being placed at the head and foot.
When all was done the Lamaists went home, but the Mohammedans remained
at the grave to pray for the deceased, sometimes kneeling, sometimes
standing up with their palms before their face. Shukkur Ali, who had
been Muhamed Isa's old friend and comrade on many of his journeys in
Asia, broke out into violent weeping and wailing, but the others mourned
more quietly. Finally, I said a few words in Turki. During all my
journeys I had never had a more efficient, experienced, and faithful
caravan leader; he had maintained discipline in the caravan, been a
father to the men, and taken the best care of the animals; he had been
an excellent interpreter, and had treated the natives with prudence and
tact. By his happy, humorous disposition he had kept all the others in
good temper. In difficult situations he had always found the right way
out. In unknown country he had climbed passes and summits to look for
the best route--he had always gone himself and not sent others. His
memory would always be cherished and honoured among us, and he had also
earned a great name in the exploration of Asia, for during thirty years
he had served many other Sahibs as faithfully and honestly as myself.
We went silently home after our day's work.
In the lectionary of this Sunday occurred the Bible text, "Thou fool,
this night thy soul shall be required of thee."
Muhamed Isa had travelled far, and was highly respected in Asia. He had
been in Saka-dzong before, in the year 1904, as Rawling and Ryder's
caravan leader. He little thought then that he would return once more,
and here set up his tent for the last time after his long wanderings. In
the _Geographical Journal_ of April 1909, p. 422, Rawling refers to him
as follows:--
Having mentioned Saka Dzong, let me break off one moment to pay a
token of respect to the memory of that faithful servant of Sven Hedin
who died here. Mohamed Isa was one of the finest characters it has
been my fortune to be thrown with. Trustworthy and indomitable in his
work, his knowledge of Asia was unequalled by any native, for he had
accompanied Younghusband in his famous journey from China, he was with
Carey, with Dalgleish who was afterwards murdered, and with Dutreuil
de Rhins, when he was a helpless witness of his master's violent death
at the hands of the Tibetans. He acted as my caravan bashi in the
Gartok expedition, accompanied Sven Hedin during his recent journey,
and died, after thirty years of faithful service, at this desolate
spot.
From letters I subsequently received from Younghusband, O'Connor, and
Ryder, I learned that they also deeply mourned his loss.
The grave terrace rose close to the great high-road between Ladak and
Lhasa on its northern side. The mound was next day covered with cut sods
arranged in steps, and a small flagstone was set in the ground at the
head of the grave, whereon passing Mohammedans could spread out a carpet
and pray for the repose of the deceased. On a slab of slate, smoothed
down with a chisel, I scratched the following inscription in English and
in Roman letters:
MUHAMED ISA
CARAVAN LEADER UNDER
CAREY, DALGLEISH, DE RHINS, YOUNGHUSBAND
RAWLING, RYDER AND OTHERS
DIED
IN THE SERVICE OF SVEN HEDIN
AT SAKA-DZONG, ON JUNE 1, 1907
AT THE AGE OF 53 YEARS.
[Illustration: 219, 220, 221. THE INTERMENT OF MUHAMED ISA.]
The writing was then cut in the stone by Islam Ahun. The name was also
engraved in Arabic, and at the top the formula, "Om mani padme hum," in
Tibetan characters, that the people of the country might respect the
grave. Future travellers will find the stone in its place--if the
Tibetans have not taken it away.
In the afternoon of June 3 I sent for Tsering to my tent. He was now
calm and resigned. He was to be my cook and body-servant as before, but
his pay would be raised to 20 rupees a month, and this rise was to date
back to our departure from Leh. He was allowed to keep the watch I had
given to his brother. Guffaru, the oldest of the men, was Muhamed Isa's
successor as caravan bashi, received the same increase of pay as
Tsering, and was allowed to use Muhamed Isa's grey horse and saddle. In
future he would live with two other men in the tent of the deceased.
As I foresaw that the discipline would not be what it was in Muhamed
Isa's time, I spoke seriously to the men, telling them that they must
obey Guffaru as blindly as they had his predecessor, that they ought to
hold together as before and continue to serve me faithfully. If any one
began to quarrel and was disobedient, he would at once be handed the pay
due to him and be sent off to go where he liked. Now that we travelled
with hired yaks I could very well spare half the men, and therefore it
was their interest to conduct themselves so that they might be retained.
Rabsang and Namgyal answered in the name of all, that they would hold
together, serve me faithfully, and follow me anywhere.
Then Robert was commissioned to look through the property of the
deceased in the presence of Tsering, Guffaru, Shukkur Ali, Rehim Ali,
and the Hajji, and after he had made an inventory, to pack it in
separate boxes, which were ultimately to be delivered to his wife in Leh
together with his outstanding pay. Among his things were some articles
of value which he had bought in Shigatse--carpets, tea-cups with metal
saucers and covers, ornaments, and woven materials. He had left behind
only 10 rupees in ready money, a proof that he had been thoroughly
honest in his management of the business of the caravan.
After all relating to the interment had been carried out, the
Mohammedans came to ask for a few rupees to enable them to hold a
memorial feast in the evening in honour of the deceased. They would make
a pudding, called _halva_, of flour, butter, and sugar, drink tea, and
kill a sheep. The heathen also, as the Mohammedans called their Lamaist
comrades, were to be present. They sang, ate, and drank, and probably
hardly thought of the departed.
Two gentlemen from the dzong had been with me on June 2. The Governor
himself was absent, travelling in his province to number the tents under
his administration and to draw up a list of all the inhabited
valleys--all by order of the Chinese. Pemba Tsering, the second in
command, was very agreeable and polite, but regretted that he could not
supply us with provisions any longer, as he must be prepared to furnish
necessaries to the men who were constantly passing to and fro between
Gartok and Lhasa. To confirm his words he called up the five Govas or
district inspectors of the country, who declared that the poor country
could not supply all the _tsamba_ and barley we required. I intimated to
them that we should still remain a few days awaiting the answer from
Lhasa; then they rose, protesting that I might stay here as long as I
liked, but that they would not provide me with provisions.
On the same day a large white-and-blue tent was set up by our camp, but
it was not till June 4 that the occupants, the Govas of Tradum and
Nyuku, paid me a visit. They had heard of our long stay, and wished to
find out the state of affairs for themselves. The Nyuku Gova began the
conversation:
"Saka and Tradum are put down on your passport, but not Nyuku. Should
you, nevertheless, go thither, I will allow you to stay one night, but
not longer, for it is stated in the passport that you must travel
straight to Tradum."
"My dear friend," I replied, "when once I am in your place we shall
become such good friends that you will ask me to stay a whole month to
consolidate our friendship. Should you afterwards visit me in India,
your visit will be the more agreeable the longer it lasts."
He nodded with a roguish smile, and no doubt considered me a wag, but
added that he must obey the orders he had received from the Devashung.
"When I am in correspondence with the Mandarins in Lhasa, and am waiting
for their answer, the Devashung has no right to interfere."
"Very well, then it will be best for you to remain here and not come to
Tradum or Nyuku; provisions are still scarcer there."
Afterwards Pemba Tsering came again, bringing two sacks of barley and a
sheep. He had become much more compliant since he had talked with the
other officials, and promised he would try to procure what we needed. We
had still two poor horses and a mule from Shigatse, and he was to have
one of the animals as a reward. After some consideration he chose the
mule. The two horses we sold for a mere trifle to a stranger.
Now we longed to get away from this miserable Saka-dzong and its sad
associations. Out in God's open, glorious Nature the winds blow away
sorrow. We daily calculated, Robert and I, how long it would be before
Tundup Sonam and Tashi returned. If the answer were sent by the
so-called Chinese flying post, it might arrive any moment. But the days
passed and there was no news. One day some horsemen rode past our camp
on the way to the west, and reported that they had seen my two
messengers in Kung Gushuk's garden in Shigatse, but they knew nothing of
their further intentions. "Patience," whispered the west wind again. In
the maze of difficulties in which we became ever more involved, my hopes
rested on the answer of the Chinamen. I had told the officials here that
I would set off at once if they would allow us to take a more northern
route to Nyuku, but, as they would not hear of it, we remained where we
were.
When I looked out of my tent my eyes were attracted to the dark grave on
its hill. It seemed as if the grave held us fast, though we longed to
get away from it. All was dreary and dismal; we missed Muhamed Isa, and
his absence caused a great blank. But life goes on as usual. When the
sun rises, the women of the village stroll about collecting dung into
baskets, while the men drive the yaks and horse to pasture. They sing
and whistle, children scream and dogs bark. Blue smoke rises from the
chimneys of the village or from the black tents standing within walls
among the houses. From the roof of the Saka-gompa with a statue of Padma
Sambhava the single lama of the monastery blows his conch. Ravens and
bluish-grey pigeons pick up all kinds of morsels among the tents, and
the wolves which have come down in the night retire again to the
mountains. Riders and caravans pass eastwards to a better land, where
poplars, willows, and fruit trees are clothed in their finest summer
dress. But we are prisoners in this desolate country, with Muhamed Isa's
grave as a focus.
I soon perceived what a depressing effect the loss of the big powerful
caravan leader had on my men: they became home-sick. They talked of the
warmth of their own firesides, and they took to crocheting and knotting
shoes for their children and acquaintances. They gathered round the
evening fire and talked of the pleasant life in the villages of Ladak.
Robert remarked how dreary and disagreeable Tibet was, and how warm and
delightful it was in India; he was pining for his mother and his young
wife. I should like to know whether any one was more eager to be off
than myself, who had so much before me which must be accomplished. Yes,
I saw only too plainly that I could not achieve all I was striving for
with my present caravan; it was worn out and used up, which was really
not to be wondered at after all it had gone through. My fate was driving
me back to Ladak. But I must endeavour to make the most of my chances on
the way. And then? All was dark to me. But I knew that I would never
give in, and would not leave Tibet till I had done all that lay in my
power to conquer the unknown land on the north of the upper Brahmaputra.
On the morning of the 5th came our old friend the Gova of Raga-tasam.
He had heard that we were in difficulties, and offered to speak a good
word on our behalf to Pemba Tsering. Afterwards the two came to my tent
and informed me that I might take the northern route to Nyuku. The Gova
received one of our best horses for his trouble. Now we had six left of
our own horses, among them three veterans from Leh, two other horses and
a mule. Next evening Guffaru came for the first time to receive
instructions, and on June 7 we set out early.
I stopped a moment at the grave. It was striking and imposing in all its
simplicity. In its dark chamber the weary one slumbers till the end of
time. He listens to the howling of the western storms and the wolves, he
freezes in the cold of winter, but he does not see the summer sun, and
with longing for the well-remembered past he hears the horses stamping
on the hard pebbles. I thought of the Lama Rinpoche in his dark den at
Linga.
Farewell, and grateful thanks!
CHAPTER XL
ALONG BYWAYS TO TRADUM
The day was brilliant; it was not spring, it was summer. Flies, wasps,
and gadflies buzzed in the air, and worms of all kinds crept out of the
ground to enjoy the warm season, all too short here. It was hot, 70.2°
at one o'clock. The sun seemed to be as scorching as in India. The
Sa-chu valley widens out westwards; wild-geese, herons, and ducks sit on
the banks of the river, and choughs croak on the mountain which we skirt
on the right side of the valley. The fresh grass has sprouted out of the
earth in its green summer garb, but it will not really thrive till after
the warm rains. We meet a caravan of 200 yaks in five sections, each
with two whistling drivers.
"Whence have you come?" I ask.
"From Tabie-tsaka, where we have been to fetch salt."
"Where does the lake lie?"
"To the north, in Bongba, thirty days' journey from here."
"Does the road cross over high passes?"
"Yes, there is a high pass twelve days to the north."
And then they passed on with their light-stepping yaks towards
Saka-dzong. It was the first time I had heard this important lake
mentioned, and I envied the men of the salt caravan who had traversed
this way through the Trans-Himalaya quite unknown to Europeans.
[Illustration: 222. WOMAN AT THE MOUTH OF THE CHAKTAK-TSANGPO IN THE
TSANGPO.]
[Illustration: 223. TIBETAN OF SAKA.]
[Illustration: 224. LAMA IN SAKA-DZONG.
Sketches by the Author.]
We left the _tasam_ on our left; we turned aside north-westwards
straight to the Targyaling-gompa standing with its red _lhakang_, its
small white buildings, and its large _chhorten_ on a terrace immediately
above the spot where Guffaru has pitched the camp. Twenty lamas came
down to find out whether we were thieves and robbers who intended to
attack the convent. "Certainly not," Guffaru answered, "we are peaceful
travellers passing the night here." "We will not allow it," they
replied; "you must remain on the high-road." I now sent Rabsang up, and
he was surrounded at the gate by thirty monks. He was told the same; a
European had never been here, and none should ever enter the monastery.
If the gentlemen of the _dzong_ attempted to get us in, they should pay
the penalty with their lives. Charming ecclesiastics! Even Rabsang, who
was a Lamaist and wore several _gaos_ on his neck, was not allowed in.
He was in the service of a European. So inimically disposed were these
monks that they stopped up the channel we drew our water from. The
Devashung, they said, had nothing to do with them. We had heard in
Saka-dzong that these monks were bellicose and independent; there they
had said that the free-booter who had stopped us on May 31 must have
been a disguised monk. But we could do without them and their monastery,
which seemed small and unimportant.
Here our four puppies fell ill of a peculiar complaint: they ran about
restlessly, snuffed and sneezed, had matter in their eyes, and no
appetite. At night I heard one of my tent companions whine and howl, and
next morning he lay dead on his rug.
Leaving Rawling's and Ryder's route to the left, we proceeded to the
bank of the Chaktak-tsangpo and then northwards along the river. It has
a swift current, but does not form rapids; to the south is seen the
portal through which it emerges from the mountains. At the village
Pasa-guk, which is larger than Saka-dzong, we bivouacked on the right
bank. The river here was 141 feet broad, 2 ft. 7 in. deep at most, and
carried 629 cubic feet of water. On May 28 it carried 664 cubic feet,
but it receives the Sa-chu and other tributaries below the village
Pasa-guk.
In the middle of the village is a _serai_ with a large store of salt in
bags. Here a market is held from time to time, salt being the medium of
exchange. I tried to obtain further information about the country in
the north, but when I compared the different data together, the result
was a hopeless muddle. For instance, I asked travellers who came from
Tabie-tsaka, how far they marched each day, and where they passed lakes,
rivers, and passes; and when I added the distances together and laid
down the direction on the map, the line reached to Kashgar, all through
Tibet and Eastern Turkestan! It was impossible to obtain useful data
about the country to the north. I must see it with my own eyes. But how
would that be possible?
The Hajji came to me, angry and excited, to complain that Guffaru had
struck him. I sat in judgment and heard evidence. The Hajji had refused
to watch the horses when his turn came, and the caravan bashi had
therefore thrashed him. The sentence was, that the Hajji should receive
his discharge in Nyuku.
Robert and I sat on the velvety grass on the bank and gazed with longing
eyes at the half-clear water dancing merrily on to its destination at
the coast. An old man and a youth joined us, and entertained us with
dance and song. The old man danced and stamped on the ground in a
three-cornered mask of goat leather with red strips and bells, and the
youth sang this unintelligible song:
Hail, O God, god of the pass!
Many stars sparkle in the night.
To-day is a fine day.
Would that rain might come!
Give me a bit of tea or a small coin.
O, Cook, give me a pinch of meal and a radish.
Such is the mask that is worn in the Chang-tang.
At the right ear a curl, neither large nor small,
At the left a pin, neither large nor small;
Neither shade nor sun.
There is a father's pin and a mother's pin.
Everywhere we have pins with branches,
For they guard us from all dangers.
The horse holds his head high,
And the rider holds his head high.
The gods are high, the earth is low.
You have gold and silver galore.
May your cattle multiply, your flocks and your property increase!
May your family increase!
The King of Ladak sits between a golden and a silver king.
Now is the song ended.
On June the 10th I left the Chaktak-tsangpo to the right, unfortunately
without having learnt whence it comes. We ascended a side valley named
Rock, in a north-westerly direction. We had previously passed two towers
which had formerly been the fort of a rebellious lama. He was at feud
with Saka-dzong, but was defeated. In the camp at the pool Churu the
evening seemed to me fearfully long. Home-sickness had become
infectious. The Ladakis sang no more, but made shoes for their children,
and thereby turned their thoughts more intently to their home. I too
found no rest after the day's work. If we only knew what answer the
Mandarins would send, but our messenger did not return. We seemed to
have stumbled into a morass and to be stamping in it without moving on.
Oh, thou dreary, awful Tibet, thou black, poor superstitious folk! In
the stillness of the night the step of the camp watchman was pleasant
company.
After a night temperature of 14.4° we rode on westwards over a very flat
pass, a watershed between the Chaktak-tsangpo and Nyuku, along a road
which had once been a _tasam_; numerous ruins and _manis_ were memorials
of that time. The district was thickly peopled by nomads, and black
tents were often seen where sheep bleated and dogs barked; women and
boys guarded the flocks, and yaks grazed on the slopes. The country
calls to mind the summer pastures on the Pamir. A second puppy died in
the night, and was almost eaten up by ravens before morning.
On June 12 we came again to the _tasam_ at Nyuku where we set up our
camp. The Gova of Nyuku, whose friendship I had gained at Saka-dzong,
was very obliging, and said that I was quite at liberty to make another
detour to the north, as I seemed to dislike the high-road. It would take
me up to a pass, where almost all the mountains of the world could be
seen, especially Lumbo-gangri immediately to the north. Here we should
come in contact with people of the province of Bongba, who perhaps would
sell us all necessaries. In Nyuku the third puppy died. The Tibetans
said that it suffered from a throat complaint called _gakpa_, which is
very common in the country. Mamma Puppy gave herself no trouble about
her little ones when they were ill, but seemed rather to avoid them. We
washed them with warm water, and tended them to the best of our power,
and did everything we could think of to save the last. The Tibetans
could not understand how we could make such a fuss about a dog.
Bluish-white flashes quivered over the mountains all the evening, and
their outlines stood out sharp and dark in the lightning. That is a sign
of the setting in of the monsoon rains on the southern flank of the
Himalayas, and all look forward to them. When rain falls up here, the
grass grows up in a couple of days, the cattle become fat and sleek, the
milk is thick and yellow; at the present time it is thin and white, and
produces little butter. The existence of the nomads, and indeed the
prosperity of the whole country, depends on the monsoon. It is the
summer pasture which helps the herds to endure the scarcity of the rest
of the year. If the rains fail, the stock languish and die.
The night is silent. Only occasionally is heard the hearty laugh of a
girl or the bark of a dog. The camp watchman hums an air to keep himself
awake.
The 13th was a lazy day; we had to wait for Tundup Sonam and Tashi. I
always shave myself on rest days--it is pleasant to feel clean, even
when there is no one to smarten oneself up for. Robert shot three
wild-geese, and caught two yellow goslings which walked into his tent
and made hay there. We put them in the crystal-clear Men-chu river,
hoping that some kindly goose-mamma would take to them.
From here it is said to be only four days' journey to a district in
Nepal, where there are fir-woods. Just fancy: fir-wood as in Sweden and
in Simla! But we must remain in this dreary land.
Just as we were starting on the following day the Hajji, Islam Ahun, and
Gaffar came to me, and demanded exemption from night duty and separate
rations if they were to stay with me. I called all the other men
together, and asked if any one else would join them now that they were
to be dismissed. But no one wished to. Our Hajji, the only one of the
Mohammedans who had been in Mecca--had indeed been twice there--was the
only rascal in the caravan. He had instigated the others. In my
experience Mecca pilgrims are always scoundrels. The Hajji declared that
he preferred robbers and tramps on the road to Guffaru and the other
Ladakis. The three men vanished from sight as we marched north-westwards
up the valley of the Men-chu.
In camp No. 177, on June 15, I held a grand reception, for some chiefs
from the direction of Bongba came to visit me, and our old friend, the
Gova of Tradum, arrived. They decided that I might ride a short distance
to the north, but only on condition that I came back the same day. So on
the 16th we rode on fresh hired horses up to the Kilung-la, where the
view was instructive and showed the lie of the land. Before us was the
dark Lumbo-gangri with its deep wild valleys and steep cliffs, its small
glacier tongues and caps of eternal snow. The men of the district said
that the mountain was holy, and was a kind of portal or forecourt to the
Kang-rinpoche, the celebrated pilgrimage mountain near the sources of
the Indus. Behind Lumbo-gangri are the valley and river of the
Rukyok-tsangpo, which flows to the Chaktak-tsangpo. It was now clear to
me that these summits, of which bearings were taken by Ryder and Wood,
could not lie on the watershed of the rivers flowing to the ocean. But
no one knew the true aspect of the country farther north, and the Bongba
men had been ordered to stop us if we tried to force our way in that
direction. I could not by entreaties or threats obtain more than the
view from the Kilung-la. The further we proceeded westwards the more of
the blank space on the map was left behind us. That was exceedingly
annoying, but my hopes were still fixed on the Chinese letters from
Lhasa.
On the morning of the 17th all the mountains were covered with snow, but
the day was warm and fine as we rode up to the Serchung-la, and saw to
the south-west the northernmost crest of the Himalayas and the broad
valley of the Brahmaputra. The valley descending from the pass is full
of brushwood and drifting sand, which is piled up in dunes to a height
of nearly 20 feet.
After an interesting and successful march we came to the valley junction
Dambak-rong. But the day was not yet over. We heard that Nazer Shah's
son had arrived the day before at Tradum on his way to Ladak with
twenty-two mules. A messenger was therefore despatched to ask him to
wait for us, and give us tidings of Tundup Sonam and Tashi. The Gova of
Tradum also rode home to get all in order against our arrival. A short
time passed by, and then a horseman came up at a smart trot from the
Serchung valley. He had evidently followed our track; he rode straight
to my tent, dismounted, and handed me a letter with a large seal,
bearing the words, "Imperial Chinese Mission, Tibet," and the same in
Chinese characters.
Now our fate would be settled. The Ladakis crowded round my tent. I
perceived that they hoped we should be obliged to return by the direct
road to Ladak. They longed for home, and were not inspired by the same
interests as myself. The tension was extreme as I opened the letter. It
was dated at Lhasa on June 3, and had been fourteen days on the way. It
was written in faultless English by Ho Tsao Hsing, first secretary to H.
E. Chang (Tang Darin), and ran as follows:
DEAR DR. HEDIN--Your letter to His Excellency Chang dated the 14th May
was duly received. Knowing that you have arrived at Raka-tatsang, that
Devashung hindered you to proceed forward. His Excellency is very
sorry to hear such occurrence; and he instructed me to write you the
following:--
That in His Excellency's last letter to you he wrote you to return by
the way you came; and now he does not understand why you are taking
another road contrary to what he wrote you, consequently, you have met
with such inconveniences, to which His Excellency regrets very much
indeed. His Excellency has, now, again ordered Devashung and officials
along the way to give you all possible protection and comfort, but he
sincerely wishing you _not_ to change your direction to the N.W.,
where both the country and people are wild [I wonder how he could know
that], and that accidents might happen, which His Excellency can
hardly bear any responsibility.
Therefore, His Excellency wishes you only to return by the way as you
came, not to venture in other directions.
His Excellency gives his best regards to you and wishing you a happy
and safe return.--I am yours very truly,
HO TSAO HSING.
[Illustration: 225, 226, 227, 228. TIBETAN BOYS AND GIRLS OF SAKA AND
TRADUM.
Sketches by the Author.]
That was all I got by the stratagem which had cost us so much loss of
time. A positive prohibition to proceed north-westwards to the land of
my dreams. Now the Devashung would issue fresh orders, and we should be
watched more closely than ever. Now the iron gates would be closed again
from the south, and the way to the forbidden land barred. Tang Darin was
as immovable as the State Secretary for India, Lord Morley. But he
stimulated my ambition, and for that I have to thank him. To begin with,
we seized the copy of our passport, which was to be transferred from
Gova to Gova all along the road.
But not yet had this fateful day come to a close. At sunset came Tundup
Sonam and Tashi, dusty and ragged, with their bundles on their backs.
"Welcome and well done, 20 rupees each and new suits of clothes is your
reward. What news?" No letters, but only a note from Ma that he had
forwarded my letters to Lhasa, and sent a letter from Gulam Kadir to
Muhamed Isa. They had reached Shigatse in eleven days, and had rested
there three days. Then they had set out from Tashi-lunpo directly
westwards. They made a fast and long march on the first day, and climbed
up to the pass Ta-la at sunset, where nine highwaymen, two with guns and
the others with swords, fell upon them and threw them to the ground. The
two guns were set on their rests and the barrels pointed to the men's
heads, the seven swords were drawn, and one of the robbers said:
"If you value your lives, hand out everything of value you have."
Frightened out of their wits, the two Ladakis begged them to take all
they wanted if they would only spare their lives. The nine robbers then
opened their bundles and thoroughly plundered them, taking even their
little _gaos_ and images, as well as their cooking utensils and 18
rupees in silver. They were allowed to keep the clothes they had on
their backs. By pure chance the robbers had overlooked a small packet of
30 _tengas_, which Tundup Sonam had put at the back of his girdle. The
robbers cleared them out in a minute, and then disappeared into the
mountains. Our two defeated heroes remained weeping on the battle-field
till dark, and then they went off very slowly at first, turning round
frequently and fancying they saw a robber in every shadow, but
afterwards they quickened their pace almost to a run. Deadly tired, they
crept under two boulders by the wayside, and next morning came to three
black tents, where they got food, and were told that a lama had been
robbed and stripped naked on the Ta-la two days before. But now they
were safe, and it was touching to see how delighted they were to be with
us again. They had seen Muhamed Isa's grave, and the conversation about
it reminded Tsering of his sorrow.
On June 18 we travel across open country to Tradum, our route following
the northern side of the valley while the _tasam_ runs along the
southern. The ground was sandy. Small irritating horseflies buzz in the
nostrils of the horses and drive them frantic. They walk with their
noses on the ground like the wild asses to escape the flies. To the
right is the Tuto-pukpa, a mountain to which corpses are carried on yaks
from Tradum to be cut up. We ride between pools where wild-geese are
plentiful with their pretty yellow goslings. At a projecting rock,
cairns and streamer poles are set up; the wall of rock is black, but all
the side facing the road is painted red--"Ah, this is blood on Balder's
sacrificial stone." Here the village of Tradum can be seen, its temple
and its _chhorten_ on a hill. To the south-west the dark snow-crowned
rampart of the Himalayas appears, wild, grand, and precipitous. To the
south-east lies the _tasam_, a light winding riband, and our path runs
into it; it is 40 feet broad between grass-grown terraces of sand; it is
the great trunk-road of Tibet.
We had scarcely set up our camp when the discharged Hajji and his two
companions came up and salaamed. But I was angry, and drove them away. I
afterwards heard that they wept, and I was heartily sorry that I had
been so unkind. But it was too late, for they were seen tramping out
wearily into the steppe when the shades of evening fell.
The monastery Tradum-gompa is subject to Tashi-lunpo, and its five monks
live on the produce of their sheep and yaks, and carry on trade with
Nepal. Round the temple are eight _chhortens_, and in the _lhakang_, the
hall of the gods, the immortal son of Sakya is enthroned between the
eleven-headed, six-armed Avalokitesvara and other deities. On a small
hill of schist above the convent is a hermit's dwelling, where there is
a splendid view over the Brahmaputra valley and the Tsa-chu-tsangpo as
it emerges from the mountains.
Here died our fourth puppy, which I had hoped to keep as a remembrance
of Shigatse. Mamma Puppy had now her mat to herself, and outside the
tents lay the two black dogs from Ngangtse-tso.
The Gova of Tradum was an excellent, genial rogue, and had a thorough
contempt for the Devashung. He would not let me follow up the Tsa-chu
valley, but made no objection to an excursion to the Kore-la pass, two
days' journey off to the south-west, and belonging to the Himalayan
range which is the watershed between the Ganges and the Brahmaputra. He
also let us hire six horses, and gave us two guides for the journey,
which was to be commenced on the morning of June 20.
The first night we were to encamp at the spot where the Tsa-chu-tsangpo
enters the upper Brahmaputra. I rode south-south-west with my usual
retinue over grassy steppe and sand-dunes. In front of us were three
wanderers with bundles on their backs and staves in their hands. When we
overtook them they stopped, came forward, and laid their foreheads on
the ground at my feet. It was the Hajji and the two other men. I was
glad of the opportunity of taking them into favour again. For the future
they were to follow our yaks.
The camp was pitched on the right bank of the river, at the foot of the
hill crowned by the ruins of the old Liktse monastery. Here an important
trade-road crosses the river and a ferry maintains communication
between the banks. The Tsa-chu river had here a breadth of 35½ yards,
and a depth of barely 40 inches, while the Brahmaputra was 120 yards
broad by 5¾ feet deep, and was much more imposing than farther down. The
absolute height was 14,977 feet. It was not easy to carry the rope
across the stream, for a strong south-west gale was blowing and the
waves were high. Robert rowed out from the right bank with the rope, and
from the left some Ladakis waded out as far as they could in the
shallow, slowly deepening, water to catch the end thrown to them and
secure it on shore. When at last we had stretched the rope across, it
broke with the pressure of the wind and the waves, and the work had to
be done again. We noted a temperature of 53.6° in the air and of 59.7°
in the water, but the men were so chilled by the wind that they had to
make a good fire. It also rained heavily--the first rain we had had
since we left Ladak--and thunder rolled among the mountains.
For the first time the minimum temperature in the night, 37.8°, was
above freezing-point, and the morning was beautiful after the storm: the
sky was only half covered with bright summer clouds, not a breath of air
stirred, and the surface of the river was smooth as a mirror, only
slightly broken by slowly moving whirlpools. The ferry was already
plying across with passengers and goods. The ferryman is paid a _tenga_
for each passage, and he crosses over twice in the hour. Our horses and
yaks were made to swim over the river after they had grazed at night on
the steppes on the left bank.
[Illustration: 229. WOMAN OF NYUKU.]
[Illustration: 230. TWO TIBETANS.]
[Illustration: 231. THE GOVA OF TUKSUM.]
[Illustration: 232. GIRL AT PASA-GUK.
Sketches by the Author.]
We rode 21½ miles on the 21st, but first paid a visit to the little
Liktse-gompa monastery, which stands on the inner side of the hill, and
therefore has not the fine view obtained from the old ruined monastery
on the summit. From its window-openings the monks could watch the
oscillating life of the river during the various seasons of the year:
its slow fall in spring; its rise during summer, when volumes of turbid
water come down from melting snowfields and glaciers; its decline in
autumn, and the freezing of the river in the cold of winter. And they
could see the breaking-up of the ice in spring, and the great
clattering slabs dancing down the current. But now the prospect before
the eyes of the ten monks is only a wretched loamy valley between barren
hills, for their convent lies apart from all roads. Liktse-gompa is a
dependency of Sera, but receives no support from it, and possesses no
herds. The profits from the ferry are the only revenue of the monks. The
abbot, Punjun Dung, with a red turban and a grey beard, showed me the
gods in the _lhakang_, Buddha, Padma Sambhava, etc. Among the usual
sacred objects on the altar were two human skulls converted into
drinking vessels, one of them lined with silver. In the courtyard the
holy dog was chained up.
Then we mounted and rode off quickly. We perceived at once that this
road is much frequented. On the steppe and in open soft valley bottoms
it is less clearly marked, for there every one marches where he likes;
but over passes and on spurs with hard stone the tracks converge from
all sides, and there the road has been trodden down and worn in the
course of centuries. On the small pass Tsasa-la we met a large caravan
laden with barley.
"Where have you come from?" I ask.
"From Mundang in the country of Lo Gapu."
Mundang is marked on the English maps of Nepal, but who was Lo Gapu,
"the King of the Southern Land"? It sounded so grand.
The next pass is called Dorab-la, and from the top we see the
Chockar-shung-chu, a broad valley with a brook draining partly from the
Kore-la, and flowing to the Brahmaputra.
While we are resting, Guffaru passes with his black baggage-train in
close order, a troop of laden yaks, whistling and singing Tibetans, and
some Ladakis with our own horses as a rearguard. They soon disappear in
the dust of the road, two of our men resting a while in a cleft to take
a puff or two from their weather-worn narghilés. From this point they
march westwards to the rendezvous, while we continue southwards.
In the valley leading up to the Ngurkung-la a large salt caravan on the
way to Nepal was encamped. The twelve leaders had piled up a fine
shelter of sacks of salt against the violent wind. We then came to the
very broad valley which ascends to the saddle of the pass visible in the
south. We rode up for hours, though the ascent was not noticeable, but
the wind was dead against us. To the right is the water-parting chain of
the Himalayas which we had seen from Tradum. A curious, sharply outlined
cloud, like a white torpedo, covered it, and from the northern extremity
small fleecy flakes parted from time to time and floated away. We camped
near some black tents in a side valley close to the extraordinarily flat
pass.
CHAPTER XLI
A PEEP INTO NEPAL
It was on June 22 that I stood on the platform of the Kore-la pass and
gave a stolen glance into Nepal, and tried to get a glimpse of
Dhaulagiri peak, 26,670 feet high. But the morning was dull, heavy
clouds lay like pillows on the earth, and nothing could be seen of the
surrounding mountains. "We must wait till it clears," was the only order
I could give. But just then a milk-girl came from a camp of 20 tents
which was near at hand. The people were Nepalese subjects, but were
camping on the Tibetan side. The girl said that it was only a short
day's journey to the nearest permanent dwellings and gardens, and two
days' journey to Lo Gapu's summer residence.
Then we thought: "We may as well ride down the southern side of the pass
as stay up here in the wind." No sooner said than done! The tents are
folded up, the animals laden, we mount and ride along the eastern side
of the valley up to the Kore-la, which from the Tibetan side little
resembles a pass, for to the eye the grass-grown on unfruitful loose
ground seems quite level. Of the snowy mountains on the western side of
the valley only the dark base is visible; layers of clouds lie close
above the earth; one feels as though one could push one's head against
the roof. A ruined house, where perhaps a frontier guard once dwelt, a
couple of long _manis_, and loose blocks of conglomerate stand on the
top. A caravan comes up from Nebuk in the bottom of the valley.
We look round in vain for the actual watershed, and find it only by
noticing rivulets running together and flowing southwards. Here we light
a fire and take observations. The view is marvellous, at any rate a
relief such as we have not seen for a long time. The mighty snowy
mountains to the south, which yesterday broke through the clouds, are,
indeed, obscured, but our valleys fall steeply and unite into a large
valley, in the depths of which grassy plots and fields shine in deep
spring verdure amid the everlasting grey, yellow, and red landscape.
Down below the sun is shining, and behind us the sky is clear above the
Brahmaputra valley, while here and round all the snowy mountains float
opaque clouds. From the saddle lying west of our point of vantage
innumerable valleys radiate out; the surface of the ridges between them
is nearly level, or dips gently to the south-east, while the valleys are
deeply cut in like cañons, and the promontories at the meeting of the
valleys are broken short off. Perhaps some of the nearest peaks of the
Himalayas rise like islands above the sea of clouds, for here and there
a reflexion from sun-lighted firn-fields seems to be trying to break
through the veil of clouds (Illust. 233).
[Illustration: 233. VIEW FROM THE KORE-LA TOWARDS THE SOUTH-WEST.]
We stand on the frontier between Tibet and Nepal. Behind us to the north
we have the flat, level land on the southern bank of the Tsangpo. We
have mounted only 315 feet from the river to the Kore-la, where the
height is 15,292 feet. And from the pass there is a headlong descent to
the Kali Gandak, an affluent of the Ganges. By means of a canal cut
through the Kore-la the Brahmaputra might be turned into the Ganges.
Northern India needs water for irrigation, but the gain would perhaps be
small, for the Brahmaputra in Assam would be as much diminished as the
Ganges was increased. Tibet would lose by the change, and a number of
villages on the Kali Gandak would be swept away. A new road would be
opened for the invasion of India from the north, and therefore on the
whole it is perhaps best for all parties concerned to leave things as
they are. But the changes here indicated will some time come to pass
without artificial aid, for the tentacles of the Kali Gandak are eating
back northwards into the mountains much more quickly than the Tsangpo
is eroding its valley. Some time or other, perhaps in a hundred thousand
years, the Ganges system will have extended its tentacles to the bank of
the Tsangpo, and then will be formed a bifurcation which, in the course
of time, will bring about a total revolution in the proportions of the
two rivers and their drainage areas.
Now we are in Nepal and go on foot down the declivities. Here little has
been done to improve the road. Occasionally an awkward block of granite
has been rolled away, leaving a gap in the breastwork; in other respects
the caravan traffic has done most for the road, wearing it down. It is
easy and pleasant to go down southwards towards denser air; it becomes
warmer, and we breathe more easily; the verdure increases, and flowers
of different colours make the grass gay. We try to forget that we must
toil up all these slopes again; let us go down, down, to enjoy a summer
life, if only for twenty-four hours, and forget dreary Tibet. An hour
ago the wind blew icy cold on the pass, and now we feel the soft zephyrs
gently caressing the heights. Robert takes in deep draughts of the tepid
air and fancies he hears a whispered welcome to India; Tsering and
Rabsang become lively and contented, and I muse over a visit to the King
of the Southland.
Three horsemen rode slowly up the ascent. Two of them were turning their
prayer-mills. They looked astonished. We asked whence they came and
whither they were going. They were going to the tent village on the
plateau. When they were told who we were, in answer to their question,
they dismounted and begged pardon for not greeting us at first. I
readily forgave them, for I looked like a ragged tramp. They advised us
to pass the night in one of the houses of Lo Gapu, and invited us to
visit them in their tent village on our way back.
The gradient becomes less steep, and we come to an expansion where three
valleys meet, the Kungchuk-kong, which we have followed, in the middle,
the Pama on the east, and the Damm on the west. From the Damm valley
only comes a small gushing brook. We pass along the right side of the
united valley. On the same side a very large valley opens, the
Yamchuk-pu, with an irrigation channel running down from its brook to
the villages and fields below. In the village Yamchuk we come to the
first houses and trees. On the left side of the valley lies a large
monastery with avenues of trees and long rows of _manis_; it is called
Gubuk-gompa. Fields, grassy patches, and bushes become more numerous.
Then comes a succession of villages on the left side of the valley,
which is barely 2½ furlongs broad.
Below the side valley Gurkang-pu, on the left, pebble beds stand in
perpendicular walls with numerous caves and grottos. These are
apparently used as dwellings, for they are connected with the houses and
walls in front of them. Lower down we come to the village Nebuk, among
gardens. The architecture is of the usual Tibetan style, white and red
masonry, flat roofs, and decorations of streamer poles. The vegetation
becomes more luxuriant and the fields larger. We frequently pass ruined
walls and towers, perhaps relics of the time when Nepal was at feud with
Tibet. Now the densely peopled and well-tilled valley has a peaceful
aspect, and no frontier guards hinder our advance.
The usual _manis_ lie along the road, and a large red _chhorten_ or
_stupa_ has a touch of the Indian style. Below three villages lying
close together the valley contracts slightly. Near a lonely house we
encamped in a lovely garden, with fine green trees, among waving
cornfields. A woman told us that this place, called Nama-shu, belonged
to Lo Gapu, and that no one might stay in the garden without his
permission. However, we established ourselves there, and inhaled with
delight the mild dense air, and heard the wind rustling through the
tree-tops.
Soon two men appeared, who were in the service of Lo Gapu, asking for
information about us. They said that we were in the district Tso, and
that the river was called Tso-kharki-tsangpo. A village we can see just
below our camp was named Nyanyo, and from there Mentang, the residence
of Lo Gapu, could be reached by crossing only two spurs of the
mountains, He, they said, was a frontier chief, who paid no tribute to
the Maharaja of Nepal, but was obliged to pay a visit to His Highness
every fifth year. He had 500 subjects. The people for three days farther
south were Lamaists and spoke a Tibetan dialect, in which, however, many
Indian and Persian words were incorporated.
When one of the men had obtained all the information he desired, he rode
down the valley to make his report to the frontier chief. Meanwhile we
held a consultation. I had only Robert, Tsering, Rabsang, and two
Tibetans with me, and our funds consisted of only 24 rupees. The
temptation was great to wander a few days more southwards through the
wild deep valleys of the Himalayas. Here, in the Nama-shu camp, we were
at a height of 12,487 feet, and therefore 2805 feet lower than the
Kore-la. Every day's journey southwards would bring us into a denser
atmosphere, and even now we were not far from shady coniferous woods.
But would it be prudent to advance further into Nepal? We were much
puzzled, and considered the matter from all sides. Our money would not
last more than two days. Our horses belonged to the Gova of Tradum, and
we had agreed with him that we would only take a look into Nepal from
the Kore-la, and now we had crossed the boundary and descended into a
land where our position was less secure than in Tibet. We might fall
into a trap before we were aware of it. Lo Gapu might arrest us and ask
for orders from Khatmandu. The greatest danger, however, was that the
Tibetans might close the frontier and render our return impossible, and
then say that now we had left their country we might not enter again.
And then we should be cut off from the main caravan, and all the results
of my journey would be endangered. I therefore decided to turn back
early next morning before Lo Gapu's men had time to come up and arrest
us.
The evening was fine and long, and we enjoyed it thoroughly under the
rustling of the thickly foliaged trees. I felt perfectly comfortable and
breathed freely: the heart had not to labour so heavily as on the
Chang-tang; it worked for hours together without an effort; our feet
were warm, and we slept as we had seldom done. For in the Chang-tang if
one sleeps even eight hours one does not feel rested and refreshed on
rising; one does not derive the proper benefit from sleep. Here we
experienced a thoroughly comfortable feeling after our night's rest, and
our only disappointment came from the clouds, which concealed the
summits of the Himalayas to the south and south-south-west. Only now and
then the peaks looked forth for a minute.
On June 23 we mounted our horses again. We had heard no word of Lo Gapu.
When the messenger had left us he was convinced that we should continue
our way down the valley, and the little potentate was perhaps now
expecting our arrival. He might wait! We rode slowly up to the Kore-la,
left our old road to the right, and camped at Kung-muga.
I was sitting at my drawing when a horseman came clanking up. He held in
his hand a green flag, a messenger's badge among the Chinese and
Tibetans. I felt sure that he had some connection with strict measures
against us, but found that he was only the bearer of a proclamation from
Lhasa to all the stations as far as Gartok, that horses and baggage
animals should be supplied to two Chinamen who had been despatched to
find me out and talk with me, and convey to me a letter from His
Excellency, Lien Darin. They might be expected any moment.
Midsummer Day was as dull as possible. The whole country was buried in
impenetrable fog, and even the adjoining tents were invisible. And when
it had cleared a little, the mountains were still concealed. We rode
north-westwards on an excellent road, and were astonished at the
numerous _manis_ with their close, fine, raised inscriptions on purple
and dark-green schist; other prayer stones had characters 1.2 or 1.6
inches high, while the largest characters were nearly 8 inches high, so
that there was only room for one character on each slab. Then six slabs
were placed in a row to spell out the sacred formula, "Om mani padme
hum." On some votive stones the characters were red, cut out in round
pieces of granite with a white underlayer. The largest _mani_ was 262
feet long.
[Illustration: 234. GULAM RAZUL'S TENTS IN GARTOK.]
[Illustration: 235. LANDSCAPE IN UPPER NEPAL.
View looking South from Camp 182, Nepal.]
We passed encampments with large herds; wild asses grazed along with
tame yaks. All the men we met halted and saluted us. The Gova of Tradum
came to meet us; he pulled a very solemn face, and wondered whether Lo
Gapu would be angry at our visit to Nepal. We reached Bando, near the
small lake Tsotot-karpo, over the small saddle Tasang-la, and found
Guffaru waiting for us with the caravan.
On the 25th we made a short march up to Chikum, whence the Tsotot-karpo
is still visible. We had only provisions for one day, but the Gova of
Tradum offered to procure more if we would pay well for the horses we
had to hire. He had no fear, he said, of the Chinese who were coming; if
they scolded him for allowing us to travel on the south bank of the
Tsangpo, he would reply that it was easier to supply us with provisions
there than on the north side. He had formerly been a lama in
Tashi-gembe, but had lost his heart to a lady. To hush up the affair he
had started on a pilgrimage to Kang-rinpoche, but was caught and
forbidden to return. Then he had gradually worked his way up, and was
now chief of Tradum, and was just as great a rascal in secular life as
he had been in the religious life. However, he rendered us good service.
The view from our elevated camp was magnificent. When the full moon had
risen up in the sky the small lake shone like a silver blade. The sun
had left only an afterglow on the western horizon, but the whole plain
of the Brahmaputra and the mountains of Chang-tang in the north were
clearly defined in dull clear shades, which left all the finer details
indistinguishable. A cloud with bright, silvery, white margins floated
before the moon. A little to the right another cloud caught a reflexion
of the sun, and showed golden margins. They were the angels of night and
day fighting for supremacy. Soon night had won the victory, and now the
moon cast a bright path over the lake, while all around was involved in
a general mist.
When day had resumed its sway we rode in the morning air through swarms
of flies, stinging gnats, and horseflies up over the Tagu-la and down
the Tambak valley. To the west the most northerly chain of the Himalayas
made a magnificent display, and to the north-west lay the broad open
valley of the Brahmaputra, the river winding along the middle like a
blue riband. This evening, too, the return of night called forth a
brilliant play of colours and tone-effects. Light, restless, motionless
to the eye, but riven by the upper winds like old prayer-streamers on a
pass, the clouds sailed at sunset in the vault of heaven. The moon, the
friend of all nocturnal wanderers and sleepers in the open air,
illumines the surroundings of our tents, among which the blue smoke of
the camp-fires lies like a veil over the ground. The yaks stand still as
shadows, and now and then their teeth are heard grinding against the
cartilaginous process of the upper jaw. The Tradum Gova and his servants
hum their evening prayer and rattle their prayer-mills.
In the morning comes a quickly passing shower and another before noon.
We notice all the signs of the sky, and wish for rain as much as the
Tibetans, not on our own account, but for the light-footed antelopes,
the wild asses, and the mountain sheep. The clouds are blue-black over
the mountains to the south, and from them hang down elegantly curved
fringes and draperies heavy with rain. One can hear in imagination the
drops splashing on the stones, and new-born torrents rushing down the
valleys. The trifling rain that has fallen in our neighbourhood can only
moisten the ground for a short time. The drops made a pleasant sound as
they pelted on the Tradum Gova's umbrella and on my Curzon hat. Thunder
rolled heavily and solemnly round about in the mountains, like an echo
of the trumpet of the last judgment.
[Illustration: 236. A CHHORTEN IN NEPAL.]
[Illustration: 237. GROUP OF TIBETAN WOMEN.]
Then we cross the Nerung-tsangpo, come out into the great valley plain
of the Brahmaputra, and encamp in a country inhabited by numbers of
nomads. The Gova of Nagor was a tall, agreeable man, who procured us
_tsamba_, _chang_, and goose eggs--a pleasant change from our perpetual
diet of mutton. Robert and Shukkur Ali caught fish. The Gova told me
that his parents, who belonged to Kham, had made a pilgrimage to the
Kang-rinpoche and had left their little son behind, either by mistake
or on purpose. The youngster had grown up in the tents of the wild
nomads, and now, though a stranger, had become the chief of the
district.
On the morning of the 28th we rode up to Namla-gompa, on a rocky
prominence, where the view was extensive and instructive. At the eastern
foot of the projecting mountain lies the village Namla, a few poor stone
cabins, and here the river Pung-chu, flowing out of the lake Ujam-tso,
enters the plain. The monastery contains some images of gilded bronze,
and seven monks, of whom one, a man of sixty-six, has lived fifty years
within its walls. They are poor and have to beg, but they receive
freewill offerings from the nomads living in the neighbourhood.
Across a plain of cracked loamy soil, which is flooded at high water, we
gain our camp on the bank of the Tsangpo; the river looks like a lake,
and that this is also the case in late autumn is shown in Ryder's
remarkably conscientiously drawn and accurate map. The breadth here is
973 yards broad, and the maximum depth only 2.4 feet. It may, therefore,
be easily waded, and the yak caravan marches quietly through the water.
How different it is farther east, where the river, hemmed in between
steep mountains, is deep and tumultuous! In late summer it cannot be
waded here, and even a boat dare not venture over because of the
treacherous, shifting sand-banks. During our measurements the Ladakis
went across the river, measuring the breadth with poles and ropes, and
held the boat still while I investigated the velocity of the current.
When the work was finished, Rehim Ali began to carry Robert to the bank,
but he slipped on the smooth, clayey bottom, and both took an
involuntary bath, causing all the rest of us to laugh heartily.
Next day the fragile baggage was conveyed across in a boat, and the rest
on hired yaks, which tramped through the turbid dirty-grey water. On the
northern bank we ride through peculiar country. Here are lakes and
swamps, caused by arms of the river, and lying amid a collection of
sandhills as much as 26 feet high. We try all directions to avoid
sandhills and deep creeks, and frequently ride straight through basins
with yielding ground; in some there is a slight current, while others
are stagnant. Here and there islets of sand rise out of the water, some
barren, others with grass and stalks. It is a thoroughly disintegrated
country, but full of pleasing variety. Gnats pursue us in regular
clouds. Some men go in front to pilot us. We often get into deep water
and have to turn back. The high water washes away the greater part of
the driftsand, and deposits it on the banks of the Brahmaputra lower
down. But when the river falls, fresh sand accumulates and forms new
dunes. The driftsand therefore finds a resting-place here on its way to
the east. We encamped by the last lagoon, and heard the fishes splashing
in the water. The whole country reminds me of Lob, the swampy region in
Eastern Turkestan, and the continual struggle there between driftsand
and flowing water. The district is named Dongbo, and here the Gova of
Tuksum and other chiefs awaited us. The first-named had heard that the
Chinamen, of whose coming we had been informed, had left Saka-dzong and
were on their way hither. He expected that they would arrive before
evening.
On June 30 we made most of our march along the _tasam_, on which Nain
Sing and the English expedition had travelled; for I durst not pass
round Tuksum, which was mentioned on my passport. The greater part of
the way runs among fine, regular, crescent-shaped dunes, which move
eastwards over the plain before the prevailing wind. They are ephemeral
phenomena: they live and die, but are always replaced by others. The
horns of the crescent protrude far in the direction of the wind, and the
slope is very steep on the windward side, as much as 17 degrees, while
on the sheltered side it is as steep as the falling sand will allow.
Ganju-gompa stands on an isolated hill to the west of the Ganju-la. It
is subordinate to the Brebung monastery, and has a _lhakang_ with twelve
pillars and four rows of divans, as well as four large drums. The
statues of the gods look down with gentle smiles on the homage paid to
them by nomads and travellers. Only five monks and as many dogs live in
Ganju.
The whole population of Tuksum came out to meet us before their village.
It was agreed with the Gova that Guffaru and the main caravan should
proceed to Shamsang, while I with a couple of attendants travelled by
forbidden roads on the south side of the river. In the evening a
deputation of Ladakis came to wait on me with the request that they
should be allowed to give a feast in honour of Muhamed Isa, to be paid
for out of his outstanding pay. But I thought this a little too cool,
seeing that the money belonged to the widow of the deceased. They might
have a feast, however, at my own expense, but there would be nothing but
mutton, _chang_, and tea.
On the morning of July 1 I had another application, this time from five
young beggar girls, ragged and black, with bundles in frames of wood on
their backs, and large pilgrims' staves in their hands. They had been,
like so many others, at the Kang-rinpoche, and reckoned it a year's
journey to their home in Kham. They beg their way from tent to tent. It
must be a serious burden to the nomads to maintain the numerous pilgrims
that pass along this road.
We said good-bye to Guffaru and his followers on July 2, and riding in a
south-westerly direction over the plain, set up our camp 191 on the left
bank of the Brahmaputra, which here carried down 1978 cubic feet of
water. Next morning the baggage was taken over, and we had also the
honour of helping over the river a high lama, whose acquaintance I had
made in Tashi-lunpo. He wore a yellow robe with a red mantle, and had a
small yellow wooden hat as bright as metal. His servants were armed with
guns and swords, and took all their baggage over the river on yaks. But,
unfortunately, the yaks got into deep water and began to swim, so that,
of course, all their baggage was thoroughly soaked. We also helped a
shepherd with some lambs over to the other side, and if we had waited
longer we might have done a ferryman's work all day with our boat
(Illusts. 240, 241).
Then we crossed over two other arms, and the total discharge of the
Brahmaputra at this place proved to be 3249 cubic feet. The figures,
however, obtained on gauging the river so near its source, are of
inferior value, especially when the melting of the snow has quite set
in, partly because the source streams rise towards evening, carrying the
water from the day's thaw down to the main valley, partly because the
volume of water depends to a great extent on the weather. At the first
downpour of rain the rivers are little affected, for the water is
absorbed by the dry soil; but when this is soaked through, the water
runs off, and the rivers swell enormously after a single rainy day. When
the sky is overcast without rain they fall, but in quite clear weather
the sun thaws the snow and causes the rivers to rise again.
It was a long day's journey, for in many of the tents the people refused
to give us the help we wanted, and therefore we passed on to the great
tributary Gyang-chu, which comes from the south and receives many
streams from the northernmost range of the Himalayas.
I have no time to give an account of the geography of this region on the
south side of the Brahmaputra. I will only say that during the following
days we were cut off from the main river by low mountains, and that we
did not encamp again on its bank till July 6, when we came to the Cherok
district. We had left several tributaries behind us, and the main stream
carried only 1554 cubic feet of water.
After another short day's march we rejoined Guffaru's party in Shamsang
(15,410 feet) on the great high-road, where twenty-one tents were now
standing. The chiefs of the neighbourhood were very attentive, and did
not say a word against my proposal to go up to Kubi-gangri, which shows
its snowy peaks to the south-west, and in which the sources of the
Brahmaputra were said to lie. They procured us provisions for twelve
days, and we had not had so free a hand for some time. Here nothing had
been heard of Chinese or Tibetan pursuers from Lhasa.
[Illustration: 238. WOMEN IN THE VILLAGE OF NAMLA.]
[Illustration: 239. INHABITANTS OF THE VILLAGE OF NAMLA.]
CHAPTER XLII
IN SEARCH OF THE SOURCE OF THE BRAHMAPUTRA
Now we were already far to the west; the force of circumstances had
forced us to leave behind us step by step ever larger areas of unknown
country to the north. I was vexed, but I would, at any rate, endeavour
to do all that was possible in my hampered condition. At Shamsang,
Ryder's Lahtsang, we were at the place where the actual source streams
of the Brahmaputra converged from various directions. I had long
determined to push on to the unknown source, unless the Tibetans placed
unsurmountable obstacles in my way.
The learned and clear-sighted Colonel Montgomerie had sent Nain Sing in
the year 1865 up the valley of the upper Brahmaputra (Illust. 380). From
our Shamsang the Pundit crossed the Marium-la, and said in his report
that the sources of the river were certainly in the huge chain seen in
the south, and were fed by its glaciers. He did not, however, go to look
for the actual sources, but continued his journey westwards.
The next year, 1866, Thomas Webber made an excursion into Tibetan
territory, and his route lay a little to the south of Nain Sing's. On
his sketch-map it may be seen that he crossed some of the source streams
of the Tsangpo, but of the tract in which the sources are situated he
gives no further indication than "Snowy ranges unexplored." And when he
says in his text that here are the sources of the great Brahmaputra,
which have their origin in the Gurla glaciers, the confusion is
hopeless; for the sources of the river lie 60 miles from Gurla, a
mountain which has nothing whatever to do with the Brahmaputra.
The political expedition which, under the command of Rawling in the
close of the year 1904, had Gartok for its destination, and the chief
result of which was the admirable map of the upper Brahmaputra valley
surveyed by Ryder and his assistants (Map 7), travelled from Shamsang
over the Marium-la and north of the Gunchu-tso to Manasarowar. It was
therefore of the greatest importance to me to travel to the south of
their route through country they had not touched on. They travelled by
the same road as Nain Sing, and left the source of the river at a
distance of 40 miles to the south. From Ryder's report it might be
supposed that he considered the Marium-la to be the cradle of the
Brahmaputra; but in a letter I have recently received from him, he
states that such is not the case, but that he always recognized that the
actual source must lie among the mountains in the south-west, which he
has set down on his map from bearings taken of their peaks. Ryder also
remarks in his report that the principal headwaters come from there.
Instead of entering into a diffuse discussion of the problem, I
introduce in this book small sketches of the maps of my three
predecessors, Nain Sing, Webber, and Ryder. No other traveller had ever
been in this region, and I would on no account miss the opportunity of
penetrating to the actual source of the Brahmaputra and fixing its
position definitely.
How was this to be done? At Shamsang the source streams meet, and below
this point the united river bears the name Martsang-tsangpo. First of
all, I must, of course, gauge the quantities of water in the source
streams, and, if they were nearly equal, we must be content to say that
the Brahmaputra has several sources.
With ten men, the boat, and the necessary measuring apparatus, I betook
myself first, on July 8, to the point on the southern side of the valley
where two streams run together, the Kubi-tsangpo from the south-west and
the Chema-yundung from the west. A short day's march farther west the
Chema-yundung receives the Marium-chu, which comes from the Marium-la.
First the united stream was gauged, and found to discharge 1554 cubic
feet of water per second, and immediately after the Chema-yundung, which
discharged almost 353 cubic feet. Subtracting this from the volume of
the united river, we get 1201 cubic feet as the discharge of the
Kubi-tsangpo. This river is then three and a half times as large as the
Chema, and it should be remembered that the Chema also receives the
water of the Marium-chu, so that its 353 cubic feet represent the united
volumes of two tributaries.
When we encamped in the evening with the main caravan in the Umbo
district (15,427 feet), where the Chema-yundung and the Marium-chu
unite, the rivers were very considerably swollen, and the water, which
had been clear in the morning, had become turbid. Therefore only the two
measurements taken at the same time were directly comparable, and I will
pass over all the subsequent measurements. To arrive at the source we
had only to know that the Kubi-tsangpo is far larger than the two
others, so we had to follow its course up into the mountains, which none
of my predecessors had done. The Tibetans also said that the Kubi was
the upper course of the Martsang-tsangpo.
On July 9 we parted from Guffaru and the main caravan, which was to keep
to the great high-road and cross the Marium-la to Tokchen, while Robert
and I with three Ladakis and three armed Tibetans followed the
Kubi-tsangpo up to its source. Our way ran west-south-west. Where we
crossed the Chema-yundung, a good distance above the last delta arms of
the Marium-chu, the river carried little more than 140 cubic feet of
water, and therefore the Kubi-tsangpo, flowing to the south-east of it,
is here fully eight times as large. At the ford our Tibetans drove a peg
with a white rag into the edge of the bank, and when I asked why, they
answered: "That the river may not become tired of carrying its water
down the valleys."
At Tok-jonsung, where we bivouacked among some black tents, the Chema
looked very large, but its water ran very slowly. The nomads of the
district go up to the Chang-tang in winter. Here also we heard, as on
many former occasions, that smallpox was raging frightfully in Purang,
and that all the roads leading thither were closed. No country lies so
high that the angel of death cannot reach it.
In the night the thermometer fell to 15.4°, but we were at a height of
15,991 feet. The snowy mountains in front of us to the south-west became
more distinct. The Chema river meandered with a slow fall, and we left
it on the right before we came to our camp in Sheryak.
[Illustration: 240. LAMA IN MY BOAT.]
[Illustration: 241. LOADING THE BOAT WITH BOXES ON CROSSING THE
BRAHMAPUTRA.]
We ride on July 11 on to the south-west in a strong wind, passing
already porous, melting snowdrifts. Solid rock is not to be seen, but
all the detritus consists of granite and green schist. We follow a
clearly marked nomad path, leading up to the small pass Tso-niti-kargang
on the ridge which forms a watershed between the Chema-yundung and the
Kubi-tsangpo. The large valley of the latter is below us to the south.
The water of the Kubi-tsangpo is very muddy, but on the right bank is a
perfectly clear moraine lake. From the south-east the affluent Lung-yung
flows out of its deeply cut valley. The view is grand on all sides. From
north-west to north-east extends a confused sea of mountains, the crests
and ramifications of the Trans-Himalaya, intersected by the northern
tributaries of the upper Tsangpo. To the south we have a panorama
magnificent and overpowering in its fascinating wildness and whiteness,
an irregular chain of huge peaks, sharp, black, and fissured, sometimes
pointed like pyramids, sometimes broad and rounded, and behind them we
see firn-fields from which the snow slides down to form glaciers among
the dark rocks. Prominent in the south is the elevation Ngomo-dingding,
and from its glaciers the Kubi-tsangpo derives a considerable part of
its water. To the west-south-west lies the Dongdong, another mass with
glaciers equally extensive, and to the right of it are heights called
Chema-yundung-pu, from which the river of the same name takes its rise,
and flows down circuitously to the confluence at Shamsang. To the
south-east the position of the Nangsa-la is pointed out to me beyond
the nearest mountains, where the river Gyang-chu, which we came across a
few days before, has its source.
We go down among moraines, granite detritus, and boulders. Here three
small clear moraine pools, called Tso-niti, lie at different heights.
The ground becomes more level, and we pass a _mani_, a rivulet trickling
among the rubbish, and a small pond, before we reach camp 200 in Lhayak,
on the bank of the Kubi-tsangpo, where the pasturage is excellent and we
find numerous traces of nomad camps. In several places we come across
large sheets of fine thin birch bark, which have been detached by storms
and carried by the wind over the mountains from the south.
Our three musketeers told us that all the nomads now sojourning in the
Shamsang district would come up here in a few weeks to stay a month and
a half, till the snow drove them away again. In winter the snow lies 5
feet deep, and many men and animals perish in the snowdrifts, when the
herds go too high up the mountains and are surprised by early heavy
falls of snow. The autumn before, I was told, 23 yaks were grazing up at
the foot of Ngomo-dingding when it began to snow furiously. Several
herdsmen hurried up to drive the animals down to lower ground, but the
snow was heaped up in such large quantities that they had to turn back
lest they should perish themselves. In the spring they went up, and
found the skeletons and hides of the unfortunate animals. The Shamsang
Gova had lately lost some horses in the same way. Even the wild asses
cannot escape from the spring snow. They cannot run when the snow is
deep, and after trying in vain to reach bare ground, they die of
starvation and are frozen in the snowdrifts. Our three guides, who
themselves pass the summer up here, assured me that the wild asses are
frozen in an upright position, and often stand on all fours when the
summer sun has thawed the snow. They had seen dead wild asses standing
in herds as though they were alive.
The snow, which falls in winter on the source region of the
Brahmaputra, melts in spring, and together with the river ice produces a
flood of far larger volume, it is said, than the summer flood produced
by rain. This is probably true of the uppermost course of the Tsangpo,
but lower down the rain-flood is certainly the greater. In general, the
variations in the water-level are more marked in the higher lands, and
the further the water flows downstream the more the fluctuations tend to
disappear.
"Is not our country hard and terrible to live in? Is not the Bombo
Chimbo's country (India) better?" asked my Tibetans.
"I cannot say that; in India there are tigers, snakes, poisonous
insects, heat, fever, and plague to contend with, which are not met with
up here in the fresh air."
"Yes, but that is better than the continual wind, the sharp cold, and
the fruitless waiting for rain. This year we have only had a couple of
light showers, and we shall lose our herds if more rain does not come."
"Well, the summer in Tibet is very pleasant when it rains, while in
India it is suffocating; on the other hand, the winter in Tibet is
severe and cruel, but comfortable in India."
"Tell us, Bombo Chimbo, is it you, with your glass and measuring
instruments, that is keeping back the rain this year? At this season it
usually rains heavily, but you perhaps prefer clear weather, to be able
to see the country and that the roads may not be soft."
"No, I long for rain as much as you, for my animals are getting thin,
and cannot eat their fill of this poor grass, which has stood here since
last summer. Only the gods can control the weather, and the sons of men
must take the rain and sunshine as they are sent to them from above."
They looked at one another doubtfully. It was not the first time that
they had ascribed to me powers as great as those of their own gods, and
it would have been difficult to have convinced them of their error.
At midnight the men heard a one-year-old child crying and calling for
help on the bank of the Kubi-tsangpo. They woke one another in
astonishment, and Rabsang and two Tibetans went off with a gun, thinking
that it was a ghost. When they came near they heard the child weeping
quite distinctly, and our heroes were so frightened that they thought it
safest to make all haste back again. When I asked them how they knew
that it was a year-old child, they answered, that from the sound it
could not have been younger or older. When I suggested that it might
have been a wolf cub, as there were no human beings in the
neighbourhood, they declared that it must have been an uneasy spirit
wandering about the bank.
There must have been something supernatural about, for I dreamed in the
night that all the fragments of birch bark which we had seen on our
day's ride were letters of invitation from the Maharaja of Nepal, that I
had accepted the invitation, and was lying half asleep on a soft carpet
of grass and listening to the rustle of the warm wind among the cedars
of the Himalayas. The dream was so vivid that I could not think all day
long of anything else but the warm beautiful land behind the mountains.
Even in camp No. 200 I perceived fairly clearly how the land lay, but we
were not yet at the actual source, and therefore we continued our march
south-westwards on July 12. The foot of the snowy mountains seemed quite
near. The river is broad, and divided by islands of mud into several
arms. On the left side of the valley, where we march, are a couple of
walls of green and black schist, but elsewhere old moraines extend on
all sides. We cross a stream flowing from the country below Dongdong to
join the Kubi-tsangpo. The Tsechung-tso is a small moraine lake. The
valley bottom rises slowly, and consists of loose material sparsely
covered with grass. Occasionally a small erratic block of grey granite
is seen. Rags, dung, and fragments of bone lie on the summer
camping-grounds. At length the river becomes as broad as a small lake,
enclosed in morainic rubbish and driftsand.
We camped at the stone wall of Shapka, one of the headquarters of the
nomads. Here, on the right bank of the Kubi-tsangpo, stands a dark
purple ridge of medium height with patches of snow, which melt in the
course of the summer. The land at the foot of this colossal mountain is
remarkably flat, and instead of a cone of detritus there is a stream
expanded into a lake. The water from the melting snow has washed away
all solid matter.
As we came to camp No. 201, at a height of 15,883 feet, the peaks
disappeared in clouds, but just before sunset the sky cleared and the
last clouds floated away like light white steam over the glaciers of
Ngomo-dingding, which clearly displayed their grand structure, with high
lateral moraines and concentric rings of grey lumpy terminal moraines.
The surface, except where here and there blue crevasses yawned in the
ice, was white with snow and the porous melting crust.
When the sun had set, nine peaks in a line from south-east to south-west
stood out with remarkable sharpness. Raven-black pinnacles, cliffs and
ridges rise out of the white snowfields, and the glaciers emerge from
colossal portals. A whole village of tents rising to heaven! The source
of the Brahmaputra could not be embellished with a grander and more
magnificent background. Holy and thrice holy are these mountains, which
from their cold lap give birth and sustenance to the river celebrated
from time immemorial in legend and song, the river of Tibet and Assam,
the river _par excellence_, the son of Brahma. One generation after
another of black Tibetans has in the course of thousands of years
listened to its roar between the two loftiest mountain systems of the
world, the Himalaya and the Trans-Himalaya, and one generation after
another of the various tribes of Assam has watered its fields with its
life-giving floods and drunk of its blessed water. But where the source
lay no one knew. Three expeditions had determined its position
approximately, but none had been there. No geography had been able to
tell us anything of the country round the source of the Brahmaputra.
Only a small number of nomads repair thither yearly to spend a couple of
short summer months. Here it is, here in the front of three glacier
tongues, that the river so revered by the Hindu tribes begins its course
of some 1800 miles through the grandest elevations of the world, from
which its turbid volumes of water roll first to the east, then
southwards, cutting a wild valley through the Himalayas, and finally
flowing south-westwards over the plains of Assam. The upper Brahmaputra,
the Tsangpo, is truly the chief artery of Tibet, for within its drainage
basin is concentrated the great mass of its population, while its lower
course is surrounded by the most fruitful and populous provinces of
Assam. The Brahmaputra is therefore one of the noblest rivers of the
world, and few waterways have a more illustrious descent and a more
varied and more glorious career, for nations have grown up on its banks
and have lived there, and their history and culture have been intimately
connected with it since the earliest times of human records.
Busied with such thoughts, I went out again in the evening to gaze at
the cliffs of the nine peaks which showed like dim misty shadows, while
the ice and snowfields below, of the same colour as the sky, were not
perceptible in the night. Then a flash of lightning blazed up behind
Kubi-gangri, as the whole massive is called, and the crest crowned with
eternal snow stood suddenly out in sharp pitch-black contours. Singular,
entrancing land, where spirit voices are heard in the night and the sky
blazes up in bluish light. I listened for a long time to the brook
Shapka-chu, gently trickling down its stony bed to the bank of the
Kubi-tsangpo.
We had still some way to go before we came to the actual source, and I
could not conscientiously leave Kubi-gangri without determining the
absolute height of the source by the boiling-point thermometer. Our
Tibetans were exceedingly friendly, and seemed to take an interest in
showing us this point, of which I had spoken so often during the past
days and about which I had put so many questions. I was really thankful
for, and overjoyed at, this unexpected favourable opportunity of fixing
the position of the source, though I knew that my excursion to
Kubi-gangri could only be a very cursory and defective reconnaissance. A
thorough exploration of this neighbourhood would require several years,
for the summer up here is short and the time for work is over in two
months. But though I succeeded in learning only the chief outlines of
the physical geography, I can count this excursion as one of the most
important events of my last journey in Tibet. Accordingly, we decided to
ride up to the source next day, July 13. Only Rabsang, Robert, and a
Tibetan were to accompany me. The rest were to wait for our return under
the command of Tsering.
CHAPTER XLIII
THE SOURCE OF THE SACRED RIVER--A DEPARTURE
We started off in beautiful weather, not a cloud hanging over the
summits of Kubi-gangri. We followed the left bank of the Kubi-tsangpo,
and rode along the foot of the huge moraines, which here rise fully 470
feet above the valley bottom, and which were formerly thrown up on the
left or western side of the gigantic glacier, whence proceeded all the
glacier tongues now remaining only in short lengths. The morainic
character is plainly recognizable, sometimes in curved ridges and walls
falling steeply on both sides, sometimes in rounded hillocks rising one
above another. The surface is often covered with fine pebbles, grass,
and lovely alpine flowers trying to make the most of the short summer.
Here and there a landslip has taken place, and then it can be seen that
the rock shows no trace of stratification. Occasionally we pass granite
boulders, but they are small, the largest not more than 280 cubic feet.
On the valley bottom are swamps with rank grass, and wild-geese are
enjoying the summer in the ponds. We twice met with fresh spoor of small
herds of wild yaks which had moved off to the right bank of the
Kubi-tsangpo. The horses' hoofs splashed in the swampy ground, seldom
varied by small patches of boulder clay.
Numerous rivulets descend from the moraines. They are fed by the melting
snowfields, and therefore, in contrast to the glacier brooks, are
crystal clear. They have eroded deep valleys in the moraines, and one of
them has deposited a great dejection cone at the mouth, over which the
brook falls in ten channels, carrying 106 cubic feet of water. A very
considerable proportion of the upper Brahmaputra's water is derived from
melted snow. Rivulets rushed and spurted all about in the rubbish, and
all came from the snowfields, which struggled in vain against the heat
of the spring sun.
Now we have right in front of us the immense glacier which descends from
an extensive firn basin on the western foot of the Mukchung-simo
massive. Between its terminal moraines and the older moraines we have
skirted, a rather voluminous stream has eroded its valley. Its water is
tolerably clear and green, so that it proceeds from snowfields. A little
below the terminal moraine it unites with the numerous arms of the muddy
glacier stream, of which the largest is the one which flows nearest to
the foot of the Mukchung massive. Even 200 yards below the confluence
the green water can be clearly distinguished from the brown, but
afterwards the cold currents intermingle. Where the river, still divided
into a number of meandering arms, turns past camp 201 to the north-east,
it receives considerable additions from the glaciers lying further east,
and thus the Kubi-tsangpo is formed.
Then we ride up, zigzagging among boulders and pebble beds, over ridges,
banks, and erosion furrows, over brooks and treacherous bog, over grass
and clumps of brushwood, to a commanding point of view on the top of the
old moraine (16,453 feet). Before us is a chaos of huge, precipitous,
fissured, black, bare rocks, summits, pyramids, columns, domes, and
ridges, moraines, tongues of ice, snow and firn fields--a scene hard to
beat for wild grandeur.
Here we made a halt, and I drew the panorama while the horses grazed on
the slopes. The largest glacier, which comes from the Kubi-gangri
proper, is entirely below us, and we have a bird's-eye view of it. It is
fed by three different firn-fields, and has two distinct medial
moraines, which here and there rise into ridges where the ice has been
thrust aside. The right lateral moraine is well defined, and is still
partially covered with snow. The left is broad in its upper part but
narrow below, where the green stream washes its base. Up above, a
glacier from the west runs into the main glacier, and where the two
join the side glacier is thrown up into a mighty wall, which merges into
the left lateral moraine of the other. All the bottom of the glacier
front is buried in rubbish, and the ice peeps out only here and there.
Here are several small sheets of water, some of an intensely blue
colour, others brown, with finely pulverized matter, showing that they
are connected with the water of the ground moraine. Two of these small
pools have vertical sides of blue ice like entrances to marvellous fairy
grottos. A series of marginal crevasses are still partly covered with
snow. The terminal moraine is a chaos of mounds, pebbles, and boulders,
with patches of snow on the shady side. In a hollow between these
hillocks flows the middle glacier stream, after passing two pools. The
terminal moraine does not increase in size, for its material is slowly
disintegrated and washed away by the stream, which winds in several arms
over the even bed of the valley bottom just below in the most capricious
curves.
An excursion over the surface of the glacier would not be difficult when
one was once up on it. There are many dangerous crevasses concealed
under the snow which may be avoided by keeping to the rubbish heaps of
the medial moraines. The mass of the Kubi-gangri, which from our point
of view lies farthest to the right, to the west-north-west, is called
Gave-ting; from it descends the great side glacier.
The front of the main glacier, where the largest of all the glacier
streams of the Kubi-gangri rises, is the actual source of the
Brahmaputra. The other streams which enter it south-east of camp 201 are
smaller and shorter. We could not get to them, for the horses sank too
deep in the sand and mud of the main stream.
On our return we made a halt at the place where the principal branch of
the Kubi-tsangpo comes out from under the ice, and I found that the
source of the Brahmaputra lies at an altitude of 15,958 feet above
sea-level. I must leave details for the scientific report of this
journey, which will be published in due time.
On July 14 it seemed very hot in my tent, for even at seven o'clock in
the morning the temperature was 45.1°; in the night there had been
nearly 14½ degrees of frost. The sky was perfectly clear, and therefore
I could not refrain from seeking another point of view to investigate
the beautiful glaciers of the Kubi-gangri.
After arranging with Tsering that he should meet us in the valley of the
Dongdong river, we rode up the banks and ridges of the old moraine,
through its hollows and over its terraces of barren soil, which was now
soft and treacherous from the melting of the snow, past pools of clear,
green water, and to the highest point of its ridge, where there was
nothing to hide the view.
I first took nine photographs, forming a consecutive series. Then a
cloak was thrown over the stand to make a shelter against the strong
wind, and in this sentry-box I sat for nearly four hours drawing a
panorama which embraced the whole horizon. Meanwhile my companions lay
down and snored, and I was glad to sit alone face to face with these
royal mountain giants. The whole architecture is fantastically wild, and
the only law which is strictly observed is that each glacier is confined
between two huge black crests of rock.
[Illustration: 242. PANORAMA OF KUBI-GANGRI AND THE LANGTA-CHEN GLACIER,
WITH THE SOURCE OF THE BRAHMAPUTRA (FROM A HEIGHT OF 16,453 FEET, JULY
13, 1907).
Sketch by the Author.]
In order to give the reader a notion of the scene I here reproduce a
part of the panorama embracing the Kubi-gangri (Illust. 242). To the
south, 27° E., is a tetrahedral peak, which our guide called
Ngoma-dingding. To the south, 11° E., rises another summit, of almost
precisely the same form, which is called Absi. On the east of it lies
the Ngoma-dingding glacier, and on the west the Absi glacier. West of
this stands the lumpy Mukchung-simo group, with its culminating point
lying south, 24° W. The northern side resembles a stable with straight
short stalls, each containing a small hanging glacier. To the south-west
rise two sharp pinnacles, and in the south, 57° W., a couple of
dome-shaped summits consisting only of ice and snow; they belong to the
Langta-chen massive, and their firns feed to a great extent the glacier
in the front of which the Brahmaputra takes its rise. So the glacier may
be called the Langta-chen. To the south, 70° W., 88° W., and north, 83°
W., rise the summits of the Gave-ting group. To the north, 55° W.,
three peaks of the Dongdong appear, from which one of the sources of the
Brahmaputra takes its rise, quite insignificant compared to the
Kubi-tsangpo.
Towards the north-east the sharply defined valley of the Kubi-tsangpo
runs downwards, and in the distance are seen the mountains of
Chang-tang, pyramidal peaks of singular uniformity, and crowded together
in great numbers, which form a finely jagged horizon, and in consequence
of the great distance merge into the pink tint of the insignificant
snowfields. The Trans-Himalaya seems on this side to widen out and
become flatter than in the east.
It was late when we rode down the steep path to the camp on the
Dongdong. And now we had to hurry westwards and make as many discoveries
and collect as much information as possible on forbidden paths, in spite
of the Mandarins and the Devashung.
On July 15 we left our former route to the right and directed our steps
northwards over intricate moraines, seeing the snowy peaks of Dongdong
and Chema-yundung still more clearly from the pass Kargan-la. On the
16th the sky was overcast, a couple of hail showers fell, and the hills
around us changed to white. We rode north-westwards past two small
lakes, and again fell in with solid rock--green and black schist. From
the Tugri-la we had a fine view over a world of mountains, the names of
which I have no time to record. We crossed another saddle, Sen-kamba-la,
to reach the broad open valley of the Chema-yundung river, which
descends from a very extensive glacier in the south belonging to the
Chema-yundung-pu massive. Here were several nomad tents, and seven tents
inhabited by pilgrims from Bongba stood on a rise. They were on their
way with kith and kin to Kang-rinpoche to make the pilgrimage round the
holy mountain. Most of the pilgrims from the far east take this southern
route and return over the Marium-la.
July 17. It was very hot in the saddle with a temperature of 50° and
quite calm air. The brown puppy was very tired of travelling, and drops
fell from her hanging tongue, but she could not leave the antelopes and
hares in peace. She darted after them full speed, but never caught them,
and came back to me disappointed, but began again the useless pursuit.
The Ronggak-chu is an affluent of the Chema, and comes from the
north-west. We left the little double lake Kuru-chok in the south. To
the west-south-west is the place where the Chema-yundung receives the
Angsi-chu, the most westerly of all the headwaters of the Brahmaputra.
In the valley of the Tynchung we encamped beside some accommodating
nomads, who quickly procured me fresh yaks, for the three musketeers
turned back here to Shamsang, after doing their work well. The whole
excursion to the sources of the Brahmaputra had cost 110 rupees, and it
was well worth more. The natives said that ten robbers had recently made
the neighbourhood unsafe, but immediately it was reported that a
European caravan was approaching Tynchung, they had entirely
disappeared, and therefore we were regarded as deliverers, and the
people could not do too much for us. A Hindu merchant from Almora was
camping here, buying sheep's wool and salt from the nomads, and selling
them frieze rugs and textiles from Agra and Amritsar.
Next day we crossed the Marnyak-la (17,395 feet) and had the Angsi-chu
immediately below us, and on the 19th we left the river behind and
followed its small tributary, the Loang-gonga, up to its source at the
very low pass Tamlung or Tag-la, which is nothing more than a rise in an
open longitudinal valley. But this pass is exceedingly important, for it
is the watershed between the Brahmaputra and Manasarowar. Its height is
17,382 feet. To the south is spread out a succession of snowy peaks, and
to the west-south-west is seen Gurla Mandatta or Memo-nani, a majestic
and imposing group which belongs to the same Himalayan range as
Kubi-gangri. The pass is situated among old moraines, where is the
little insignificant lake Tamlung-tso, from which the Loang-gonga flows
out. At some distance to the south is seen the low watershed between the
Angsi-chu and the Gang-lung, a stream that comes from a massive of the
same name, and, as the Tage-tsangpo, falls into Manasarowar. The very
latest maps of western Tibet give a very incorrect representation of
this country, which has never been visited by a European before. Instead
of a clearly marked meridional range we found an open, hilly,
longitudinal valley with the watershed running among its moraines. Here
we took leave of the Brahmaputra, after passing half a year in its basin
since crossing the Sela-la. We encamped at a place where the Gang-lung
river breaks through a rampart of moraines, forming foaming cascades.
During the following day's journey it flows through granitic moraines,
drift sand, and morasses, and becomes a considerable stream, receiving
numerous affluents from the south. A caravan of 50 yaks, and eight men
from Purang, armed with guns, and clad in blue with fur-lined cloaks,
were on the way to the fair in Gyanima. In the district Tagramoche,
where we bivouacked, were many nomads and beggars with staves and
bundles on the way to the holy mountain. We also met six merchants from
Ladak, who were carrying dried peaches for sale on 45 asses. They had
left home a month and a half previously.
On July 21 we rode down the Tage-bup valley among savage cliffs. On its
bottom flows the Tage-tsangpo, changing its colour from light green over
sandy ground to bluish-purple over dark detritus. Langchen-kamba is a
small side-valley on the right, from which robbers are wont to sally
forth against defenceless travellers. Just below the valley a spring
bubbles forth with crystal-clear water at a temperature of 38°. It is
considered holy, and is marked by a pole bedecked with rags and
streamers like a scare-crow. This spring is also called Langchen-kamba.
A little farther down the spring Chakko stands on a steep slope on the
right bank, and its water (40.3°) is collected in a round pit 3 feet
deep. A wall is erected about it, covered with flat stones, on which
figures of Buddha and holy texts are carved. Leaves from the holy
scriptures are thrust between the stones of the wall, and streamers and
rags fly from a pole. Through the water, clear as a mirror, could be
seen blue and red beads, two inferior turquoises, some shells, and
other trash, thrown in as offerings by pious pilgrims. The water is
supposed to have miraculous powers. Murmuring prayers, our guide filled
a wooden bowl with water and poured it over the head and mane of his
horse to protect it from wolves. With the same object he tied a rag from
the pole on to his horse's forelock. He drank himself a good draught to
render him invulnerable to the bullets of robbers. If a sheep or other
animal is ill it is only necessary to sprinkle it with the holy water to
make it well again. When a traveller or pilgrim stands at the well and
pours water with both hands over his head, it guards him against falling
into the hands of footpads, and from other misfortunes. And if he sits
and meditates, drinks, and washes his head, hands, and legs, and has
sufficient faith, then he finds gold coins and precious stones at the
bottom of the well. The sick man who bathes his whole body in the
miraculous water becomes strong again. It is a Lourdes in miniature.
While my men were engaged in their ablutions I sat at the edge of the
well and listened to the mystical music of the fluttering
prayer-streamers, and found this fascinating Tibet more enigmatical at
every step.
Then we rode over the Tage-tsangpo, where its valley opens into the flat
basin of Manasarowar--a new chapter in the chronicles of our journey.
Again Gurla Mandatta showed itself in all its glory, and in the
north-west Kang-rinpoche or Kailas, the holy mountain, like a great
_chhorten_ on a lama's grave, rose above the jagged ridge which forms
the horizon in that direction. On seeing it all our men suddenly jumped
out of their saddles and threw themselves down with their foreheads on
the ground. Only Rabsang, a confirmed heathen, remained seated on his
horse, and was afterwards well scolded by Tsering.
[Illustration: 243, 244, 245. THE MOUNTAINS AT THE SOURCE OF THE
BRAHMAPUTRA.]
We are now out on open hilly ground, and see a glimpse of the holy lake
Tso-mavang or Manasarowar. We encamp by a small lake called Tso-nyak,
whither come Islam Ahun and Shukkur Ali, sent by Guffaru, who is become
uneasy at our long absence. We send them back again to Tokchen with
orders to Guffaru to proceed to the monastery Serolung-gompa on the
holy lake, where we will meet him.
On July 22 we rode over the Tage-tsangpo, which here carried 291 cubic
feet of water, where Rabsang got a thorough wetting in consequence of
his horse coming a cropper among the boulders in the bed. Tsering said
that he deserved a dip because he had not saluted Kang-rinpoche. Camp
210 was set up in the broad valley Namarding, where a clear brook flows
to the Tage-tsangpo. The wind blew strongly, and the Tibetans said that
the waves on Tso-mavang were as high and dark as nomad tents. Should we
venture in our little canvas boat on the lake, exposed to all the winds?
It must be very rough before I consented to give up the trip, for the
lake had long been the subject of my dreams.
Next morning Tundup Sonam appeared with the news that the Gova of
Tokchen would not let his yaks on hire for the journey to Serolung. I
had therefore to ride to Tokchen by a road over the pass Karbu-la, and
down the river Samo-tsangpo; it is full of fish, but we were asked not
to disturb them, for they came up from the holy lake. We were all
together again in Tokchen, and I found the Gova a decent fellow, who
welcomed me with a large _kadakh_ and a bowl of _tsamba_.
Now an hour of parting was come, for I sent from Tokchen thirteen of my
men home to Ladak. I had several reasons for this. I did not need so
many men in western Tibet; twelve were enough, and a small, light
caravan accomplishes more and does not excite so much notice. The men
were to travel along the great highway to Gartok under the experienced
leadership of Guffaru, and there deposit all the baggage I could spare
with the British agent, Thakur Jai Chand. I also sent to him a letter
packet of three hundred pages to my parents, beside other
correspondence. Of particular importance was a letter to Colonel Dunlop
Smith, in which I asked for 6000 rupees, provisions, books, revolvers
and ammunition, and things suitable for presents, such as gold and
silver watches, as well as all the letters which must have accumulated
at the Viceregal Lodge.
On the first evening, when I called together all the twenty-five men and
told them my decision to send away thirteen, and asked which of them
wished to go home, no one answered. They declared that they would follow
me until I was tired of Tibet. Then I picked out thirteen and retained
the best twelve men. Among these was Tashi, who with Tundup Sonam had
accomplished the adventurous journey to Shigatse. But when he saw that I
was in earnest about the dividing of the caravan, he begged me to let
him go home, so he was exchanged for another man.
We stayed here two days to put everything in order. After the baggage
was re-arranged I had only four boxes left, and the rest were to be
carried away by Guffaru. Robert sat in my tent like a money-changer and
piled up sovereigns and rupees in small heaps, the pay, gratuities, and
travelling expenses of the men who were going home. Our treasury was
relieved of 2118 rupees all at once. The important correspondence was
enclosed in a case, which Guffaru carried in his belt. The men with him
were allowed to keep two of our five guns. Late in the evening Guffaru
came to my tent to receive his last instructions. Honest old Guffaru, he
had in the autumn of his life performed wonders in the winter in
Chang-tang, always composed and contented, always doing his duty in the
smallest particular. Now he sat, with the tears falling on to his white
beard, and thanked me for all I had done for him during the past year. I
bade him weep no more, but rejoice that the hard time was over for him,
and that he could return safe and sound to his people with 400 rupees in
his purse. When we left Leh he was as poor as a church mouse, and now he
was a rich man for his position, and he had not needed his shroud. I
told him that I should miss him very much, but that I could not entrust
the valuable baggage and important letters to any other hands but his.
When I came out of my tent early on the morning of the 26th the 13 yaks
were laden and the thirteen men were ready to march off with their
Tibetan guides. I thanked them for their faithfulness and patience
during the time when they were exposed to so many dangers in my
service, begged them to remember that they were responsible for the
caravan on the way home, and told them that they must obey Guffaru, and
that their character would suffer if they did not bear with one another
on the way. If they were as conscientious on this journey as in my
service, it would be well for them in the future, and perhaps our paths
might cross again.
Then old Guffaru came forward, and fell on his knees before me, weeping
loudly, and all the others in turn followed his example amid sobs and
tears; I clapped them all on the shoulder and hoped that this bitter
hour would soon be over. Then they took leave of their comrades, who,
deeply moved, sent greetings to their parents, wives, and children in
Ladak, and they marched off on foot, as they had travelled so many
hundred miles, silent, drooping, and downcast, and soon disappeared
behind the hills.
CHAPTER XLIV
A NIGHT ON MANASAROWAR
After Guffaru had set out with his men, the small caravan was organized
which was to accompany me. It was led by Tsering, and the other men left
were Bulu, Tundup Sonam, Rabsang, Rehim Ali, Shukkur Ali, Namgyal, Adul,
Ishe, Lama, Galsang, and Rub Das. The Gova of Tokchen was given a
Kashmir shawl, a turban, and some rupees for the services he had
rendered us, and all the other Tibetans who had been friendly and
helpful received presents. The dividing of the caravan had also the
advantage that the Tibetans supposed that we were all making for the
same destination by different routes, and that I should join Guffaru in
Gartok and continue my journey to Ladak, as directed on the passport.
[Illustration: 246. TIBETANS ON THE BANK OF THE SOMA-TSANGPO.]
[Illustration: 247. GROUP OF NATIVES OF LANGMAR.]
With Robert, Rabsang, and two Tibetans I now ride down the Tokchen
valley and up over the hills to the south-west. To the right of our
route the turquoise-blue surface of the holy lake is displayed; how
beautiful, how fascinating is the scene! One seems to breathe more
freely and easily, one feels a pleasure in life, one longs to voyage
over the blue depths and the sacred waves. For Manasarowar is the
holiest and most famous of all the lakes of the world, the goal of the
pilgrimage of innumerable pious Hindus, a lake celebrated in the most
ancient religious hymns and songs, and in its clear waters the ashes of
Hindus find a grave as desirable and honoured as in the turbid waters of
the Ganges. During my stay in India I received letters from Hindus in
which they asked me to explore the revered lake and the holy mountain
Kailas, which lifts its summit in the north under a cupola of eternal
snow, where Siva, one of the Indian Trinity, dwells in her paradise
among a host of other deities; and they told me that if I could give
them an exact description of the lake and river, they would remember me
in their prayers and their gods would bless me. But that was not why I
longed to be there. The lake had never been sounded--I would sink my
lead to the bottom and make a map of its bed; I would follow its
periphery and calculate how much water pours into its bosom on a summer
day; I would investigate its hydrographic relation to the adjacent lake
on the west, the Rakas-tal, a problem which various travellers in this
region, from Moorcroft and Strachey to Ryder and Rawling, have explained
differently; I would learn something of the monasteries and the life of
Hindu and Tibetan pilgrims, for the lake is sacred in the eyes of
Lamaists also, who call it Tso-mavang or Tso-rinpoche, the "Holy Lake."
How can Manasarowar and Kailas be the objects of divine honours from two
religions so different as Hinduism and Lamaism unless it is that their
overpowering beauty has appealed to and deeply impressed the human mind,
and that they seemed to belong rather to heaven than to earth? Even the
first view from the hills on the shore caused us to burst into tears of
joy at the wonderful, magnificent landscape and its surpassing beauty.
The oval lake, somewhat narrower in the south than the north, and with a
diameter of about 15½ miles, lies like an enormous turquoise embedded
between two of the finest and most famous mountain giants of the world,
the Kailas in the north and Gurla Mandatta in the south, and between
huge ranges, above which the two mountains uplift their crowns of bright
white eternal snow. Yes, already I felt the strong fascination which
held me fettered to the banks of Manasarowar, and I knew that I would
not willingly leave the lake before I had listened, until I was weary,
to the song of its waves.
We sat an hour and enjoyed the incomparable beauty of the scene. A
slight ripple ruffled the surface of the water, but in the middle the
lake was as smooth as if oil had been poured on it. The Tibetans said
that it was always smooth in the middle except when a storm raged. To
the south-south-west and south-west are seen the two summits of Gurla
Mandatta, the western very flat, and reminding me of the Mustag-ata in
the eastern Pamir. The Tibetans called the mountain sometimes Namo,
sometimes Memo-nani. South, 60° W., a row of snowy heights rise behind
the Purang valley. To the west-north-west is seen the small pyramidal
hill where Chiu-gompa stands on the bank of the water channel which once
ran into Rakas-tal. To the north-west a couple of lagoons lie on the
shore of Manasarowar, and behind them rise chains and ramifications
belonging to the Trans-Himalaya, and among them Kailas or Kang-rinpoche,
the "Holy Mountain," called also Gangri or the "Ice Mountain," dominates
the horizon unless its summit is veiled in clouds. And lastly, to the
north, 20° W., we see the double-peaked Pundi, not far from the shore,
and in the north the two valleys Pachen and Pachung, with roads which
lead over the watershed of the Trans-Himalaya to Chang-tang.
When I asked our guides what they thought of a boat trip across the
lake, they answered unhesitatingly that it was impossible; mortals who
ventured on the lake, which was the home of the gods, must perish. Also
in the middle Tso-mavang was not level as on the shore, but formed a
transparent dome, and up its round arch no boat could mount; and even if
we succeeded in getting the boat up, it would shoot down the other side
with such velocity that it must capsize, and we should perish in the
waves because we had excited the wrath of the god of the lake.
We mounted again and rode south-south-west over the hills to Serolung,
the golden valley, where the monastery Serolung-gompa is hidden in the
hollow. There I stayed four hours, making sketches and notes. Serolung,
which contains thirty monks, most of whom were away wandering among the
villages, is one of the eight convents which are set like precious
stones in the chain which the pilgrims stretch round the lake, in the
hope of acquiring merit in a future form of existence, of being freed
from the burden of sin and the tortures of purgatorial fires, nay,
perhaps, of sitting at the feet of the gods and eating _tsamba_ out of
golden bowls.
Our camp No. 212 was pitched immediately south of the mouth of the
Serolung valley at the water's edge. The strip of ground on the bank is
quite narrow, and on the hills rising to the east of it are visible six
horizontal strand lines, the highest lying 162 feet above the present
level of the lake, which is 15,098 feet above the sea.
On July 27 I had a good sleep, and spent the rest of the day in making
preparations for the first line of soundings, which was to cross the
lake in a direction south, 59° W., where a gap appeared in the hills
framing the lake. We waited for good weather, but the wind blew
violently and the surf beat and foamed against the shore. I therefore
resolved to wait till night, for of late the nights had been calmer than
the days. On a trial trip we had found a depth of 130 feet not far from
the shore, so we made ready a sounding line 490 feet long. Perhaps even
this would not be long enough, for a lake lying among such high
mountains is sure to be deep. Shukkur Ali was to go with me, and he
accepted his fate with his usual composure, but Rehim Ali, the other
victim, was frightened; it was all very well in the day, he said, but in
the dark gloomy night on such a great lake! We should certainly have the
same trouble as on Lake Lighten, he thought.
When the sun set the wind increased in strength, and heavy clouds spread
up from the south-west. At seven o'clock it was pitch dark all round,
not a star shone out, not a trace was visible of the outline of the
shore and of the snowy mountains, and the sea was buried in the shades
of night. But an hour later the wind fell, the air became quite calm,
but the waves beat in a monotonous rhythm on the bank. The smoke of the
camp fires rose straight up into the air.
Then I gave orders to set out. The baggage was stowed and the mast
stepped to be ready if we had a favourable wind. Provisions for two days
were put in the boat. I wore a leathern vest, Kashmir boots, and an
Indian helmet, and sat on a cushion and a folded fur coat on the lee
side of the rudder, on the other side of which the sounding-line with
its knots lay ready on the gunwale. The log, Lyth's current meter, was
attached to the boat to register the whole length of the course, and
compass, watch, note-book, and map sheets all lay close beside me,
lighted by a Chinese paper lantern, which could be covered with a towel
when we did not want the light. I used the towel after every sounding to
dry my hands. Rehim Ali took his seat forward, Shukkur Ali in the stern
half of the boat, where we were cramped for room and had to take care
that we did not get entangled in the sounding-line.
Tsering took a sceptical view of the whole adventure. He said that the
lake was full of wonders, and at the best we should be driven back by
mysterious powers when we had rowed a little way out. And a Tibetan
agreed with him, saying that we should never reach the western shore
though we rowed with all our might, for the lake god would hold our boat
fast, and while we thought that it was advancing it would really remain
on the same spot, and finally the angry god would draw it down to the
bottom.
Robert had orders to wait at camp No. 212 for our return, and when we
put off from the bank at nine o'clock all bade us farewell in as warm
and gentle a tone as though they thought that they had seen the last of
us. Their spirits were not raised by the lightning which flashed in the
south and might portend a storm. The darkness, however, was not so
intense, for the moon was coming up, though it was still covered by the
hills rising behind our camp. But its light threw a weird gleam over the
lake, and in the south Gurla Mandatta rose like a ghost enveloped in a
sheet of moonshine, snowfields, and glaciers.
At my command, the boatmen took a firm grip of the oars and the boat
glided out from the beach, where our men stood in a silent thoughtful
group. Our fires were seen for a while, but soon disappeared, for they
were burning almost on a level with the water. Robert told me afterwards
that the little boat sailing out into the darkness was a curious sight;
owing to the lantern and the reflexion of the light on the mast the boat
was visible at first, but when it reached the moon-lighted part of the
lake it appeared only as a small black spot, which soon vanished.
The great lake was dark and mysterious in the night, and unknown depths
lurked beneath us. The contours of the hills on the shore were still
visible behind us, but we had not gone far before they were swallowed up
by higher mountains farther off, which gradually came into view. After
twenty minutes' rowing we stopped and let down the line, sounding 135
feet. The roar of the surf on the beach was the only sound in the
silence of night, except the splash of the oars and the voices of the
oarsmen singing in time with their strokes. At the next sounding the
depth was 141 feet. If the bottom did not fall more rapidly our line
would be long enough. Every hour I recorded the temperatures of the air
and the water. Now the god of sleep paid us a visit; Shukkur Ali yawned
at every ninth stroke, and every yawn was so long that it lasted three
strokes.
The air is quite still. A long, smooth swell causes the boat to rock
slightly. All is quiet, and I ask myself involuntarily if other beings
are listening to the splash of the oars as well as ourselves. It is
warm, with a temperature of 46.9° at eleven o'clock. The next two depths
are 143 and 164 feet. My oarsmen follow the soundings with deep
interest, and look forward to the point where the depth will begin to
decrease. They think it awful and uncanny to glide over such great
depths in the dark night. Again blue lightning flashes behind Gurla
Mandatta, which stands forth in a pitch black outline, after appearing
just before in a white robe of moon-lighted snowfields. A little later
all the southern sky flames up like a sea of fire; the flashes quickly
follow one after the other, and shoot up to the zenith, seeming to stay
a moment behind the mountains, and it becomes light as day, but when the
glow dies out the darkness is more intense, and the sublime, poetic
solemnity of the night is enhanced. By the light of the flashes I can
see the faces of the two men, who are startled and uneasy, and do not
dare to disturb the awful stillness by their singing.
When I let down the line at the fifth point, the two men asked
permission to light their water-pipes. The depth was 181 feet. A slight
south-westerly breeze rippled the surface. The cry of a water-bird broke
shrilly on the silence of the night, and made us feel less lonely. A
slight hiss of the surf breaking on the south-eastern shore was audible.
In the south the clouds gathered round the summit of Gurla Mandatta, the
breeze fell. We glided slowly over the inky black water, and between the
wave crests the path of moonlight wound in bright sinuosities; the depth
increased slowly 183.4 feet, 189.3, 192 and 212.6. The temperature was
still 45.9°, and I did not want my fur coat.
The queen of night, with diamonds in her dark hair, looks down upon the
holy lake. The midnight hour is passed, and the early morning hours
creep slowly on. We sound 203, 200, 184, 184, 180, and 190 feet, and it
seems therefore as if we had passed the deepest depression. Leaning on
the gunwale I enjoy the voyage to the full, for nothing I remember in my
long wanderings in Asia can compare with the overpowering beauty of this
nocturnal sail. I seem to hear the gentle but powerful beat of the great
heart of Nature, its pulsation growing weaker in the arms of night, and
gaining fresh vigour in the glow of the morning red. The scene,
gradually changing as the hours go by, seems to belong not to earth but
to the outermost boundary of unattainable space, as though it lay much
nearer heaven, the misty fairyland of dreams and imagination, of hope
and yearning, than to the earth with its mortals, its cares, its sins,
and its vanity. The moon describes its arch in the sky, its restless
reflexion quivering on the water, and broken by the wake of the boat.
The queen of night and her robe become paler. The dark sky passes into
light blue, and the morn draws nigh from the east. There is a faint dawn
over the eastern mountains, and soon their outlines stand out sharply,
as though cut out on black paper. The clouds, but now floating white
over the lake, assume a faint rosy hue, which gradually grows stronger,
and is reflected on the smooth water, calling forth a garden of fresh
roses. We row among floating rose-beds, there is an odour of morning and
pure water in the air, it grows lighter, the landscape regains its
colour, and the new day, July 28, begins its triumphal progress over the
earth. Only an inspired pencil and magic colours could depict the scene
that met my eyes when the whole country lay in shadow, and only the
highest peaks of Gurla Mandatta caught the first gleam of the rising
sun. In the growing light of dawn the mountain, with its snowfields and
glaciers, had shown silvery white and cold; but now! In a moment the
extreme points of the summit began to glow with purple like liquid gold.
And the brilliant illumination crept slowly like a mantle down the
flanks of the mountain, and the thin white morning clouds, which hovered
over the lower slopes and formed a girdle round a well-defined zone,
floating freely like Saturn's ring, and like it throwing a shadow on the
fields of eternal snow, these too assumed a tinge of gold and purple,
such as no mortal can describe. The colours, at first as light and
fleeting as those of a young maiden in her ball-dress, became more
pronounced, light concentrated itself on the eastern mountains, and over
their sharp outlines a sheaf of bright rays fell from the upper limb of
the sun upon the lake. And now day has won the victory, and I try
dreamily to decide which spectacle has made the greater impression on
me, the quiet moonlight, or the sunrise with its warm, rosy gleam on the
eternal snow.
Phenomena like these are fleeting guests on the earth; they come and go
in the early morning hours, they are only seen once in a lifetime, they
are like a greeting from a better world, a flash from the island of the
phoenix. Thousands and thousands of pilgrims have wandered round the
lake in the course of centuries, and have seen the dawn and sunset, but
have never witnessed the display which we gazed upon from the middle of
the holy lake on this memorable night. But soon the magical effects of
light and colour, which have quickly followed one another and held me
entranced, fade away. The country assumes its usual aspect, and is
overshadowed by dense clouds. Kailas and Gurla Mandatta vanish
entirely, and only a snowy crest far away to the north-west is still
dyed a deep carmine, only yonder a sheaf of sunbeams penetrates through
an opening in the clouds. In that direction the mirror of the lake is
tinged blue, but to the south green. The wild-geese have waked up, and
they are heard cackling on their joyous flights, and now and then a gull
or tern screams. Bundles of seaweed float about. The sky is threatening,
but the air is calm, and only gentle swells, smooth as polished metal,
disturb the water, which looks like the clearest curação. The boat moves
with weary slowness to its destination, for now, at six o'clock in the
morning, my oarsmen are tired and sleepy and quite at an end of their
strength. They sleep and row alternately. "Hem-mala-hém" calls out
Shukkur Ali, accenting the last syllable, when he energetically grasps
his oar, but he goes to sleep between, and the oar hovers in the air;
his own voice wakes him up, he dips the oar in and goes to sleep again.
[Illustration: 248. ROBERT IN THE BOAT.]
The hours pass by, but there is no sign that we are nearing our
destination. We cannot decide which bank is nearest, and we seem to be
in the centre of this boundless lake. In the midst of Gurla Mandatta is
seen a huge deeply eroded ravine, its entrance standing out
picturesquely below the dense mantle of clouds. For a moment, when all
around lay buried in shadow, the interior was lighted up by the sun, and
it presented a fantastic appearance, resembling a portal into a hall of
the gigantic dome lighted up by innumerable candles. The valleys and
erosion channels between the different spurs of the massive are sharply
defined, and wind down to the lake among flat cones of detritus, the
outer margins of which cause the variations in the depth of the bottom.
This now increases again to 200, 203, 213, and 240 feet. At fourteen
points, these included, the bottom temperature is observed. The sounding
occupies a considerable time. The line must first be paid out to the 230
feet, and then be held still till the thermometer has assumed the bottom
temperature, and then it must be drawn up again, the depth must be
noted, the thermometer read, the temperature of the surface water and
the air must be ascertained, and the log-reading taken.
Five furlongs to the north the smooth swell shows a curious fiery yellow
colour, and I cannot make out the origin of this singular reflexion. The
clouds gather in the south-west, and a breeze sweeps over the lake,
producing waves which retard still more the progress of the boat. Rehim
Ali cannot keep himself awake any longer, and Shukkur Ali is very
comical in his overpowering sleepiness. The old man looks like a
weather-beaten sea-dog in a south-wester--his Ladaki cap with its
spreading flaps. He snoozes innocently with his oars up, and rows again
and again in the air, still calling out his constant "Shu-ba-la-la." He
talks in his sleep. Rehim Ali wakes up and asks him what is the matter,
and no one knows what it is all about. Towards seven o'clock the dustman
pays me a visit, but is not admitted. Only for a moment I see red wild
asses running over the water, hear harps playing sweetly in the air, and
behold the great black head of a sea-serpent rise above the waves and
then sink down again; green dolphins and small whales arch their backs
among the waves--but no, I must keep awake, for a storm may come down
upon us any moment. I give my boatmen a good douche with the hollow of
my hand, wash my own hands and face, and order breakfast--a hard-boiled
goose egg, a piece of bread, and a bowl of milk, and then I light my
pipe and am as lively again as a lark. At the twentieth sounding-place,
259 feet deep, the other two follow my example.
At nine o'clock, when we have been exactly twelve hours on the water, we
sound a depth of 268.4 feet, but the south-western shore seems to our
eyes as far off as ever. Rehim Ali thinks it is awful to have so much
water under the keel. The clouds on Gurla lift a little, and we see
deeper into the recesses of the great valley the more we come opposite
its mouth. The lower points of the snowfields come into sight below the
clouds. West of them is seen a broad erosion channel, grey with detritus
and dotted with dark brushwood. The water reflects the forms of the
mountains like a mirror; it turns blue when the sky is clear, but green
again as soon as the clouds gather. A shoal of fishes plays in the water
and splashes on the surface.
And again the hours of the day pass by. We glide slowly forwards, now
over calm rising swell, whispering gently as spirit voices, now over
small pyramidal waves produced by the meeting of two systems of
undulations from different directions. Four small squalls from different
quarters threaten us, but we catch only a flip of their tails, which
cannot stir up the waves to a dangerous height. The last, from the
south-east, is the strongest, and then the sail is hoisted. But still
the shore seems far distant; perhaps Tsering was right with his
Lamaistic wisdom.
All details, however, become sharper and clearer. Gurla turns three
mighty gables towards the lake, and between them huge fans of detritus
and erosion channels come to view. The fans become flatter towards the
shore, and extend under the water down to the greatest depths of the
lake; on the north shore, where a wide plain lies, the lake bottom might
be expected to sink more slowly. Gurla is a splendid background to the
holy lake--no artist in the world could conceive anything more
magnificent and interesting.
Then we sounded 253, 243, 253, 223, 190, 177, and 82 feet, and perceived
at length that the shore was near, for yaks and sheep were visible on
the hills. The sea was now fairly high, and we had to bale the boat
twice, and my fur coat on the bottom was wet. The two tired and sleepy
men laboured painfully at the oars. We talked of how pleasant it would
be to land, kindle a fire, and take our tea and food, but the shore
still retired before us, and the hours of the afternoon slipped past.
Gurla seemed to rise in the south directly from the water, its level
skirts and low slopes being much foreshortened. The monks of the
monastery here do not depend for water on the brooks, but drink the holy
water of the lake, which has in reality the taste of the purest, most
wholesome, spring water. Its crystal purity and dark greenish-blue
colour are as beautiful as the flavour, and to pilgrims from a distance
the water of Manasarowar is preferable to sparkling champagne.
At last we were released from imprisonment in the boat. We saw the
bottom through the clear water, and a few strokes of the oar brought the
boat to a wall of clay and decaying weeds, which the winter ice had
pushed up on the bank. Inside the wall lies a longish lagoon, with mud
in which one sinks to the knee. The time was half-past one, so we had
been 16½ hours on the lake. But when we had reached the shore we found
it impossible to get on land. After I had thought over the matter, while
the men looked about them, we rowed northwards, and after an hour and a
half discovered a place where the boat could be drawn ashore. Then we
had been eighteen hours on the water.
A herdsman was seen, but he made off quickly. Fuel was collected and a
fire lighted. Tea was infused and mutton fried, and when the three of us
had eaten our dinner a temporary tent was constructed of the oars, mast,
and sail, in which I lay down to sleep towards seven o'clock, wrapped in
my fur, and with the life-buoys for a pillow. I had toiled for
thirty-one hours continuously, so I went to sleep at once, and knew
nothing of the storm which raged all night, or of the twenty-five
pilgrims who passed by at dawn on their circuit of the holy lake.
CHAPTER XLV
MORE LAKE VOYAGES
I was awakened at six o'clock, having felt no cold in the night, for the
minimum temperature was 40°. The morning was fine, only too warm; the
pilgrims had gone away; we ate our breakfast, pushed the boat into the
water, and rowed about 90 yards from the shore towards the
north-north-east and north-north-west, describing a slight bend to camp
No. 214. On our left hand was a row of pebble mounds, gradually rising
to the top of the promontory which separates Manasarowar from Rakas-tal.
Soon the monastery Gossul-gompa was seen on its pebble terrace, nearly
130 feet high, like a swallow's nest hanging over the lake. A group of
lamas stood silently watching the boat; they had never in their lives
seen such a contrivance on the holy lake. When we drew near they
vanished like rats into their holes, and only an old man remained
sitting by a balustrade. I asked him the name of the monastery, and he
said Gossul-gompa. The next point shut out the convent. The shore
lagoons continue, though the margin below the hills is only 30 to 60
feet broad. The clay in which the lagoons are embedded is impermeable to
water, but the lake has only to rise a couple of feet to find an outlet
over the sandbank behind into the Rakas-tal, or Langak-tso, on the west.
And when the channel at the north-west corner is silted up, as it is
now, the Manasarowar has a subterranean outlet to the neighbouring lake,
and its water consequently remains perfectly fresh.
I now intended to camp a little to the north at some suitable spot, and
thence row the following day over the lake to our headquarters near
Serolung-gompa. We took bearings of a cinnabar-red hill lying on the
north side of a slightly indented bay of the western shore. A fresh
southerly breeze was blowing, we hoisted the sail, and flew whizzing
over the lake. The pilgrims watched our voyage with the greatest
astonishment, and the monks of Gossul cautiously followed us on the
hills, no doubt wondering how such sacrilege would end. The wild-geese
swam with their young ones out into the lake, while other swimming birds
took themselves off some 100 yards inland, perhaps taking the boat for a
curious water-bird of unusual size.
We went ashore at the red promontory, and while fuel was being collected
and the camp arranged, I reconnoitred the neighbourhood from the heights
above the landing-place. On the inner side of the shallow bay I found a
hollow with its bottom lower than the surface of the lake, and filled
with salt water, and on the west side of this swamp lies the lowest dip
in the isthmus separating the twin lakes. Up there runs the pilgrim
road, worn down by hundreds of thousands of weary feet. Three armed
horsemen rode along the way. They came up without dismounting, and
evidently did not know what to make of me. They could easily have taken
me prisoner now that I was separated from my men, but they did not think
of it, and rode on. A furious storm swept over the lake, its surface was
wildly agitated, and covered with white horses. The farther, eastern
part was of a deep green colour, while on our western shore it was
lighter. The water of the shore lagoons was dark purple from the
reflexion of the dense clouds. Towards four o'clock the air became
oppressively still, then the wind sprang up, and an equally violent
north-west storm came down raging and roaring. The wild south-easterly
waves were suppressed by it, and the undulations remained uncertain till
the new wave system was established. There was rain in many places round
the lake, but we felt only a few drops. About six o'clock the sky looked
threatening, with pitch-dark clouds all around, and not a trace could be
seen of the eastern shore; we seemed to stand on the coast of the
ocean. Soon after the wind veered round to the east-south-east, and then
the surf beat all the evening against our beach. How fortunate that the
weather had not been like this the evening before!
We sat two hours by the fire and talked. Its flames flickered and darted
in all directions, so that they singed Shukkur Ali's goat's beard. The
weather was still so threatening that we made a shelter of the boat, in
which I lay down early to sleep. Before dozing off I listened to the
roar of the waves, and thought I heard all kinds of mysterious sounds in
the night, but it was only the cry of water-birds and the howling of the
wind among the hills.
The men had orders to call me before sunrise, for we must hasten if we
wished to reach camp No. 212 before darkness set in. It was scarcely
light when I came out of my shelter. The last provisions were consumed
by the morning fire, and then we put off about half-past four in dull,
disagreeable weather. The strong west wind carried us rapidly away from
the shore--indeed, it was really too strong for our sail and mast, but
it took us on and doubled our pace. We had been sheltered under the
hills, but when we were a few minutes from the beach the lake became
uncomfortably rough. But it was of little consequence, for we sailed
with the waves and took in no water.
The men, too, were more alive than on the first nocturnal voyage. They
had evidently made up their minds to reach their destination before
night, and they rowed like galley-slaves with the whip hanging over
them; they seemed to run a race with the west wind, and try to get away
before the waves rose too madly. The water hissed and foamed round the
boat, and bubbled in the wake as when butter is browned in a pan, and
beneath us the lake boiled up. It was a fine voyage as we rocked,
spinning rapidly over the holy waves.
[Illustration: 249. SHEEP-SHEARING AT TUGU-GOMPA ON MANASAROWAR.]
Shukkur Ali's refrain to the strokes of the oars is now "Ya paté,
parvardigar Rabel, alehmin" or "Illallah," while Rehim Ali responds to
the cry of his comrade with "Haap"--the _p_ jerked out quickly and
loudly like an explosion--and with the refrain "Illallah," or
"Svalallah." The Arabic words are, as usual in Ladak, much corrupted,
but they lighten the work, and after Shukkur Ali had yelled them out
thirty-five times in a minute for nine hours as loudly as his vocal
cords would let him, he was dreadfully hoarse in the evening.
Then the soundings were 131, 171, 171, 177, 177, 185, 187, and 177. Out
beyond the abrasion terrace and its rather steep escarpment, the lake
bottom is practically level. Hanging cloud fringes show that rain is
pouring down in torrents on most sides, but we escape it. My excellent
boatmen row twice as fast as on the first night, but it is impossible to
induce them to row in time. If I loose the rudder a moment, my boat
falls off to the north or south instead of making east, where camp No.
212 lies. If it is dark before we reach the shore, our men are to light
a pile of wood to guide us.
The day draws to an end, the wind sweeps away the clouds, and they seem
to gather round the mountains, which form a grand wreath around this
pearl of lakes. The wind dies quite away, the sun scorches my
weather-beaten face, and it is trying to the eyes when the sparkling
gold of the sunbeams falls straight upon them. Their blinding light
makes it difficult to distinguish our goal, but I hold the compass in my
hand. The waves sink and become more languid, and the sea is again
smooth as glass. Now we move more slowly, for the wind no longer pushes
behind, but the men are unwearied; their boat-song dies away over the
water, awaking no echo. The hills of the eastern shore show no
perceptible difference in size between one sounding-point and the next.
I sit dreaming, the rhythmical song and the splashing of the oars
exercising a soporific effect. I seem to hear the tramp of a horse which
bears a rider in silver harness over the granite mountains of the
Trans-Himalaya through an unknown land, and in the dream I perceive that
the features of the rider are my own. Then I am sad, for the dream is
false. I have certainly crossed the Trans-Himalaya by three passes, but
the most important part of the exploration has not been accomplished.
That I have done my utmost in dealing both with the Tibetans and the
Chinese to gain access to the country north of the Tsangpo is no
consolation to me. If one can storm the opposing bulwark of Nature, one
should be able to overcome the obstinacy of man. Up yonder in the north,
behind Kailas, the Trans-Himalaya extends its granite ramparts, and I
must go there though it cost me my life. I must go there, if I clothe
myself in the rags of a mendicant lama and beg my way from one black
tent to another.
But we are still on the holy lake; it is a day of rest and a summer's
day. I feel the skin of my face cracked by the burning of the sun. The
hours crawl so slowly over the lake; patience, patience. The clouds
display wonderful tone-effects; white and grey, sharply defined, they
lie in different stages before the mountains, and behind them dark blue
and purple curtains seem to hang down. We might be gliding over the
bright floor of a temple hall, its walls richly decorated with flags and
standards, which hang down from golden hooks on the ceiling of the sky,
and touch the dust of earth with their fringes. The genii of Siva's
paradise seem to hover round us. Now Shukkur Ali has taken to a new cry:
"Ya aferin adétt," to which he adds "Ya, Allah," as he lifts his oar,
and Rehim Ali chimes in with "Shupp." The depth still remains about 180
feet. To the south-east curious clouds are reflected in the lake, and a
mist seems to be creeping over the water. All the tones are so light,
airy, and grey that the landscape, which surrounds us like a ring where
the water ends, seems hardly real. The twin summits of Pundi on the
north-east are dark and solemn, and equally dark and solemn is the
mirror of the lake. Silver beads drop from the oars and glitter like
diamonds in the sun. I could live and die on this heavenly lake without
ever growing weary of the wonderful spectacle always presenting fresh
surprises.
Meanwhile a light south-easterly breeze disturbs again all the
reflexions. The valleys Pachen and Pachung open their doors wider and
wider, and allow us to see deeper into the recesses of the mountain. We
recognize the hills above camp No. 212, but the tents are not visible.
But we see a white spot on the northern shore which we take for a gompa.
The depth is somewhat over 197 feet; "Ya bismillah hum!" is Shukkur
Ali's exclamation. At the sixteenth point the depth has again decreased,
the south-easterly breeze has ceased, and the lake is again a sheet of
glass. Now the tents can be seen as tiny specks, and we hope to complete
this line also without a storm. A long, low, smooth swell of closely
following waves, like the wake of a distant steamer, comes to meet us.
How has it been produced, since the lake is quite peaceful? Perhaps by a
slight convulsion of the earth's crust, which has disturbed the shore.
The undulations on this round lake are very peculiar. At point No. 20
the depth is only 128 feet, and now we have not far to go.
Crack! Shukkur Ali's oar broke off in the middle with a bang, and the
boat drew rapidly away from the blade end, which had to be picked up.
The good man was so dumbfoundered and bewildered that he stammered,
"That does not matter," and went on rowing with the shaft in the air.
Now, when the tents were so near, he had developed too much strength.
"It is well that the old man does not burst himself," I thought. We tied
the parts together with a piece of string. There was a stir on the shore
when we landed. The waiting men showed by word and gesture how glad they
were to have us back again after giving way to all kinds of dismal
forebodings about our sad fate. Just as they caught sight of the boat
out on the lake, Robert was about to send out patrols up and down the
shore. All was well in the camp, except that the Tibetans were troubled
because their provisions were at an end. I gave them money to buy
_tsamba_ at the monastery. In the evening I discussed with Robert a plan
of rowing southwards to investigate the lake bit by bit. We bought a
plank and two staves in Serolung, and on the first leisure day Shukkur
Ali cut out with an axe two excellent oars, after a pattern I had cut
for him from the lid of a cigarette box.
On the next day, the anniversary of my arrival in Leh, a new month
began. Every time I write in my diary "the first," I wonder what the
new month holds in its lap--new discoveries or new disappointments? But
I hope always, and believe that all will come right at last. Rabsang and
Tundup Sonam rowed, and Robert steered along the three-feet line about
55 yards from the land, while I sat in the bow, compass in hand, and
drew a map of the shore-line, the hills and valleys, and all the details
that are characteristic of a lake. Charles A. Sherring states in his
book on western Tibet that Mr. Drummond, Commissioner of Bareilly,
sailed in 1855 in a boat on Manasarowar, but no result has come to my
knowledge; on the contrary, I find that the very latest map of the lake
needs a thorough correction. Soundings had never been taken before, and
the object of my boating expeditions was to collect material for a
detailed isobathic map. When we left behind us the basin of the
Brahmaputra at the pass Tamlung, I had already suspected that
Manasarowar was a member of the hydrographic system of the Sutlej, and I
wished to try if I could not make a contribution towards the solution of
this problem. I knew that my investigations could only be inadequate,
but they yielded a number of facts hitherto unknown. Among these are the
systematic sounding of the bed, by means of which conclusions may be
drawn as to the origin and formation of the lake. I soon convinced
myself that the lake depression had been excavated by old glaciers from
the southern mountains, as I at first conjectured, and was not dammed up
by moraine walls across the broad valley. But want of space forbids me
to enter fully into a discussion of this interesting question.
We glide in a flat curve to the south-west, and have to increase our
distance from the shore that we may not run aground on the sandy bottom.
The water at this season of the year has a fairly constant temperature
of about 50°. Then we approach the mouth of the Tage-tsangpo. For about
two-thirds of a mile the river flows parallel to the shore of the lake,
being separated from it by an embankment 13 feet high, which has been
cast up by the waves and the pressure of the ice. Here we encamped among
driftsand and bushes, and measured the Tage-tsangpo. Its breadth was
56.8 feet, its maximum depth 3.4 feet, and its discharge 397.6 cubic
feet a second, or 106 cubic feet more than where we last gauged it above
the Na-marden affluent. I have already related how we first came in
contact with this river at the pass Tam-lung-la; its source stream, the
Gang-lung-chu or "water of the ice valley," comes from the Gang-lung
mountain in the south, and so there is a glacier or "ice valley" in this
mountain which is the origin of the Tage-tsangpo. It is seen from the
Tam-lung-la, and is the glacier which I venture to call the Sutlej's
genetic source or the real original source. We shall return to this
attractive problem.
From every camp on the lake Robert rowed out with two men at right
angles to the beach, sounding the depth every five minutes. By means of
these radiating lines we discovered the saucer-shaped form of the lake,
for, as I have already remarked, the lake bottom is on the whole very
even. Now, from camp No. 215, Robert rowed out to a depth of 121 feet.
On August 2 we continued our boating excursion, while the caravan
marched along the shore. All went excellently well, we heard not a word
of any officials in pursuit of us, and the Tibetans placed yaks and
mules at our disposal with the greatest willingness. A couple of showers
fell, loud thunder rolled in Gurla Mandatta, and a violent
south-westerly breeze forced us to come to a halt and wait at a place on
the shore where the brook from the Nima-pendi valley debouches, forming
a delta within a broken mole. Fish are plentiful in the brook, but here
also the Tibetans asked us not to catch them, and we respected their
wishes--only stupid and uncouth men wound the religious feelings of
others. By this brook the lake receives a tribute of 49.4 cubic feet per
second, while the Richung-chu entering farther to the west-south-west
contributes 63.6 cubic feet.
We passed Yanggo-gompa under sail at a rather short distance, and
steered straight for Tugu-gompa, picturesquely situated on a strand
terrace. Here begin the long lagoons and mud embankment we had seen from
the western beach, and we were carried comfortably ashore and greeted
politely by a band of Hindus consisting of pilgrims and traders. A
number of Tibetan shepherds from the north were staying here, where a
not unimportant wool market is held every summer. A group of monks stood
on the roof. Our camp was pitched close to the foot of the monastery, on
the shore road, and had a fine view over the lake and Kailas behind it.
At the southern wall of the convent is a yard enclosed by a stone wall,
where 500 sheep were packed like herrings in a barrel, to be shorn in
turn by Hindus and Botias who come from Almora and the border country in
the south. The nomads receive eight annas (8d.) for every sheep, good
interest on their live capital. The wool from 500 sheep is said to
amount to 16 yak-loads (Illust. 249).
[Illustration: 250. THE GOD OF THE LAKE RISING FROM TSO-MAVANG.
Sketch by the Author.]
We paid at once a visit to the monastery, where the thirteen monks and
their abbot, Tabga Rinchen, received us with the greatest kindness and
politeness, showed us everything, and explained to us the various temple
halls. They had heard of my voyages on the lake, and had now seen with
their own eyes my boat sailing before a favourable wind, and they
expressed their sincere conviction that I must possess occult powers to
defy with impunity the god of the holy lake. But they understood that
this was owing to my friendship with the Tashi Lama, who had given me
his holy blessing. The monastery Tugu-gompa is a dependency of
Shibeling-gompa in Purang, and most of the monks come from there to
spend three years on the lake. They own herds in Chang-tang, trade, and
seem to be in good circumstances; at any rate, they help the poor
pilgrims who have nothing to eat on their wanderings round Tso-mavang.
They receive gifts from well-to-do pilgrims. The temple halls are
picturesque, handsome and in very good order. You enter from an upper
balcony into an outer hall with wall paintings, among which is a picture
of Tso-mavang with the fish-god, Madö Gemo, rising from the waves
(Illust. 250). He has seven water-snakes in his hair, and the lower part
of his body is like a green dolphin. The lake is as deep as it is broad,
and concentric rings encircle the rising god. The abbot said that the
fish-god comes up to greet the god of Tso-mavang, Hlabsen Dorche
Barva, who gallops in a cloud of grey fiery tongues and smoke on a pink
horse, and is armed with spear, bow and quiver. In the background stands
Kang-rinpoche, the holy mountain. The whole picture is wanting in
perspective and proportion, but it is curious and interesting, and the
Lamaist artist has done his best to idealize the holy lake by his
drawing and colouring. I made a copy of this work of art, which has some
relationship with our old country paintings.
From the entrance hall a small door gives access to the holiest shrine
in all Tugu-gompa, namely, the hall of the lake god. He is represented
only as a mask, surrounded by _kadakhs_, and seems to peep out from
between curtains. A couple of flames burn before him and the usual bowls
are placed on a stool table. No man but the monks themselves may enter
this little alcove, but I obtained permission to sit on the threshold
and draw a sketch of it (Illust. 251). I regarded this unknown Hlabsen
Dorche Barva almost with reverence, for he ruled over my beloved lake
and had been so gracious to me.
But the finest sight of all was the view from the monastery roof. The
highest parts of Gurla Mandatta, here called Mama-nani or Mamo-nani,
were concealed by the lower flanks, for we were too near to it, but the
surface of the lake stretched out northwards to an immense distance. A
lama, who had served at several different times in the convent, asserted
that the lake rose 24 to 28 inches in rainy summers, and declared that
eighteen years before the water had reached to the foot of the red
façade of the monastery. This seemed improbable, for the distance
between the lake and the monastery was 323 feet, and the foot of the
convent façade (the right corner looking from the strand) lay 20.67 feet
above the level of the lake. I quote these figures to enable a future
explorer to determine whether the lake has risen or fallen since August
2, 1907.
I passed the next days in the monastery, sketched the lamas at their
various temple services, and fell in love with this pleasant, handsome
Tugu-gompa. Punso Lama, a young monk, was my particular friend, and
showed me everything with the inexhaustible knowledge of a trained
museum attendant. Three officials of the Devashung had established
themselves in the entrance hall in the company of the four ghostly
kings, and mattresses, bundles, tables, swords and guns lay or stood in
profane disorder at the entrance to the dwelling of the high gods
(Illusts. 252, 253, 257).
Meanwhile Robert rowed out from the southern shore, and sounded the
depths down to the contour of 207 feet. On August 5, we paid a visit to
Yanggo-gompa, which contains ten monks and a nun. They told me that they
came from the Hor country in the north of central Tibet, and therefore
call themselves Horpa, but also Dokpa; the Changpa are the nomads of
Chang-tang. The abbot is from Sekiya-gompa. In the monastery's
_gunkang_, a dark subterranean crypt, hang masks, _kadakhs_, drums,
spears and guns. I asked for what purpose the monks wanted the firearms,
as one of their fundamental dogmas forbids them to extinguish the light
of life, and they answered that with these guns many wild yaks had been
killed, whose flesh had been used for human food, and that therefore the
guns had been installed in a place of honour in the monastery. Yamba
Tsering, a monk twenty-two years old, sat with his head against a wooden
pillar, and gazed in silence at the dim light which fell into the crypt
through an impluvium; he looked like a dreamer, a searcher after hidden
truth (Illust. 256). Beside him sat the wrinkled nun. Both found their
way into my sketch-book (Illusts. 258, 259). The foot of the monastery
façade lies exactly 14¾ feet above the level of the lake, and the river
Richen-chu, entering the lake behind the convent, discharges 62.15 cubic
feet of water.
Yanggo-gompa was the third of the eight monasteries of the holy lake
which I had visited, and I wished to see them all without exception. And
I also wished to gauge all the streams falling into the lake. It
fluctuates from day to day, according as there is rain or sunshine, but
only by exact measurements could I arrive at the volume which is poured
into the clear basin of Tso-mavang during a day of summer.
CHAPTER XLVI
A STORMY VOYAGE OVER THE HOLY LAKE
On August 6 we stayed at Tugu-gompa, one of the most interesting
monasteries I have seen in Tibet. I was engaged all day long, with
Robert and Rabsang to assist me, in measuring with a tape the dimensions
of the three storeys, and drawing plans of them. The third, however, is
little more than a roof balcony. I have no space to give the results
here. As we were on the roof, eight monks were sitting in the inner
court counting their receipts, which were duly entered in a cash-book.
Their rupees and _tengas_ lay in heaps on a short-legged table. I gave a
handful of rupees, throwing them among the piles, and disturbing the
calculations of the monks. However, they were very thankful for this
unexpected contribution, which seemed to fall from heaven.
About thirty Hindu pilgrims set up their shabby tents near us. In the
evening they lighted a fire on a flat metal dish, which was pushed out
on to the water, and shone like a beacon fire by the bank. This floating
pyre was meant as a homage to the lake.
On August 7 I was awakened early when the sun was pouring fresh gold
over the blue lake, and a lama on the convent roof was blowing
long-drawn heavy notes from his shell horn over the surface. I hastened
to the shore where the boat lay ready with its usual equipment, Shukkur
Ali and Tundup Sonam put the sounding-line in order and stowed our
baggage. The Hindus lined the bank like the wild-geese, left their
clothing on land, and waded, with only a cloth round their loins, to
bathe in the holy beatifying water of the lake. It must be very
refreshing to people from the close jungles of India to wash in such a
cool morning in water at only a few degrees above freezing-point. Most
of them, however, go in no farther than up to their knees. There they
squat down, or scoop up the water in their joined hands, and throw it
over them. They make symbolical signs, fill their mouth with water and
send it out in a stream, hold their hands flat against their faces and
look at the rising sun, and perform all kinds of absurd, complicated
manipulations, which I remember seeing at the ghâts of Benares. They are
sunburnt, thin and miserable, and they are too thinly clad--I did not
see a single sheepskin--and they complain of the severity of the
climate, catch chills, and come to my tent for medicine. Some stood
about an hour in the water before they returned to the beach to put on
their clothing, and then they sat in groups talking. But they return to
the valleys of India convinced that they have performed an action
well-pleasing to the gods, and they take with them small metal-bottles
filled with holy water from Manasarowar to give to their relations. They
believe that one of the ways of salvation runs past Manasarowar. They
are always hopeful, and that is a fine thing for poor pilgrims on the
face of the earth.
[Illustration: 251. TEMPLE HALL OF THE LAKE-GOD OF TSO-MAVANG.]
[Illustration: 252. CHENRESI'S IMAGE IN TUGU-GOMPA.
Sketches by the Author.]
They stared with astonishment at our boat, which was driven out from the
shore by powerful strokes, perhaps with envious eyes, for many asked me
afterwards to let them go with me, that they might for the rest of their
lives look back to the time when they floated on the sacred waves. The
lake lay smooth and still, but at the first sounding-station (115 feet),
the lake god shook himself, a north-westerly breeze sprang up, and the
waves splashed and danced briskly against our bow, for our third line of
soundings was carried north, 27° W., towards camp No. 214. We sounded
174, 207, 226, 236, 236, 246, and 253 feet, while the waves increased,
and the boat rode well but with diminished speed. Gurla Mandatta was
almost clear, but Kailas was buried in clouds. The wind fell and the sun
glowed, and everything foretold a fine day. At the ninth point the
depth was less, 246 feet; we had passed the line of soundings made in
the night and its great depths. Afterwards the depths were 223, 197,
187, 194, and 200 feet.
The north-westerly breeze began to blow again, and at mid-day clouds
gathered in the north. A heavy bluish-grey layer of clouds sank down
slowly on the mountain flanks, and from its under side rain fringes hung
down, greyish-purple on a compact dark background. All the mountains and
the whole strand disappeared, and the masses of cloud seemed as though
they would fall on the lake. We passed the fifteenth station, which
showed a depth of 200 feet, and kept a steady course towards the red
promontory. The rowers put forth all their strength when I had pointed
out to them that we were drawing near to the shelter of the bank, and
that the waves were becoming smaller the farther we advanced. We had
left Gossul-gompa a good distance to the left; I could not see the
monastery myself, but the men saw it as a small white speck in the
distance.
Just before one o'clock yellow swirls of dust and sand appeared near the
landspit which we were making for. They became denser and larger, and
looked yellow and dismal on the dark purple background of gathering
clouds. It was not the first time I had seen such storm warnings.
"We are in for a storm," I said quietly.
"God is with us," replied Shukkur Ali quite as calmly.
"Row on and we shall get in before the waves are high."
"If we turn straight to the shore, it will be nearer," suggested Shukkur
Ali.
"No, we will not alter the course, we will make straight for our goal,
and we shall soon be in the shelter of the hills on the shore; there are
only three soundings to be taken, and they can be left for another
time."
The wind fell again, and it began to rain in a few large drops, which on
reaching the surface of the water remained an instant as separate round
beads, as though they were covered with a film of oil. Then followed an
extremely heavy shower of hail which lashed the water as it streamed
down, enveloped us in semi-darkness, caused the lake to leap up in
millions of tiny fountains, and in two minutes made the inside of the
boat white. Nothing was visible but ourselves and the boat, only water
and hail, which scourged the lake like rods and produced a hissing
gurgle. Now and then the clouds were lighted up by quivering lightning,
and the thunder growled heavily and threateningly in the north. Then the
men turned round, but could see nothing in the mist; they were uneasy
and we all felt that there was danger ahead.
The hail was followed by pelting rain, a downpour of such furious
impetuosity that I could not imagine any more tremendous. It fell in
such quantities and with such force that we were bowed down by it. I had
on three shirts and a leather vest, but after a short time I felt that
the water was streaming down my bare skin, which had this advantage that
all the future douches that awaited us could make no further impression.
I had my fur coat on my knees with the skin side up, and in all its
hollows the water collected in small pools. A quantity of water fell
into the boat and washed about with the stroke of the oars. The shore
was not visible, and I steered by the compass.
"Row on, we have not much farther to go."
At length the rain became finer, but at four minutes after one o'clock,
we heard a deafening roar in the north-east, a sound such as only a
storm of the greatest violence can produce. Hail and rain were nothing
to it; now that the heavy sheets of water were withdrawn the storm had a
free course and swept suddenly and furiously over the lake. Why had we
not started an hour earlier, instead of watching the religious ablutions
of the Hindus? No, the god of Tso-mavang was angry and would teach us
once for all not to treat so lightly the lake which splashes his
dolphin's tail with its green water. How we envied the monks in
Gossul-gompa, and our men down in the south under the peaceful walls of
the Tugu monastery! What would they say, what would they do, if we were
drowned like cats in this raging lake?
For a minute we struggled frantically to keep our course in spite of
the waves which swept upon us from the right. They swelled up with
astonishing rapidity, and every wave which dashed against the taut
canvas of the boat and dissolved into spray, made a cracking sound as
though the little vessel were about to burst. The next was still larger;
I warded it off with my Indian helmet, and Tundup Sonam received a cold
buffet which disconcerted him for a moment. After the third, which threw
its foaming crest over the gunwale, the water stood 4 inches deep in the
boat, the little nutshell with the weight of three men lay far too deep
in the water, and the water we had shipped gurgled, lapped, and splashed
hither and thither with the roll of the boat.
Now I perceived that the attempt to hold our course was hopeless. We
must fall off with the wind and waves. We had Gossul-gompa to the south,
50° W., and the storm was from the north-east; we could find refuge in
the monastery, if we could get so far. The difficulty was to turn at
right angles without capsizing. Twice I failed, and we shipped more
water, but the third time I succeeded, and now, if we had any care for
our lives we must prevent the boat from veering up into the wind; the
storm came a little from the right. Tundup Sonam, who rowed the
starboard oar in the bow, had all the work, while Shukkur Ali had only
to dip in his oar occasionally at my command, but though outwardly calm
he was too excited and eager, and when my voice could not be heard amid
the howling of the storm, I put my hand on his knuckles to make him
leave the oar alone.
Now began a voyage such as I had never experienced in all my journeys in
Tibet. The storm increased to a hurricane, and under its pressure the
waves became as high as the billows of the Baltic in stormy weather; a
steamer would have rolled in such a sea, and we in the little canvas
boat had to negotiate the unexpected cross rolls following one another.
Lashed, hunted, and persecuted by the raging force of the wind, we swept
over the lake. Every new wave that lifted us up seemed bigger than the
last. Some had sharp smooth crests, as though moulded out of mountain
crystal, and reflected the dark clouds in the north. It seemed as
though a bottomless, watery grave yawned in front of us which might at
any moment swallow up our boat. Others came rolling up foam-capped,
hissing and thundering behind us, and we shuddered at the thought that
they might fill the boat in an instant and send it to the bottom, but it
rose bravely over the crests. The view was open on all sides, the sun
was visible in the south, Gurla Mandatta was clear and sharp, to the
south, 50° W., even the terrace on which Gossul-gompa stands could be
seen, and it was black and threatening only in the north. During the
second when the boat was balanced quivering on the crest of the wave, we
might fancy ourselves transplanted to a lofty pass in Chang-tang with a
world of mountain ranges all round us, while the foam of the waves had
an illusive resemblance to the fields of eternal snow.
But this wave also passes on and the boat sinks into a hollow, we fall
into a water grotto, the nearest waves conceal the view, the walls of
the grotto are of the purest malachite behind us and like emerald in
front. Now we are lifted up again--"At it, Tundup Sonam, or the huge
foaming crest will thrust us down!"--he puts forth all his strength and
the wave passes us. It is irregular and reminds us of the pyramidal
summit of Kubi-gangri; two such crests tower up in front of us, and
their edges are shattered into spray by the wind. They are as
transparent as glass, and through one of them the image of Gurla
Mandatta's bright white snowfields is refracted as in a magnifying
glass. We have a watery portal in front of us and the tips of the waves
are gilded with the faint reflexion of the sun in the south.
[Illustration: 253. THE LHAKANG HALL IN TUGU-GOMPA.
Sketch by the Author.]
We struggle bravely and I sit on the bottom of the boat pushing the
rudder with all my strength to keep the boat in the right direction,
while the spray, lashed by the wind, spurts over us as from a fire-hose.
Frequently a broken crest slips over the gunwale, but we have not a hand
free to bale out the water. We see the boat filling slowly--shall we
reach the bank before it sinks? The mast and sail lie with two reserve
oars tied fast across the middle of the boat. If we could set a sail the
boat would be easier to handle, but it is not to be thought of now,
when we can hardly keep our balance sitting down and stiffening
ourselves with our feet, with the heavy blows and the unexpected
positions the boat assumes according to the form of the waves, their
slopes, curves and curls. And, besides, in such a storm the mast would
break like glass.
We had turned at right angles to our line of soundings for now we
thought only of saving our lives, if that were possible--to reach the
land before the boat sank. Then, in the most critical moment, when an
irregular wave threatened the boat, I called on Tundup Sonam to put
forth all his strength, and he did it too well, so that the oar broke
with a crack. Now all hung by a hair, we could not manage the boat and
it must inevitably capsize and be swamped under this foaming crest. But
Tundup Sonam realized the danger, and with a quick grasp tore loose a
reserve oar, while Shukkur Ali backed with the leeward oar; after
another douche we trimmed the boat again.
The longer the storm lasts and the larger the expanse of lake left
behind us in the north-east, the higher rise the waves; we are swept
forwards, we rock up and down on the lumpy lake, and fresh cold douches
are constantly poured over us from the crests as they split into spray
like plumes of feathers. How small and helpless we feel in the presence
of these roused infuriated forces of Nature, how imposing and awful, and
yet how grand and splendid is this spectacle! The two men had never in
their lives seen anything to equal it. I sit with my back to the
pursuing billows, but the men have them before their faces, and I know
when large waves are approaching by their muttered "Ya Allah!" Tundup is
as pale as he can be with a sun-tanned skin; Shukkur Ali seems composed,
but he does not sing to-day as he dips in his oar. Tundup afterwards
confided to me that he was quite convinced that we should perish.
It is impossible to keep my eye-glasses dry and clear, and I have not
for a long time had a dry thread on me. Shukkur Ali turns round and says
that the monastery is in sight, but it is too far for my eyes. "Look at
the wave yonder," I call out. "Is it not beautiful?" He smiles and
murmurs his "Ya Allah." Its crest breaks close to us like a waterfall,
and, air being forced into the water, it rises again in bubbling foam
and the lake seems to boil and seethe. Hitherto there has been drizzling
rain, but now the air is clear. The lake assumes a different hue, the
waves are dark and bright, close to us black as ink, but lighter towards
their tips, and the horizon of the lake is often seen through the next
wave as through a sheet of ice.
Thus we are driven on, and the time seems endless. For five quarters of
an hour we have striven with the freaks of the lake god, and every
minute has seemed to us an hour. At last the monastery Gossul appears
and grows larger, the details becoming distinguishable, and I see the
white façade with its upper border of red, its windows and roof
streamers, and some monks behind a balustrade with their eyes fixed on
the boat. And below the cloister terrace there is wild foaming surf. How
we are to land I cannot imagine; I have experienced such adventures
before, but never anything as furious as to-day. We envy the monks up
above with firm ground under their feet, and should like to be beside
them. The log has been out all the time, and now I draw it in with a
quick pull and call out to the men to be ready to jump overboard when I
give the sign. I place the note-book and the map I have sketched to-day,
all dripping with water, into the front of my leather vest, that at any
rate I may not lose the figures I have obtained.
[Illustration: 254. LAMA WITH PRAYER-DRUM.]
[Illustration: 255. LAMA BEFORE THE TEMPLE DOOR IN TUGU-GOMPA.
Sketches by the Author.]
We have only a few minutes more. With the help of Shukkur Ali I manage
to get out of my heavy soaked boots, and have scarcely done so when the
boat is pitched violently into the breakers on the shore. Here the water
is as brown as oatmeal, and the undertow sucks out the boat again. Now
Tundup Sonam wishes to jump out of the boat but I advise him to try
first with the oar if he can reach the bottom; he feels no ground and
has to wait patiently. The boat receives a blow from behind and
threatens to capsize; the oarsmen work as if they were possessed to
fight against the undertow, and before I am aware Tundup has jumped out,
and, up to his breast in water, draws the boat shorewards with all his
might. Now we two follow his example, and with our united strength
succeed at last in drawing the boat up the beach before the raging surf
can dash it to pieces. One more hard pull and we have drawn it up over
the mud embankment into the lagoon, which the waves cannot reach.
Now we had had enough, and we threw ourselves down on the sand, quite
tired out. The fearful excitement and tension of body and mind during an
hour and a half was followed by stupor and weariness; we had nothing to
say to one another, and I gave no orders for the night. We were
shipwrecked men, and had every reason to be pleased and thankful that we
had firm ground under our feet again, and had escaped safely from the
green graves which had yawned below us, threatening to engulf us if we
had not been on the alert in critical moments.
We had only dozed a few minutes when two monks and three young novices
came gently over the sand and approached us cautiously, as if they were
not quite certain whether we were alive or dead. When we got up they
greeted us kindly, and inquired how we were and whether we needed help.
They were deeply interested, and told us how they had seen from their
balcony the boat tossing on the waves, and had been convinced that it
must founder in the unusually violent storm that had swept over the
lake. They had been frightened to death, and said that it was fearful to
see the boat sink in the trough of the waves, and every moment they
expected that it would not appear again. On landing we were immediately
below them, and the sight was too terrible. Were we hurt at all, and
would we come up into the monastery and spend the night in their warm
rooms? But I thanked them for their kind offers and preferred to sleep
as usual in the open air. If they could get us fuel and food we should
be much obliged.
They bowed and disappeared in their maze of staircases, and presently
came back with sacks full of dung, brushwood, and billets, and soon a
grand fire was burning on the terrace. They kindled it themselves, for
our matches and tinder were quite useless. Then they went off to fetch
some eatables, for the contents of our packet of provisions were turned
into paste by the water.
Meanwhile we made ourselves comfortable on the narrow strip of ground
below the monastery. Two large caves opened into the terrace, their
vaults black with smoke, for pilgrims and herdsmen spend the night in
them. They would have sheltered us from the wind, but they were so dirty
that we preferred to pitch our camp at the edge of the bank. It was wet
with rain, but we scraped out dry sand with our hands. The boat was
taken to pieces and emptied--it was half full of water--and then it was
set up by the fire as a screen.
When the fire had burned up and was glowing hot, we stripped ourselves
stark naked, wrung out one garment after another, and crouched by the
fire to dry our under-clothing and ourselves. Each had to look after
himself, for we were all in the same plight. I spread out my things as
near as possible to the fire and hung them over the oars and life-buoys
to expose them to the wind and heat. Meanwhile I dried my woollen vest
bit by bit, turned it inside out, held it to the fire on this side and
that, out and inside, and when it was quite dry put it on again. Then
came the turn of my unmentionables, then of my stockings, and so on.
Nothing could be done with the leather waistcoat and the fur coat; they
would not be dry by night, but what did it matter? It was at any rate
better here than in the crystal halls of the lake king.
It is still broad daylight, but the storm rages, Gurla Mandatta and all
the country to the south has disappeared, for the gale is passing off in
that direction. There is fine close rain again. Falcons scream in the
holes of the pebbly slopes--dangerous neighbours for the bluish-grey
pigeons cooing on the rocks.
The monks came down again with sweet and sour milk and _tsamba_, tea we
had ourselves, and the simple dinner tasted delicious. Then we sat a
couple of hours by the fire while the storm continued. I dried my diary
and entered the notes which form the contents of this chapter. Between
whiles Shukkur Ali entertained me with stories of his adventures during
his travels in the service of Younghusband and Wellby. Now that he had
escaped death by the skin of his teeth, the past returned more vividly
to his memory, and when once he was started on his reminiscences he
could not be stopped, good old Shukkur Ali. I listened with one ear and
wrote with the other--I had almost said--not to appear uninterested;
and, after all, the chief thing to Shukkur Ali was that he could
prattle.
At last the northern sky becomes clear, and all the mountains are white
with snow; before only Kailas and its next neighbours were distinguished
by white caps, but now all is white. We are certainly past the early
days of August, but is it possible that autumn is already beginning? The
summer has been so short that we have hardly had time to get accustomed
to it.
Another night falls on the earth. Impenetrable darkness surrounds us,
and only in the zenith a few stars sparkle. The swell still roars
against the strand, but Tso-mavang is gently falling asleep. Above us
towers the monastery on its steep wall like a fortress, and the monks
have retired to rest. The falcons are heard no more, and the pigeons
have sought their nests.
CHAPTER XLVII
ON THE ROOF OF THE GOSSUL MONASTERY
In the middle of the night I was awaked by a terrible row; a dog from
the monastery had crept under my men's half of the boat to see what it
could find, but chanced to fall into the hands of Shukkur Ali, and got a
good thrashing. The temperature fell to 37.4°. Rabsang came riding up at
sunrise. The men had feared that we must have perished in the waves. He
brought provisions and a packet of letters from Thakur Jai Chand, the
British commercial agent in Gartok, who was at the time in Gyanima,
where the fair was being held. He wrote that Colonel Dunlop Smith had
directed him on June 27 to try to obtain news of me. Guffaru had
performed his task satisfactorily, and all my baggage was safely
deposited in Gartok, and my voluminous correspondence had been forwarded
to Simla. From Mr. Sherring, who had made a journey to Manasarowar some
years previously, I received a very kind letter; he had also had the
kindness to send me his interesting book on western Tibet, while his
wife had added a whole packet of English and French newspapers,
literature the more acceptable that the extensive library presented to
me by O'Connor had long been read through and dispersed to the four
winds of heaven. It was a singular coincidence that where I had suffered
shipwreck I was so unexpectedly brought again into contact with the
outer world.
I was deeply moved by Rabsang's information that the monks in
Tugu-gompa, when they saw the storm burst over our frail boat, had burnt
incense before the images of the lake-god and implored him to deliver
us from the waves. They had done it of their own accord, and not at the
request of any one. They said it would be deplorable if we were lost;
they had a heart, and were not so unfeeling as might be supposed. Few
proofs of sympathy have touched me like this.
Accompanied by Rabsang, I ascended in the early morning the winding path
up to the monastery. At the turns and projections stand cubical
_chhortens_ and votive cairns, and here and there a streamer flutters on
a mast. A _samkang_, a hermit's dwelling, hangs over a cavern produced
by the fall of a huge mass from the slope of the pebble terrace eleven
years ago. I told the monks that they should not put too much confidence
in the ground on which their monastery stands. They reckon millions of
years for the soul's wanderings, but their earthly dwellings are not
built for eternity. They answered calmly that the monastery had already
stood for one hundred years, and that it would certainly stand as long
as they were living there; for in general the monks are changed every
three years, and they come here from the monastery Shibeling in Purang,
by which they are maintained. There are only three of them, but I saw
also four novices, seven, nine, ten, and eleven years old respectively,
running about as actively as mice, and waiting on the monks. Their
mother, a nun from Purang, also lives in the monastery. She had been
married before she "took the veil," and when her husband died she
dedicated herself and all her children to the Church. I afterwards
learned that one of the "boys" was a girl; they were so like one another
that I could not distinguish between them. At first they were shy and
timid, but after I had given them a few silver coins they were soon at
ease with me. They appeared small and stunted for their age, but the
abbot told me that they had mourned so much at the death of their father
that their growth was checked. Almost all the day they were bringing
water from the lake in clay jugs, which they carried in a basket
suspended by a strap round their forehead; they carry therefore with the
muscles of the head and neck, which are consequently so much developed
that they seem too large for the body. But they also receive instruction
and take their first uncertain steps in the domain of wisdom; the eldest
is said to have already acquired considerable knowledge.
I went into the temple and studied it thoroughly. I remained there
twelve hours, drew, took measurements, made all kinds of inquiries, and
took notes. Every part is handsome, interesting, and well-kept. The
_lhakang_ is like an old armoury, a museum of fine, rare articles, which
show great artistic skill, and have been designed, carved, modelled, and
painted with unwearied patience and real taste. The hall, supported by
eight pillars, has two red divans; a statue of Buddha in gilded bronze,
and a number of other idols; drums hanging in stands, lacquered tables
with the usual religious objects, and a large quantity of votive bowls
in the brightest brass and of uncommon, tasteful forms. On both sides of
the pillars hang _tankas_ in four rows, which are as long as standards
and triumphal banners, and are so arranged that they do not prevent the
light from playing on the faces of the gods. In a corner surely waves a
Swedish flag? Ah, it is only a blue and yellow _tanka_, but it reminds
me of the golden period of our fame and victories.
The _lhakang_ of Gossul is not built on the usual plan; the skylight is
wanting, and instead there are three windows in the façade facing the
lake. But the gods do not see the lake, for the windows are pasted over
with paper on a trellis-work of laths. Why is the beautiful view
concealed and the daylight excluded? To enhance the mystical gloom
within and excite the greater wonder and reverence in the minds of the
pilgrims who come in half-blinded from the daylight, and that they may
not see that the gold is only gilded brass, and that the marks of the
brush and the chisel may not be too profanely evident. The poorer a
monastery, the darker are its temple halls; the darkness hides their
poverty and helps the monks to impose on the faithful.
[Illustration: 256. YANGGO-GOMPA.]
[Illustration: 257. INTERIOR OF THE TEMPLE, TUGU.
Sketches by the Author.]
Somchung is the name of a small compartment no larger than a cabin. On
its divan are cushions and pieces of cloth arranged in circles to
form two nests, in which two monks sit during the night service. On the
altar table before Sakya-muni's image stand forty bowls filled with
water, and on another table some peacock's feathers in a silver vase,
with which the gods are sprinkled with holy water to the cry "Om a hum."
In former times robbers and footpads harboured here, and had their
hiding-places in the caves below the monastery. From these they fell
upon the pilgrims and killed many of them. Then the god of Tso-mavang
appeared to Jimpa Ngurbu, a noble lama, and ordered him to build the
monastery, that it might be a sure stronghold for the protection of
pilgrims, and for the honour of the gods. Even now the country is not
safe. Last year two scoundrels, who had plundered the nomads, were taken
and executed; and we ourselves saw ten Gurkhas, armed with guns, who
rode past us in search of a robber band which had stolen their horses
and sheep.
The monks said that the lake usually freezes in January; in stormy
weather the ice breaks up, but when the weather is calm and the frost is
sharp, the whole lake freezes over in a single day, and breaks up again
in a single day when it is stormy. Unfortunately the statements made
about the level of the water and the discharge are contradictory and
untrustworthy. A lama, thirty-five years of age, now staying here, had
lived on Tso-mavang as a child. He said that he well remembered the time
when the water flowed out of the lake to Rakas-tal in such quantities
that a horseman could not cross the channel, which is called Ganga,
without danger. But now this channel had ceased to carry water for nine
years. I was shown where the shore line ran last autumn, five fathoms
farther inland, so that the lake must then have been 22½ inches higher.
I was also shown a yellow block of stone, to which the water was said to
have reached twelve years ago, and this point lay 10-1/3 feet above the
present level of the lake. Such a rate of fall is improbable, though
this statement accorded fairly well with the information I had received
at Tugu-gompa. The threshold of the one cave lay now 22.57 feet, and
that of the other 120.4 feet from the shore, 18.86 feet above the
water. I was told that when the monastery was built, one hundred years
ago, the lake had reached both these caves, and that only a small path
was left along the strand by which the caves could be approached.
However, the dates of the Tibetans are exceedingly uncertain, and to
arrive at safe conclusions we must resort to the statements of European
travellers. I will make a few remarks on them later. When I asked one of
the monks what became of all the water poured into Tso-mavang by all the
rivers and brooks, he replied:
"However much it rains, and though all the tributaries are full to
overflowing, no change is noticeable in the lake, for as much water is
evaporated as flows in. In our holy books it is written that if all the
tributaries failed, the lake would not sink and disappear, for it is
eternal and is the abode of high gods. But now we see with our own eyes
that it is always falling, and we do not know what this means."
The following records may be useful to future explorers: the lower edge
of the massive threshold of the main gateway in the façade of
Gossul-gompa lay on August 8, 1907, exactly 122.7 feet above the surface
of the lake, as I ascertained by the help of a reflecting level.
[Illustration: 258. A DREAMER. LAMA IN YANGGO-GOMPA ON MANASAROWAR.
Drawn by T. Macfarlane from a Sketch by the Author.]
We ascended to the roof of Gossul-gompa. It is flat, as usual, with a
chimney, parapet, and streamers. No language on earth contains words
forcible enough to describe the view from it over the lake. It was,
indeed, much the same as we had seen from various points on the shore,
but the light and shade was so enchanting and the colouring so wonderful
that I was amazed, and felt my heart beat more strongly than usual as I
stepped out of the dark temple halls on to the open platform. Tundup
Sonam said in his simple way that the lake with its encircling mountains
seemed like the sky with its light clouds. I, too, was the victim of an
illusion which almost made me catch at the parapet for support. I
wondered whether it was a fit of giddiness. I took, to wit, the border
of mountains on the eastern shore for a belt of light clouds, and the
surface of the sea for part of the sky. The day was perfectly calm and
the lake like a mirror, in which the sky was reflected; both looked
exactly the same, and were of the same colour, and the mountains, which
in consequence of the distance were all blended into a dark shadow, were
like a girdle of clouds. The air was not clear, everything was of a dull
subdued tone, there was no colour to speak of, but all was grey--sky,
land, and water, with a tinge of blue, a fairy scene of glass, with
decorations of white gauze seen through a thin blue veil of incense
rising from the altar of the mighty god of the lake.
What has become of the earth, if all is sky and clouds? We are not
totally bewitched, for we are standing on the roof of the monastery
leaning against the parapet. A dream-picture in the most ethereal
transitory tones floats before us. We seem to stand on a promontory
jutting out into endless space, which yawns around us and in front. And
where is now the holy lake, which yesterday nearly robbed us of life,
and on which the storm was so furious that I still seem to feel the
ground quaking under my feet? Has the Gossul monastery been changed by
some whim of the gods into an air-ship which is bearing us away to
another planet? Its streamers hang motionless on their poles, and
nothing can be seen of the mountains, country, and ground.
"Oh yes, if you lean a little over the parapet," says a monk, smiling.
True! Then the illusion vanishes, to my great chagrin. I should have
liked to remain a while under its enchantment. Just below us runs the
narrow margin on the bank, with its black dam of clay and water-weeds,
and its elongated lagoons. Through the crystal-clear water we see the
yellowish-grey mud on the lake bottom, the dark fringe of weeds, and the
dark depths beyond. It is like a huge aquarium covered with plate-glass.
Two flocks of geese are swimming on the water, producing diverging
ripples. All is so indescribably quiet; so ethereal, transparent, and
transitory, so subtile and sensitive, that I scarcely dare breathe.
Never has a church service, a wedding march, a hymn of victory, or a
funeral made a more powerful impression on me.
Did fate compel me to pass my life in a monastery in Tibet, I would
without hesitation choose Gossul-gompa. There I would observe the
fluctuations of the lake and the annual curves of the temperature. I
would sit up there like a watchman, gaze over the lake, and watch how
its aspect changed every hour during the twelve months of the year. I
would listen to the howling of the autumn storms, and would notice on
calm November days how the belt of ice along the shore broadened from
day to day, if only to melt again in the course of a day. The ring of
ice would creep on ever nearer to the middle of the lake, be destroyed
again and again by new gales, and then begin again to enchain the
waters. And at length, on a day in January, when the layers of water
were cooled through and through and no wind disturbed the air, I should
see the god of Tso-mavang stretch a ringing roof of glass over his green
palace, and the winter storms bestrew it with white powder and drive the
whirling snow in dense clouds over the ice, with its smooth, dark-green
surface peeping out here and there. And on calm days the lake would lie
a white plain, lifeless and lonely under its white shroud, and I should
sit by the bier of my friend longing for the spring. In vain would the
first storms of spring contend with the solidity of the ice and its
brave resistance, but at last the sun would come to help the wind, and
would make the ice brittle and rotten. Leads and fissures would start up
in all directions, and the next storm that swept over the ice would
overcome all resistance, flinging about the ice blocks and piling them
up one on another, driving them to the shore, and sweeping breakers over
them so that they would be crushed, splintered, pulverized, and melted
in the rolling surf. Then I should rejoice at the victory of the storm,
the release of Tso-mavang and its restoration to life, and would listen
to the song of the waves and the screaming of the wild geese.
[Illustration: 259. THE OLD NUN IN YANGGO-GOMPA.
Sketch by the Author.]
Perhaps an hour such as I spent at the parapet of Gossul comes only once
a year. The effect is the result of a certain temperature, a certain
percentage of humidity, calm air, preceded by rain and a north-easterly
storm. How seldom are all these conditions fulfilled? At most once a
year, and just at this hour, this hour of all hours, I stood on the
roof and saw the blue lake at rest after its play.
Wonderful, attractive, enchanting lake! Theme of story and legend,
playground of storms and changes of colour, apple of the eye of gods and
men, goal of weary, yearning pilgrims, holiest of the holiest of all the
lakes of the world, art thou, Tso-mavang, lake of all lakes. Navel of
old Asia, where four of the most famous rivers of the world, the
Brahmaputra, the Indus, the Sutlej, and the Ganges, rise among gigantic
peaks, surrounded by a world of mountains, among which is Kailas, the
most famous in the world; for it is sacred in the eyes of hundreds of
millions of Hindus, and is the centre of a wreath of monasteries where
every morning blasts of conches sound out from the roofs over the lake.
Axle and hub of the wheel, which is an image of life, and round which
the pilgrims wander along the way of salvation towards the land of
perfection. That is Manasarowar, the pearl of all the lakes of the
world. Hoary with age when the books of the Veda were written, its blue
billows have in the course of centuries seen innumerable troops of
faithful Hindus and Tibetans arrive at its banks, there to drink, bathe,
and find rest for their souls. There are certainly more beautiful lakes
in the world. Its western neighbour, for instance, Langak-tso, is more
picturesque. But there is none which unites with natural beauty such an
influence on the faith and souls of men. That is why the roar of its
waves is so attractive, and a sojourn on its shore so fascinating.
Standing up on the convent roof, while silence reigns around, one
fancies one hears innumerable wanderers approaching, and the echo of
their stumbling feet on the holy path around the lake. And one casts a
glance into the night of past centuries, which have left no trace of
their aspirations and vain search after an imaginary blessedness. But
Tso-mavang remains the same as it was then, and its azure-blue eye sees
new generations treading in the footsteps of the old.
After such an hour everything else seems commonplace. Not till the blush
of evening flooded the lake with a purple tinge could I tear myself away
and go down to my camp on the shore. Once more I turned to Tso-mavang
and called out a loud prolonged "Om a hum." Rabsang said nothing, but I
could see that he was wondering whether I had become the latest convert
of the Lamaistic church, and with the more reason because I had insisted
on travelling round the lake in the orthodox direction--southwards by
the east bank and northwards by the west bank.
The tracks of 120 yaks were discernible in the sand, which had passed
northwards in the morning laden with brick tea. An old Hindu, who was
performing the circuit of the lake in the same direction as the
Tibetans, begged to be allowed to camp beside us, because he was afraid
of robbers; we regaled him with tea, bread, and tobacco, and he asked us
to accept a handful of rice. It is singular that the Hindu pilgrims seem
to hold the Lamaistic monasteries in veneration; at least I saw them bow
before the Lamaistic gods in Tugu-gompa, and place a handful of rice in
the bowl which a monk held out to them.
After a temperature of 43.9° in the night the morning air seemed quite
warm. A fresh easterly breeze ruffled the surface of the lake, and the
foam-tipped waves shone in the sun, but the day was beautiful and I was
full of life, and eager to go out upon the lake. The old Hindu said that
he had resolved to postpone his pilgrimage and go with us in the boat,
but I assured him that we would take no unnecessary ballast. But he
followed us on the bank as we rowed through the surf to Camp No. 213,
easily recognizable by its old fire-place, and when we steered thence
seawards straight towards Tugu-gompa, visible as a white speck in the
south-east, he was so eager to go with us that he ran into the water and
did not turn back till it reached to his middle. He was certainly a
little silly; he had talked nonsense all the evening, though no one had
listened to him.
[Illustration: 260. The Holy Lake Manasarowar from Tugu-gompa, with
Kailas in the background.
Water-colour Sketch by the Author.]
The new line of soundings was marked No. 4 on my map of the lake. Its
greatest depth was 249 feet. At the ninth sounding-station the red metal
disc of the current-meter became entangled in the sounding-line. It was
torn away from its screws and twisted like a boomerang in mad gyrations
down through the crystal-clear water to a depth of 207 feet, there to
sleep in the mud of Tso-mavang till the day of judgment. Fortunately it
could easily be replaced.
When we landed at the monastery, all our men, and the monks and the
pilgrims on the shore, were there to receive us. The first we caught
sight of was the old crazy Hindu. His fellow-countrymen had taken it for
granted that we must have perished in the storm, and therefore were very
astonished to see us come back alive. But as I was now here again, they
thought that they might take advantage of it, and asked me to present
them one and all with new trousers, a request that I considered very
importunate.
On August 10 I sat in my tent door and painted Kailas in different
lights (Illust. 260). Its white summit stood out cold and bare against a
bright blue cloudless sky, and the lake was of a deep, dazzling
ultramarine. When a breeze swept over the surface it was in the distance
like clear green malachite. After sunset the sky was orange-coloured,
and the lake, of just the same colour, reflected the outlines of the
mountains in quivering serpentine lines. The evening before, the whole
western horizon had glowed with bright red flames.
CHAPTER XLVIII
OUR LAST DAYS ON TSO-MAVANG
At this time Robert had perfected himself more than I in the Tibetan
language, and he talked it almost fluently. Therefore, while my whole
time was taken up with other work, he was able to obtain information
about the country and people, and perform certain tasks I set him. On
the left, shorter wall of the vestibule of Tugu-gompa was an inscription
for the enlightenment of pilgrims, and this Robert now translated into
Hindustani and English. Freely rendered it runs as follows:
Tso-mavang is the holiest place in the world. In its centre dwells a
god in human form, who inhabits a tent composed of turquoise and all
kinds of precious stones. In the midst of it grows a tree with a
thousand branches, and every branch contains a thousand cells in which
a thousand lamas live. The lake tree has a double crown, one rising
like a sunshade and shading Kang-rinpoche, the other overshadowing the
whole world. Each of the 1022 branches bears an image of a god, and
all these images turn their faces towards Gossul-gompa, and in former
times all the gods gathered together here. Once golden water was
fetched from the lake, and with it the face of Hlobun Rinpoche in
Chiu-gompa was gilded, and what was left was used to gild the temple
roofs of Tashi-lunpo. In old times the water of the lake flowed over a
pass named Pakchu-la to the Ganga-chimbo. Water flows into the lake
from all sides, cold, warm, hot, and cool. Water passes from the lake
to the Ganga-shei and comes back again. Vapour rises annually from the
lake and hovers over it once in the year, and then sinks down into the
centre, and the next year the process is repeated. If any one brings
up clay from the middle of the lake, that clay is really gold. The
lake is the property of the lake-god. The lake is the central point of
the whole world. Sambu Tashi grew out of the lake tree. Sochim Pema
Dabge is of very holy, clear, and pure water. The Gyagar Shilki
_chhorten_ stands in the lake. The palace of the lake-god is in the
lake. All the lamas there recite their prayers with one voice. All the
gods assemble together in the lake and sit there among _chhortens_ of
all kinds, embellished with gold and precious stones. The spirit king
of the southern land resides here in a golden house, and is not angry
when any one comes to wash and purify himself. If we pray to the
spirit king of the southern land, we shall be very wealthy and
fortunate. Four large rivers and four small flow out of the lake by
underground channels. The four large ones are one warm, one cold, one
hot, and one cool. (The Karnali, Brahmaputra, Indus, and Sutlej.) If
any one washes in the lake he is cleansed from sin and all impurities.
If any one washes once in the lake, the sins of his forefathers are
forgiven, and their souls are relieved from purgatorial fires. Datping
Ngacha came with 500 pilgrims from Kang-rinpoche to wash in the lake.
Lo Mato Gyamo met him and begged him to come to Tso-mavang. Dachung
Ngacha and the pilgrims came with heaps of flowers and strewed them in
the lake. Dachung Ngacha went three times round the lake and then
ascended into heaven.
Of particular interest is the suggestion made here that the four large
rivers stream out of Tso-mavang by subterranean passages. As regards the
Sutlej this belief is, in my opinion, quite correct. I was told that the
fifth Tashi Lama, whose mausoleum we had seen in Tashi-lunpo, once made
the pilgrimage to Tso-mavang and went down to the shore at Tugu-gompa to
offer a _kadakh_ to the lake-god. The _kadakh_ remained suspended in the
air, that is, it was actually hanging on one of the branches of the holy
tree, but as the tree is only visible to Rinpoches and genuine
incarnations, the _kadakh_ seemed to ordinary mortals to hang alone in
the air.
On August 11 we bade a long farewell to the amiable monks of Tugu-gompa,
and gave them liberal presents. They accompanied us down to the shore,
when we put off on our voyage westwards. Into a large lagoon of the
shore, brown and dirty owing to the numerous gulls and wild geese which
here wallow in the mud, a brook from Gurla Mandatta runs, and now
discharges 37.8 cubic feet of water in a second. All the way along runs
a rubbish heap, the continuation of the pebble terrace on which
Tugu-gompa stands. The lake bed consists sometimes of sand, sometimes
of detritus--offshoots of the detritus cone of Gurla Mandatta. Large
collections of weeds form dark patches. Up above, at the mouths of two
valleys of Gurla, are seen foaming streams, and it is strange that they
do not debouch into the lake. But the explanation is easy. Twenty to
fifty yards from the bank numerous small holes in the sand of the lake
bed open and close like the valves of an artery, and the surface of the
lake above them bubbles. These are springs. The streams disappear in the
detritus cone, and the water runs below over impermeable layers of
glacial clay. At the edge of the cone the water comes up again under the
surface of the lake. I perceived, then, that I must gauge the rivers at
the points where they emerge from the mountain valleys, if I would
ascertain the exact amount of the tribute Tso-mavang receives.
Near camp 218, quite close to the shore, a spring came to the surface,
and where it welled up it had a temperature of 38.1°, and therefore
brought down the cold of the glaciers to the lake. As the melted water
of the Gurla glaciers retains its low temperature on its subterranean
course, it probably assists in keeping the water of the lake cool during
the summer. Whole shoals of fish sported at the surface of the water,
and snapped at plumed gnats, which were gathered in thick clouds.
On August 12 I rode with Rabsang and a Tibetan up to the foot of Gurla
Mandatta. We crossed the great highway between Tugu-gompa and Purang. A
wolf took to flight; occasionally a hare leapt up out of the steppe
grass, and locusts flew about noisily. We rode into the mouth of the
Namreldi valley, a resort of robbers, and its crystal stream, between
walls of solid rock, carried 101 cubic feet of water, as compared to the
37.8 cubic feet at the place where it enters the lake. The rest of the
water, therefore, pours into the lake under the detritus. A few miles
farther west we halted at the mouth of the Selung-urdu valley, which has
a glacier in its upper part. At half-past nine o'clock the bed was dry,
but at half-past one a river with rapids and waterfalls poured down a
volume of 63.9 cubic feet of exceedingly muddy water, which reached the
lake in the subterranean springs. The view from this elevated spot is
magnificent. We have a bird's-eye view of Tso-mavang, and in the west
gleams the bright blue Langak-tso. The survey we can here take of the
country is very instructive. The denudation cones of Gurla Mandatta,
consisting of sand, rubbish, and boulders, extend northwards like
inverted spoons; their extremities dip under the surface of the lake,
and cause the fluctuating depths sounded on lines 1 and 2. From camp 218
Robert executed a line of soundings at right angles to the bank down to
a depth of 190 feet.
Every day with its observations brought me nearer to the solution of the
problem I had proposed to myself. As we rode northwards on the 13th
along the western shore we dug wells at some places 10 yards from the
bank. The ground consisted of alternate layers of sand and clay: on the
top, sand; then a layer of decaying vegetable remains; then a foot and a
half of sand which rested on clay. A pit 2 feet deep slowly filled with
water up to the same level as the surface of the lake. The water
permeates the sand and rests on the clay. If this layer of clay
stretches, as seems likely, across the narrow isthmus to the shore of
Langak-tso, it is evident that the water of Tso-mavang filters through
the beds of sand and pebbles to the western lake. I was already
convinced that even now when the old canal has ceased to act, an
underground connection must exist between the two lakes. But the fact
that the water of Tso-mavang is quite sweet is no proof that the lake
has an outlet, seeing that it is only a few years since the canal was
silted up.
Again we encamped below the hospitable monastery Gossul. On August 15 I
rode with Rabsang and a Tibetan across the hilly isthmus between the two
lakes in order to get a look at the country on this side also. We
ascended sharply to the highest point of the ridge, where there is a
fine view over Langak-tso with its picturesque rocky shores and
projecting points and capes, its bays and islands, and its frame of
steep mountains. In form it is very different from its neighbour, which
is round and has no islands. We stood at a height of 16,033 feet, and
therefore were 935 feet above the surface of Manasarowar. Then we rode
down a valley clothed with brushwood, which emerges on to the flat,
irregularly curved shore belt. Here are old, very plainly marked, shore
lines, the highest 67.9 feet above the level of the lake. When the
Langak-tso stood so high it had an outlet to the Sutlej, and the old bed
of this river may be seen leading off from the north-eastern corner of
the lake.
A strong south wind blew, and rolled the waves to the shore, where I sat
a good hour, drawing and making observations. Then we rode again over
the isthmus, at its lowest (15,289 feet) and broadest place. A salt
swamp, begirt by hills, lies on its eastern half, quite close to the
shore of Tso-mavang, with its surface 7.7 feet above that of the lake.
In the sand and rubbish between the two are abundant streams of water,
passing from the lake to the swamp. The swamp lies in a flat hollow of
clay, in which the water evaporates, and the trifling quantities of salt
contained in the lake water accumulate. At this place, then, the water
of the eastern lake is prevented from seeping through to the western.
The following day we sailed with a favourable wind to the north-western
corner of Tso-mavang, where Chiu-gompa stands on a pyramid of rock. This
spot, camp No. 219, was to be our headquarters for several days. The
outline of Tso-mavang is like that of a skull seen from the front, and
we had now to explore the very top. A day of rest was devoted to a
preliminary investigation of the channel where several cold and hot
springs rise up; two of the latter had temperatures of 117° and 122°
respectively, while in testing the third a thermometer graduated up to
150° did not suffice, and the tube burst. A spring of 117° in a walled
basin is said to be used as a medical bath, but one must be a Tibetan to
stew in water so hot. A small stone cabin beside it serves as a
dressing-room. A little farther down the channel is spanned by a bridge
constructed of four beams resting on two stone piers; it is in
extraordinarily good condition, and is another proof that the canal
contained water not so very long ago. On the piers of the bridge
watermarks are still conspicuous 18½ inches above the present stagnant
pools, smelling of sulphur and full of slimy weeds, which are fed by
springs. Young wild-geese were swimming in one of them, and had great
difficulty in protecting themselves from the brown puppy.
Chiu-gompa, the fifth of the eight monasteries of the lake which I
visited, is small, and contains fifteen lamas who enter it for life,
while the abbot is changed every three years. It owns some yaks, 500
goats, and 100 sheep, which are employed in transporting salt to Purang,
where the monks barter it for barley. One monk, a youth twenty years of
age, named Tsering Tundup, is one of the Tibetans whom I think of with
particularly kind and warm feeling. His mother also lived in the
monastery, and looked after the sheep and goats when they were driven in
the evening into the penfolds. He was unusually handsome, refined,
amiable and obliging, and showed me everything with full explanations.
From his small bare cell he could dream and gaze at the holy lake in the
east, and could see on the west Langak-tso, despised by the gods; but
yet he was melancholy, and on that account we were sympathetic. He
acknowledged openly that he was weary of the monotonous life in
Chiu-gompa; every day was like the last, and the monks had hard work to
procure a scanty subsistence, and must always be prepared for the
attacks of robbers. It must be pleasanter to live as we did, and roam
about freely among the mountains. He asked me if he might come with us,
and I replied that I would willingly take him to Ladak. Then his face
brightened, but he begged to be allowed to think over the matter until I
returned from my next trip on the lake.
It rained all night, and in the morning everything was wet--even the
things in my wind-beaten and torn tent, where little puddles had been
formed. But Tsering came with the linen, so I was not so badly off. We
had a long voyage before us, to camp No. 212, the first place we had
encamped at on the holy lake. The programme of the excursion also
included visits to the three other monasteries, the gauging of the
volumes of water in the streams from the north, and the drawing of a
map of the northern shore. We therefore took provisions for four days,
which Rabsang and Adul were to transport along the bank on horses'
backs. We were to meet them at the entrance to the valley Serolung, at
Serolung-gompa. This last voyage was to complete my investigation of the
lake, but precisely because it was the last it was looked forward to
with fear by my men. They thought that I had so long defied the god of
the lake that now my time was come, and that he would avenge himself and
keep me for ever.
But the morning was beautiful, and when at half-past five we rowed out
over the smooth lake, the temperature was 48.6°. The cloud cap of Gurla
extended down to the water, and nothing could be seen of the country to
the south. The Pundi mountain was covered with snow and had a wintry
appearance. At the first sounding-station (66 feet) the tents were seen
as white specks hovering above the lake. Chiu-gompa stands proudly on
its rocky point, and is a landmark visible from all parts of the lake
shore except from the west. At the second station the sounding was more
than 130 feet. Shukkur Ali and Tundup Sonam row like galley-slaves, for
they hope to finish this line, and then the work will be at an end.
Sometimes the boat passes through belts of foam and weed. At the fifth
station (161 feet) the tents can still be seen with the glass, but after
that they disappear. Gossul's memorable monastery can also be dimly
descried on its rock.
"Now we have traversed a third of the way," I said.
"Thank God!" replied Shukkur Ali. "I hope the weather will hold up
to-day."
A large fish floated on the water, belly up; fish washed ashore are used
by the people as medicine. The depths remain the same; the lake bed is
very even. But at the thirteenth point we found 108 feet, and at the
fourteenth 180 feet, which indicated a ridge in the lake bed or a cone
of detritus from the foot of the northern mountains. At about an hour's
sail from the eastern shore we saw Rabsang and Adul coming up, and they
waited for us at the rendezvous. They proposed we should pass the night
in a stone cabin at the right side of the mouth of the Serolung valley,
but I refused, for pilgrims and tramps are wont to harbour there. Six
monks from the convent, old friends of ours, paid me a visit, and four
happy, laughing women, black and dirty, came rushing like a whirlwind
down the slopes with baskets of fuel on their backs. Puppy had followed
Rabsang, and had found at a monastery on the way an elegant little
cavalier with a red collar and bells. With a feeling of satisfaction at
having completed this last line of soundings, I went to sleep on the
sandy shore under the light of the everlasting stars.
Next day I rode with Rabsang 17 miles to the north, in order to measure
the volumes of water in the Pachen and Pachung valleys. We arranged to
meet the others on the northern shore, whither they were to row with the
baggage. Were we long away they were to light a beacon fire on a hill
for our guidance. We followed for a time the shore with its banks of
mud, small projections, and lagoons, and then we rode through the
Samo-tsangpo from the Tokchen valley, and passed on the left hand two
small lakes in the midst of rich pasturage, where a number of kiangs
grazed, glared at us, pricked up their ears, and ran away at a slow
gallop; then we crossed the _tasam_, or the great trunk-road, and rode
up the sharply sculptured Pachen valley, with a foaming river carrying
69.9 cubic feet of water. Then we rode westwards, up and down hills, and
enjoyed a new view of the holy lake with Gurla Mandatta in the
background. The Pachung river carried 83.3 cubic feet of water. When our
work was done we rode south-westwards. Wild asses were on the meadows;
they are nearly tame, for no one puts an end to life on the shores of
the holy lake. Thirty mares stood on a mound guarded by a stallion; the
sun was sinking, and perhaps this is how these animals prepare for the
dangers of the night. Now and again a mare left the group and made a
circuit about her sisters, but the stallion ran after her immediately
and forced her to return to the others. This game was frequently
repeated, and it seemed to me that the mares were making sport of the
stallion.
We ride over swampy meadows and small sandhills; nothing can be seen of
the lake; we should like to hear its waves roaring under the south-west
breeze, but new hills always crop up in front of us. At last we catch
sight of the smoke of the camp-fire. Adul had caught a kiang foal four
months old, which was ill and kept always turning round. The mother came
to look after it in the night, but gave it up for lost, and it died soon
after.
August 20 was spent in surveying a map of a part of the northern shore
which is very slightly curved, and in a sounding excursion on the lake
out to a depth of 154 feet. While the surface water had a temperature
55.6° everywhere, with an air temperature about constant, the
temperature at the bottom sank from 56.1° to 46° at the depth of 154
feet.
We gradually began to suffer want. The collops which Adul tried to pass
off on me on the morning of the 21st were decidedly bad, and therefore
landed in Puppy's stomach. As Rabsang and I rode northwards to
Pundi-gompa, the temperature was 56° and really too warm, so that a
shower of rain was not unpleasant. Pundi lies on a rocky ledge in a
ravine; its abbot is eighty years old, and has eight monks under him.
One was a Chinaman from Pekin, who had lived forty years in the convent
and had become a thorough Tibetan, though he had not forgotten his
mother tongue. From there, too, there is a splendid view over the lake.
As we were about to ride down to camp No. 222 on the shore, a messenger
came from Robert with the news that the authorities in Parka had refused
to provide us with transport animals or assist us in any way, for they
had never heard that we were permitted to spend a whole month on the
lake. He also said that our Ladakis were much frightened by all kinds of
stories of robbers which were current in the neighbourhood, so that
every one was anxious for my presence.
[Illustration: 261. BOY ON THE UPPER TSANGPO.]
[Illustration: 262. THE YOUNG PRIOR OF LANGBO-NAN.
Sketches by the Author.]
The camp was quite close to the monastery Langbo-nan, at the mouth of
the Gyuma-chu. After we had measured this river and ascertained that it
discharged 73.8 cubic feet of water, we had tracked up all the waters
pouring into Manasarowar on the surface, and we found that the whole
volume was 1094.8 cubic feet in a second, or 94,590,000 cubic feet in
twenty-four hours, which would make a cube measuring nearly 456 feet
each way. But how much water flows to the lake by underground passages
which we could not measure? Probably a volume considerably in excess of
the surface water; for Manasarowar lies in a trough between huge
mountains which are constantly feeding the subterranean springs. At any
rate the surplus water, so far as it is not lost by evaporation,
filtrates through subterranean passages to the Langak-tso, which lies
lower.
On the 22nd we again rowed straight out from the bank into the lake till
we reached a place where the depth was 135 feet, and then sailed back
with a favourable wind to the starting-point. It was the last time that
I sank my lead in the holy water, and I was quite convinced that I
should never do it again, for I had now 138 soundings, evenly
distributed over the lake and affording ample material for the
construction of an isobathic map. It was comical to hear Shukkur Ali
when I remarked to him that this was our last voyage on Tso-mavang. He
held his hands before his face as if he were about to pray, and said
solemnly that in spite of all dangers "we had had the good fortune to
bring our work to a successful conclusion by the favour of Allah, the
favour of the Sahib, the favour of the papa and the mamma of the Sahib,
and the favour of all his relations." I ventured to remark that he had
forgotten the favour of the lake god, but he dismissed the suggestion
with a wave of the hand, and said he had no more faith in the god.
Afterwards I rode with Rabsang up to the monastery Langbo-nan, while the
others went on to Chiu-gompa. I shall omit here a description of this
convent, where the most remarkable sight was the twelve-year-old abbot
Tsering, an intelligent, frank, and lively boy, with sharp bright eyes,
white teeth, a fresh, healthy complexion, and an attractive appearance
(Illust. 262). He sat on a divan before a lacquered table in his
library, called _tsemchung_, and showed a great interest in all my
plans, glanced into my sketch-book, tried my field-glass, and asked me
for a couple of pencils. During the hour I spent in his cell we became
good friends, and when at length I bade him farewell we little thought
that we should meet again only a year later.
As we made the round of the monastery we came in the gallery of the
court upon a poor fellow who lay ill and seemed to be suffering. I asked
him how he was, and he told me that on August 18, the day when Rabsang
and Adul came to meet us, he was taking eleven mules and two horses
laden with _tsamba_ and barley to Parka, the Gova of which was the owner
of the caravan. Where the Pachung river enters the eastern lagoon he was
attacked at eleven o'clock in the morning by twelve robbers, who rushed
down from the direction of the Pachung valley. They were all mounted,
and armed with guns, swords, and spears, had two spare horses for
provisions, and wore masks on their faces. They dismounted in a moment,
threw a mantle over his head, tied his hands behind his back, and
cleared him out, taking among other things 400 rupees, and then they
rode off again to the Pachung valley, which Rabsang and I had hurriedly
visited the next day. He then summoned help by shouting, and in a very
pitiable condition found refuge in Langbo-nan. He showed us some deep
stabs in his legs, his skin coat, and the saddle, which had suffered
severely when he made a desperate attempt to defend himself. This was
the incident which had so alarmed our Ladakis.
The way from here to Chiu-gompa is charming. Perpendicular, sometimes
overhanging rocks of green and red schist fall to the shore, which here
has a shingly beach only 20 yards broad. Two gigantic boulders stand
like monuments on the shore, and on the rocky walls we see black caves
and hermits' dwellings, and we often pass the usual three stones on
which tea-kettles of pilgrims have boiled. Farther to the west the
projections form a series of recesses in lighter tones; at one of these
cliffs a new and fascinating view is displayed. A water mark lying 5½
feet above the present level of the lake is very easily recognized. On
the rocky pinnacles eagles sit motionless as statues, watching for prey.
Chergip-gompa is built on a terrace in the broad mouth of a valley. It
is a small, poor monastery, but it has its _lhakang_ and its vestibule
with a large bronze bell, in which the six holy characters are cast.
When the bell is rung at morning and evening the unfathomable truth is
borne on the waves of sound over the lake, which, with its blue surface
and its background of the snowfields of Gurla Mandatta, forms a charming
landscape as seen from the court of the monastery. But its sound is
heard by no one but Chergip's single monk. Poor man, what must be his
feelings in winter evenings when storms sweep the drifting snow over the
ice of Tso-mavang!
I remained with him fully two hours, for he had much to tell. He had
travelled far, had been at Selipuk and the Nganglaring-tso, and offered
to conduct me thence in twenty days to the Dangra-yum-tso; he had no
suspicion that I was roaming about in the forbidden land under a
political ban. But he revived my desire to visit the great unknown
country to the north of the holy river. I was full of thoughts, full of
plans, and full of an insatiable _desiderium incogniti_ which never left
me in peace, when at length I departed from the eighth and last
monastery of Tso-mavang as the evening spread its dark veil over the
lake I had conquered.
We had still a long way to go to the camp. At the last mountain spur
stands a _chhorten_, from which our fire was visible. Soon we sat again
among our companions. Late at night two horsemen rode past our camp; the
watchmen called out "Who's there?" but they made no answer. Then Rabsang
awoke and thoughtlessly sent a bullet after the unknown men, being
convinced that they were robbers. My men had reached such a pitch of
nervousness that they saw robbers everywhere.
This was our last night on the shore of the Tso-rinpoche, the "holy
lake," and I listened sadly to the song of the surf dying away as the
wind fell.
CHAPTER XLIX
ADVENTURES ON LANGAK-TSO
I have not interrupted the description of my life on the revered lake
with notices of our political troubles. Suffice it to say that we
succeeded in staying there a whole month. Mounted and other messengers
often came to make complaints, and then my men simply replied: "The
Sahib is out on the lake, catch him if you can; he is a friend of the
lake god, and can stay as long as he likes among the branches of the
holy tree." And when I came back again they had gone off. In consequence
of the boat trips they could not control my movements, but when we
encamped by Chiu-gompa they became more energetic. During my absence
came messenger after messenger with orders that I must at once betake
myself to Parka and continue my journey thence to Ladak. On August 23 I
sent Robert and Rabsang to Parka to make terms with the authorities, but
they would not under any circumstances allow me to visit Langak-tso, my
next stage. If I liked to stay a month or a year at Chiu-gompa it was
nothing to them, for the monastery was not in their district, but the
western lake was in their jurisdiction. They advised that I should come
as soon as possible to Parka for my own sake, and would send in the
morning fifteen yaks to carry my luggage.
[Illustration: 263. TEMPLE VESSELS IN CHIU-GOMPA.]
[Illustration: 264. TWO CHILDREN IN SHIGATSE.
Sketches by the Author.]
But I wished to see Langak-tso at any cost. So when the fifteen yaks
arrived next morning, I quickly made up my mind to send Tsering,
Rabsang, and four men with the baggage to Parka, while Robert and the
other six men would go with me to Langak-tso. Our own six horses and
the last mule from Poonch could easily carry the boat and our bit of
luggage. The yaks were laden and my men disappeared behind the hills. My
own small caravan had orders to camp on the shore of Langak-tso where
the old channel enters. I went with Robert and two men on foot and
executed a series of exact levellings over the isthmus separating the
two lakes. At the same time I drew a map of the course of the channel.
The measuring tape was nailed fast to an oar which Robert carried; the
theodolite I carried myself. The distance between the pole and the
instrument amounted to 55 yards, and was measured with tapes by our two
assistants. The pole was placed on an iron dish that it might not sink
into the soft ground.
The lakes were visited in 1812 by Moorcroft, who found no connecting
channel. In October 1846 Henry Strachey found there an arm of the lake
100 feet broad and 3 feet deep. Landor declared that any connection was
inconceivable, for, according to him, the isthmus was 300 feet high at
its lowest part. Ryder found in the late autumn of 1904 no water running
out of Manasarowar, but he heard from the natives that a little water
passed through the channel during the rainy season. Sherring also saw no
running water, but he thought it probable that the lake overflowed after
rainy summers. As for me, I followed the bed of the channel from one
lake to the other and found that in the year 1907 no water flowed from
the eastern into the western lake, and in 1908 the condition was the
same, though both my visits occurred in the rainy season. There must be
very heavy falls of rain before Manasarowar can overflow, for the
highest point of the channel bed lies more than 6½ feet above the level
of the eastern lake.
The circumstance that different travellers in different years have given
different accounts is, however, very easily explained. All depends on
the precipitation: if it is abundant, the surface of Manasarowar rises;
if it is very abundant its water drains off to the Langak-tso
(Rakas-tal). If the summer is dry, as in the year 1907, the Langak-tso
receives no water through the channel, but certainly by subterranean
passages. On the whole, both these lakes are falling like the other
lakes of Tibet, and the time is approaching when the subterranean outlet
will be cut off and both lakes will be salt.
As we deliberately measured the channel and came to its highest point
from which its bed dips towards the west, I threw a farewell glance at
Tso-mavang, and experienced a feeling of bereavement at the thought that
I must now leave its shores, and in all probability for ever. For I had
known this gem of lakes in the light of the morning red and in the
purple of sunset, in storms, in howling hurricanes when the waves rose
mountain high, in fresh southerly breezes when the waves sparkled like
emeralds, in full sunshine when the lake was smooth as a mirror, in the
silver beams of the moon when the mountains stood out like white
spectres after the dull yellow light of evening was extinguished, and in
peaceful nights when the stars twinkled as clearly on the smooth surface
of the lake as above in the vault of heaven. I had passed a memorable
month of my life on this lake, and had made friends with the waves and
become intimately acquainted with its depths. To this day I can hear the
melodious splash of the raging surf, and still Tso-mavang lingers in my
memory like a fairy tale, a legend, a song.
We went on westwards along narrow creeks and pools of stagnant water,
but when the evening had become so dusky that I could no longer read the
figures on the measuring pole, we gave up work, marked the last fixed
point, and made for the camp, which we reached in complete darkness.
In the morning the work was continued. We had had a minimum of 22.6° in
the night, and a violent south-west storm rendered it difficult to read
the instruments. The hundred-and-fourth point was fixed at length at the
edge of the water of Langak-tso. I have no space here to analyse the
results. The channel runs west-north-west, and the line measured is
10,243 yards long, or twice as long as represented on the most recent
maps. The surface of Langak-tso lay 44 feet below that of Tso-mavang,
which agrees very well with the difference of height on Ryder's map,
namely 50 feet. There is no water beyond the ninety-fourth fixed point
in the bed, The Tibetans related a legend concerning the origin of the
channel. Two large fishes in Tso-mavang were deadly enemies and chased
each other. One was beaten, and in order to escape he darted right
through the isthmus, and the windings of the channel bed show the course
of the flying fish.
The morning of August 26 was dull, damp, and cold. Heavy clouds floated
over the earth, heralds of the monsoon rains, and Langak-tso looked
anything but inviting for a sail. But we had the whole day before us,
and any moment horsemen might come from Parka, take us by the neck and
lead us back, whether we liked it or not, to the path of duty.
Langak-tso has a very irregular outline. Its chief basin in the south is
begirt by rocks, in the north there is a smaller expansion, and between
the two runs a contracted channel. All we could venture to do was to row
over the small basin westwards and then to the south-east, to a place on
the eastern shore whither our camp could be moved. It could be done in a
few hours, so we took nothing but the mast and sail.
Tundup Sonam and Ishe were my boatmen, and we set out at half-past five
o'clock. We were at first in the lee of a promontory, but when we had
passed it the whole lake came down upon us with rolling, foaming
billows, showers of spray, and threatening surge. The waves were crowded
together in the narrows to leeward, and assumed curious irregular forms.
Among them tossed masses of water-weed; the water was bright green and
as clear and sweet as that of Tso-mavang. We are a little beyond the
promontory; would it not be better to turn back? No; never turn back,
never give in; still forwards! We were wet, but we kept our equilibrium
and parried the cunning assaults of the rolling waves. "Row hard and we
shall soon get into the shelter of the great point on the western
shore." I even managed to take soundings, and found that the greatest
depth was 54½ feet; the lake bottom was almost level. We had fought
with the waves for four hours before we landed on the north side of the
promontory, where we were sheltered from the wind.
Here we draw the boat to land and reconnoitre. The cape runs
north-eastwards, and is covered with driftsand which is in constant
motion. On the shore plain to the south-west yellow sandspouts move
about, whirling like corkscrews in the direction of the wind, and our
promontory receives its share of this load of sand. On the north the
dune is very steep; from time to time fresh sand falls down the slope
and slips into the lake, where the waves sweep it away. From the sharp
ridge of the dune the driftsand is blown like a dense plume to the lake,
and the water is tinged with yellow for quite 200 yards in the direction
of the wind by myriads of grains of sand, which fall to the bottom and
build up a foundation under water on which the promontory can extend out
into the lake. The wind has been strong, and now we have a storm.
Patience! We cannot go back. The driftsand now floats so thickly over
the lake that the eastern and northern shores are invisible; we might be
sitting on a dune in the heart of the Takla-makan desert.
We slipped down to the sheltered side of the dune, but here, out of the
wind, it was still worse. We were enveloped in clouds of sand which
penetrated everywhere, into our eyes, ears, and noses, and irritated the
skin where it came into contact with the body. The moaning howl of the
storm was heard above and around us. My oarsmen slept or strolled about,
but their footprints were at once obliterated by the wind. I played with
the sand like a child--let it roll down the lee-side, built a small
peninsula, which was immediately destroyed by the waves, and a harbour
mole, which the sea beat over and broke up--and watched how new layers
and clumps of dead seaweed appeared on the sand slope, and how the dry
sand formed falls and cascades as it rolled down. But the storm did not
abate.
[Illustration: 265. KAILAS BEHIND NYANDI-GOMPA.]
[Illustration: 266. MY PACK-SHEEP.]
We lay waiting there for four hours. On the eastern shore our men had
moved the camp a little farther south. We saw the tents quite plainly.
Should we venture to creep along the shore southwards so as to reach
a point opposite the camp? Out beyond the promontory the dark-green lake
ran uncomfortably high, but we were a match for the waves--the men had
only to put their weight on to the oars. So we crept along the shore,
where we got some shelter, but we had to be careful that we were not
carried out into the heavy seas. After rowing round two points we landed
on the lee-side of a third, where the boat was drawn ashore again. Heavy
seas with thundering, towering waves dashed against the southern side of
the point, so that we could go no farther, for no pilot would encounter
such billows in a canvas boat. I stood on the top of the promontory and
enjoyed the fine spectacle. Robert's tent shone brightly in the setting
sun. We saw the men, the horses grazing on the bank, and the smoke of
the camp-fire beaten down by the storm. The crossing would barely take
an hour, but between us and them yawned the dark-green abyss of
tyrannical, all-conquering waves.
The sun sets and we still sit and wait, confused by the rush of the
spirits of the air and water. This time they have played us a pretty
trick, and we have been caught. To the north rises Kang-rinpoche, lofty
and bright as a royal crown. Its summit is like a _chhorten_ on the
grave of a Grand Lama. Snow and ice with vertical and slightly inclined
fissures and ledges form a network like the white web of a gigantic
spider on the black cliffs.
And the day, a long day of waiting, neared its inevitable close. Shadows
lengthened out over the foaming waves, the sun set, and the Pundi
mountain, our old friend of Tso-mavang, glowed like fire in the sunset.
Clouds of a deep blood-red colour, with edges of orange, and tinted
above with reddest gold, hovered over its summit. It was as though the
earth had opened and volcanic forces had burst forth. The hours passed
by, the glow died out, the outlines of Pundi became indistinct and were
at length swallowed up in the darkness. We were in the dark while the
camp-fire blazed on the eastern shore. Our hopes were now centred on the
night and the moon. The storm had raged thrice twenty-four hours, and it
must end some time; but it was just as strong. And as it was useless to
wait, and I could not appease my gnawing hunger with a piece of bread
and a cup of tea, I wrapped myself in the sail, burrowed into the sand,
and fell into a sound sleep.
The rain pelting down on the sail woke me twice, and about four o'clock
in the morning the cold thoroughly roused me. A dreary, grey, rainy
outlook. But Ishe proposed that we should try to get over, for the storm
had slightly abated in consequence of the rain. We first made sure that
the tackle was in good order, and then stepped into the boat and rowed
out along the sheltered side of the promontory. But scarcely had the
nose of the boat passed beyond the point when it received a shock that
made all its joints crack. "Row, row as hard as you can," I yelled
through the howling storm; "we shall get over before the boat is full.
It is better to be wet than suck our thumbs for twenty-four hours more."
To the south, 52° E., the tent canvas shone white in the morning grey.
We strayed far out of our course, but cut the waves cleanly, and steered
towards the surf. We just managed to get over. We were received on the
other side by our men, who helped us to draw the boat ashore and had
fire and breakfast ready for us.
Namgyal had returned from Parka and brought news that the Gova
threatened to drive away my men in order to force me to leave
Langak-tso. Bluff, however, has no effect on me. A more serious matter
was that Puppy had not been seen for forty-eight hours, and that Shukkur
Ali, who had gone the morning before to Chiu-gompa in search of her, had
not been heard of since. Puppy at length found her way into camp
herself, and then it was Shukkur Ali who was missing.
On the 28th the storm continued. We afterwards heard from Tibetans that
stormy weather frequently prevails on Langak-tso, and the lake is
agitated, when Tso-mavang is smooth and calm. Tundup Sonam concluded
that Tso-mavang was a pet of the gods, while demons and devils ruled
over Langak-tso. We had heard a tale in Gossul-gompa that the preceding
winter five Tibetans, armed with swords and guns, had crossed the ice
to reach Parka by a shorter way, but in the middle of the lake the ice
had given way, and all five were dragged down by the weight of their
weapons to the bottom.
I wished for fine weather that I might be able to cross over the lake to
the islands. As, however, we were obliged to give up all thoughts of a
voyage, I determined to pass round the lake and at any rate draw an
outline map of it. We commenced, then, with the eastern shore, which
makes a regular curve towards the east. The white mule from Poonch
carried the boat. Some Ovis Ammons were seen on the rocks, which Tundup
Sonam stalked unsuccessfully. Shukkur Ali turned up again as cool as a
cucumber, having searched in vain for Puppy, which was snoring in my
tent in most excellent condition.
August 29. We go to sleep amidst the roaring of the waves and the
howling of the storm, and awake again to the same uproar. It is always
in our ears as we ride along the shore. We might be at the foot of a
waterfall. Now we follow the south shore westwards. Here the cliffs are
almost everywhere precipitous, and the rocks are porphyry, granite, and
schist; the shore strip is extremely narrow and steep, and is divided
into sharply marked terraces. It descends right down to great depths,
and shallow, gradually sloping places are not to be found. A human skull
lay in a bay bobbing up and down in the waves, and not far off were
other parts of a skeleton. Was it one of the men who had been drowned in
the winter? At this discovery my men conceived a still greater aversion
to Langak-tso, which even took human life. I perceived that they were
wondering what further foolhardiness I might indulge in.
A sharp-pointed peninsula running north-westwards delayed us. On the bay
beyond a caravan was camping, and we were glad to meet Tibetans again
when all others had withdrawn from us; and they were glad to meet a
European who had been at the Luma-ring-tso, their home. But they could
not understand why we passed round all projections and went right round
all the bays, instead of following the direct road running a little
farther to the south. One of them held out his hands towards me with
the fingers spread out, and said that the south shore of the lake had as
many indentations. When I told him that I wished to draw a map of the
lake, he said that it was of no consequence what the shore was like, as
only egg-gatherers came there.
When we had passed two projecting points we encamped at the extremity of
the cape which lies in a line with the southernmost island. It was
stormy, but here we found shelter under a cliff with a streamer pole on
the top. Stone walls, rags, and eggshells were evidence of the visits of
men. On the east and west of the cape were open bays with heavy seas,
and to the north, 19° E., we saw the southern point of the island--a
dark precipitous rock, rising like a huge roll of bread from the waves.
We had already heard of this island, Lache-to, on which the wild-geese
lay their eggs in May, and are robbed of them by men from Parka who come
over the ice. I could not therefore omit to visit it. The island lay
quite near. We would return immediately, and Adul might begin to roast
the wild-goose which Tundup had shot on the march. We wanted no
provisions, but Robert advised Ishe to take a bag of _tsamba_ with him,
lest he should have to wait too long for his dinner.
[Illustration: 267. PART OF KAILAS.
Sketch by the Author.]
These two men took the oars when we put off. The shelter of the cape was
deceptive. Two minutes from the bank I tried to take a sounding, but the
line made a great curve before it reached the bottom, for the storm
drove the boat northwards. Then we fell upon another device: the boatmen
had only to hold their oars in the air and let the wind carry the boat
along. But a little farther out we could not sail so easily, for the
wave system of the eastern open part of the lake came into collision
with that from the west. Here the waves rose into hillocks and pyramids,
and had to be negotiated with the oars. We rapidly drew near to the
island, and its rocks became higher and looked threateningly dark and
dangerous. When we were close to the southern point I perceived that it
was impossible to land there. The bank of rubbish and blocks was very
steep, and we and the boat would have been dashed in pieces in the
foaming breakers. The situation was critical. Robert wished to land on
the lee-side of the northern point, but that would have been risky, for
the storm swept unchecked along the sides of the island, and if we did
not get under the land at the right moment we should be driven out into
the open lake at a distance of two days' voyage from the northern shore.
We rocked up and down on soft green crystal. I steered close to the
eastern bank, where the waves were just as high. Here we had no choice.
I turned the bow towards the land, and the men rowed for all they were
worth. A nasty billow threw us ashore. Robert jumped out, slipped, and
got a ducking. Ishe hurried up to help him. Three billows broke over me
before I got to land. We were all three drenched, but we were glad to
have firm ground under our feet, and to have reached the island safely
in spite of the treacherous storm which might have driven us past this
open roadstead.
Then Robert and I went round the island while Ishe collected fuel.
Though we could only walk slowly over the detritus, we took but
twenty-five minutes to go round the island and ascertain its form by
compass bearings. It is longish, runs from north to south, and consists
of a single rock falling on all sides steeply to the water. During our
walk the wind dried us. Then I drew a panorama of Gurla Mandatta, and
after that the spot of earth to which fate had led us prisoners was
subjected to a closer investigation. At the north-eastern foot of the
elevation is a rather flat pebbly plateau. Here the wild-geese breed in
spring, and here lay still several thousand eggs, in twos, threes, or
fours, in a nest of stones and sand.
That was a discovery. Ishe had a bag of _tsamba_, but that was all.
There was every probability that we should have to stay the night here,
and now we had a quite unexpected store of provisions to last for
months. And some time this persistent wind must cease. We played at
Robinson Crusoe, and found our situation very advantageous. But the
egg-collecting was the most interesting. The eggs were pretty and
appetizing as they lay half embedded in the sand, and I pictured to
myself the happy cackling that must go on in the spring when the goose
mothers sit with expectant hearts on the hard nests, and the sun floods
Gurla Mandatta with a sea of light.
We broke two. They were rotten. We tried others which lay in the shade
and deeper in the sand. They gave out a horrible stench when the shell
broke with a crack on a stone. But of about 200 eggs we broke, we found
eight which were edible, and we did not want more. We helped Ishe to
collect dry plants lying on the slopes, and at sunset we had a huge heap
which we had piled within a small ring fence. In the middle the fire was
lighted, and we sat leaning against the wall which sheltered us from the
wind. We were warm and comfortable, and our satisfaction reached its
height when Ishe's store of _tsamba_ was divided into three equal
portions, and was eaten out of a wooden bowl with the hand in place of a
spoon. The greatest inconvenience was that we had no other vessel but
Ishe's small wooden bowl, and therefore whenever one of us wanted a
drink he had to tramp down to the shore.
The storm still howled over the rock and through the holes and crannies
of the wall. Then the thought shot through my mind: "Is the boat moored
securely? If it should be carried away! Then we are lost. Ah, but it may
be cast ashore on the northern bank, and our men may fetch it and come
across to the island. No, it will be filled with water, and be sunk by
the weight of the zinc plates of the centre-boards. But then we can
mount in the morning to the southern point and make our people
understand by signs that we want provisions. We have drifted to the
island in eighteen minutes. They can make a raft with the tent poles and
stays, load it with provisions, and let it drift with the wind to the
island. And we may find more fresh eggs."
Such were the thoughts that Robert and I exchanged while Ishe was
feeling about in total darkness at the landing-place. "What if we have
to stay here till the lake freezes over, four months hence?" I said. But
at this moment we heard Ishe's steps in the sand, and he calmed us with
the assurance that both the boat and the oars were safe.
Then we talked together again and kept up the fire. The storm had
abated, but sudden gusts came down from all quarters. We inspected the
water, and found that we could make for the mainland without danger. But
first we took all the remaining fuel and piled it up into a blazing
bonfire, which shone like a huge beacon over the lake. If any Tibetan
saw it, he must have thought that an enchanted fire was burning on the
desolate island.
The moon was high when we put off and the lake was still rough. But soon
the black cape where our camp stood was seen on the southern shore
against the dim background of mountains. In the middle of the sound the
depth was 113 feet. We shouted with all our might, and were soon
answered by a fire on the point, to which our people had come down. And
the roasted wild-goose, which had waited so long for us, and a cup of
hot tea tasted delicious in the early hours of morn. And still more
delightful was it to creep into bed after our short visit to the goose
island, which raised its dark, mysterious, dolphin-like ridge in the
moonlight. Never again would my foot tread its peaceful strand.
CHAPTER L
THE SOURCE OF THE SUTLEJ
We had scarcely dressed in the morning before the storm raged again.
Galsan and a gova from Parka overtook us here. The former brought
provisions, the latter had strict orders from his chief, Parka Tasam, to
tell me that if I did not at once betake myself to Parka, he would send
off all my baggage to Langak-tso, and force me to move on to Purang. But
the gova himself was a jovial old fellow, and he received my answer that
if Parka Tasam ventured to meddle with my boxes, he should be
immediately deposed. If he kept quiet a couple of days, I would come to
Parka, and the rather that I found it impossible to navigate the lake at
this season of the year.
Then we marched on westwards, in and out of the bays and round all the
projections produced by a mountain elevation north of Gurla, which
prolongs its ramifications to the lake. The constantly changing views,
as we wind in and out and wander between land and water, are
indescribably beautiful and charming. The two large islands lying far
out in the lake we see wherever we may be. One is named Dopserma; other
water-birds breed there, but no geese. In winter yaks and sheep are
driven over the ice to the island, where there is good pasturage. When
cattle disease rages in the country the animals on Dopserma do not
suffer.
We passed round the sharp-pointed westernmost bay in a furious storm and
blinding clouds of sand, and encamped on the shore again. The same
agreeable weather continued also on the last day of August as we
travelled north-eastwards and saw the Langak-tso in a new and beautiful
aspect. The air was now clear, Kang-rinpoche and Gurla Mandatta were
unclouded, and stood as sentinels above the lakes. We passed the point
where Tundup Sonam, Ishe, and I had waited so long, and by the sand-dune
where we had lain four hours.
At the north-western bay we cross the old bed of the Sutlej, consisting
of treacherous, quaking bog or dry, hard clay; it is broad, has no
terraces, and has been much degraded and smoothed down by deflation and
driftsand in later times. Two springs rise up in the middle, and flow in
the direction of the lake. Westwards the bed seems quite level, but
actually it rises slowly and evenly to a flat culmination, on the other
side of which it dips down towards the Indus.
Now it had become dark, and we rode hour after hour among low hills and
dunes and over meadows and water channels. I thought we had lost our
way, when the bells of grazing cattle were heard, a fire appeared, and
Rabsang came to meet us with a lantern in order to lead us to the
village Parka, where my tent was set up in a courtyard.
During the much-needed day of rest we allowed ourselves in Parka, I
negotiated now and then with the govas of the neighbourhood. They asked
me to set off definitely for the west next day, and I promised to do so,
but on the condition that I might stay three days in Khaleb, half a
day's journey to the west. They consented without inquiring into my
further intentions. I wished, be it known, to pass round the holy
mountain by the pilgrim road, but saw that the authorities would never
grant their permission. It could be done only by stratagem.
Here I received a second very kind letter from Mr. Cassels, who happened
to be in Gyanima on official business. Unfortunately the force of
circumstances prevented us meeting. He gave me a pleasant surprise with
three packets of tea, which were the more welcome as I had latterly had
to put up with brick-tea.
Here also the truth of the report that had so long followed us, that six
Chinese and Tibetan officials from Lhasa had been sent to bring me to
reason, was at length made clear. The report was certainly true, but
when the gentlemen on reaching Saka-dzong heard that I had marched on
westwards some time before, they simply turned back again.
I obtained all kinds of information about the two lakes and their
periodical outlets, from Tibetans who had long lived in the country.
Four years before some water had flowed from Tso-mavang to Langak-tso,
which confirms Ryder's statement. Twelve years ago the outflow had been
so abundant that the channel could not be passed except by the bridge.
The channel is sometimes called Ngangga, sometimes Ganga. The water of
Langak-tso is said to drain off underground, and to appear again at a
place in the old bed called Langchen-kamba, and this water is said to be
the true source of the Sutlej, and to find its way to the large streams
which form this river, called in Tibetan Langchen-kamba. Twelve years
and forty-eight years ago the spring in the old bed is said to have
emitted much more water than now. Sherring collected similar data in
1905.
Langak-tso is said to have been so poisonous in former times that any
one who drank of its water died, but since the holy fish broke through
the isthmus and passed into the lake, the water has been sweet.
Langak-tso freezes in the beginning of December, half a month sooner
than its eastern neighbour, and the freezing proceeds slowly and in
patches, whereas Tso-mavang freezes over in an hour. Langak-tso also
breaks up half a month before Tso-mavang. Both have ice 3 feet thick. In
winter the surface of Tso-mavang falls 20 inches beneath the ice, which
consequently is cracked and fissured, and dips from the shore; but
Langak-tso sinks only one or two thirds of an inch. This shows that it
receives water constantly from the eastern lake, but only parts with a
trifling quantity in winter.
With regard to the goose island, I was told that three men are
commissioned by the Devashung to settle on the island as soon as the
wild-geese arrive, to protect them from wolves and foxes. They receive 8
rupees, a sheep, and a lump of butter as wages. At this time, in May,
the ice is still two feet thick, but the egg-gatherers must take care
that they are not cut off from the mainland by a storm. Some years ago
it happened that two watchmen were isolated on the island in this way.
They lived there eight months, subsisting on eggs and green food, and
returned over the ice next winter as soon as the lake was frozen over.
But one of them was so enfeebled that he died on reaching Parka.
After a lively feast held by the Ladakis in the evening, we rode on
September 2 north-westwards, accompanied by an old grey-headed gova, who
had become a particular friend of mine. The weather was fine, but we now
felt biting cold in the morning, much as at home on the islets off the
coast when the yellow leaves have fallen and a thin sheet of ice has
spread over the inlets. All Parka was on foot to witness our departure.
With us set out a high lama whom I had known in Leh. His retinue looked
well in their yellow dresses against the grey and green ground. He had
been in Shigatse, and had lately made the circuit of the holy mountain.
During the march we waded through the rivers Dam-chu, Sung-chu, La-chu,
and Khaleb, which together carried about 350 cubic feet of water per
second to Langak-tso.
The nearer we came to the holy mountain, the less imposing it appeared;
it was finest from Langak-tso. In form it resembles a tetrahedron set on
a prism. From the middle of its white top a belt of ice falls
precipitously down, and below it stands a stalagmite of ice, on to which
a thick stream of water pours from above. The stream splits up into
glittering drops of spray and thin sheets of water--a grand spectacle,
which one could watch with pleasure for hours.
Our camp on the Khaleb moor had the advantage of being far from the
haunts of men--a very necessary condition, for here I contrived to make
three excursions without permission. The second of these took a whole
day, September 6, and its aim was the old bed of the Sutlej. Where we
reached it, the bed seemed to contain stagnant water both to the east
and west, and the ground was quite level. At the place which seemed
highest, we tested it with the boiling-point thermometer and found that
it stood about 30 feet above the lake. Following the bed westwards we
come first to a large pool of sweet water with large quantities of ducks
and water-weeds, then to a series of freshwater swamps connected by
channels, and at length to a brook, which flows slowly south-westwards.
The brook pours into a large freshwater pool, No. 2, which has no
visible outlet. But when we proceed farther west to the point where the
bed is contracted between walls of solid rock, we come upon two springs
forming a new brook, which flows through a clearly marked valley to the
south-west. I am convinced that this water filtrates underground from
Langak-tso. A year later I followed the old bed a day's march farther
west, and found at Dölchu-gompa permanent springs of abundant water,
which likewise well up on the bottom of the bed. From here and all along
its course through the Himalayas the Tibetans call the Sutlej
Langchen-kamba, the Elephant river; the hill on which the convent
Dölchu-gompa is built is supposed to bear some resemblance to an
elephant, and hence the name. The spring at Dölchu is called
Langchen-kabab, or the mouth out of which the Elephant river comes, just
as the Brahmaputra source is the Tamchok-kabab, or the mouth out of
which the Horse river comes, and the Indus source is the Singi-kabab, or
the mouth from which the Lion river comes. The fourth in the series is
the Mapchu-kamba, the Peacock river or Karnali. The Tibetans assert that
the source of the Sutlej is at the monastery Dölchu, not in the
Himalayas or the Trans-Himalaya, from which, however, it receives very
voluminous tributaries. They are also convinced that the source water of
the Langchen-kamba originates from Langak-tso. And I would draw
particular attention to the fact that the first of the two holy springs
which pour their water into the Tage-tsangpo is also called
Langchen-kamba (see p. 105), a proof that in old times the source was
supposed to lie to the east of Tso-mavang.
[Illustration: 268. KAILAS FROM DIRI-PU.]
[Illustration: 269. CONFLUENCE OF THE TWO ARMS OF THE INDUS.
Sketches by the Author.]
Now I advise any one who takes no interest in the source of the Sutlej to
skip the following quotation. During my stay in Kioto in December 1908,
Mr. Ogawa, Professor of Geography in the University there, showed me a
collection of Chinese books. One of them, _Shui-tao-ti-kang_, or _The
Elements of Hydrography_, is a compilation of the author Chi Chao Nan in
the 26th year of the Emperor Kien Lung, that is, the year 1762, and in
this work, Book 22, is the following communication concerning the source
of the Sutlej, which Professor Ogawa was kind enough to translate for me
literally:[1]
The Kang-ka-kiang comes out from Kang-ti-ssu-shan, on the south-east
of which there stands Lang-chuan-ka-pa-pu-shan ( = Langchen-kabab),
magnificent like an elephant. The relief is gradually accentuated more
and more towards the south-western frontiers, and culminates at
Kang-ti-ssu-shan ( = Kailas). The mountain has a circumference of more
than 140 li. On all sides the mountain forms precipitous walls more
than 1000 feet high above the surrounding mountains, and accumulated
snow seems as if hung on cliffs. Hundreds of springs pour down from
the top, but flow under the ground on the foot of the mountain. It is
situated in the extreme west of the Tsang region, 310 li north-east of
Ta-ko-la-cheng in A-li, more than 5590 li south-west of Si-ning-fu in
Shensi province. Its longitude is 36° 4' W., and its latitude 30° 5'
N. In olden times the place was unknown, but can be doubtfully
identified with A-nok-ta-shan in the annotation of Shui-ching. In the
neighbourhood there are four high mountains, of which the southern is
called Lang-chuan-ka-pa-pu-shan, lying 250 li south-by-east of
Kang-ti-ssu-shan, and 270 li east of Ta-kola-cheng. The natives call
it so, because the form of the mountain resembles an elephant. On the
east of this mountain there stands Ta-mu-chu-ko-ka-pa-pu-shan (=
Tamchok-kabab), which is the source of the Ya-lu-tsang-pu river (=
Yere-tsangpo or Brahmaputra). Springs come out from the northern foot
of the mountain, and accumulate into a lake (35° 5' W., and 29° 1'
N.). The water flows north-westwards for 70 li, and receives a stream
coming from the north-east. The stream lies in the mountains 80 li
north-east of Lang-chuan-ka-pa-pu. Two streams flow westwards from the
mountain and turn north-westwards after their junction. It now takes a
sinuous course for 60 li, turns south-westwards, and joins the main
river. This is a source.
The river flows further to the west-by-north for 40 li, then to the
north-east, to be met by the water of lake Kung-sheng (= Gunchu-tso),
which sinks under the ground of the lake basin, but which, after
reappearing, and after receiving three northern affluents, runs
south-westwards to the river.
The lake of Kung-sheng-o-mo has two sources--one coming from the
north-east, from Ta-ko-la-kung-ma-shan, and flowing 150-160 li; the
other from the east, from the western foot of Ma-erh-yo-mu-ling ( =
Marium-la) in the western frontiers of Cho-shu-tê. This last-mentioned
mountain forms the eastern boundary of A-li, and is the chief range
going south-eastwards from Kang-ti-ssu. The water (of the lake
Kung-sheng) flows westwards for more than 50 li, and forms another
lake, 80 li wide, and without an outlet. However, more than 10 li
farther to the west there is a third lake with a subterranean source
and with a length of 30 li. A stream comes from the north to the lake.
The river now flows south-westwards for 60 li, and receives a stream
coming from the north-east. 40 li farther south-westwards it receives
a stream coming from the northern mountains; farther south-westwards
the river meets the water from Lang-chuan-ka-pa-pu-shan.
The water forms the lake Ma-piu-mu-ta-lai ( = Tso-mavang). From south
to north it is 150 li long, from east to west 80 or 100 li wide, and
has a circumference of more than 200 li. On the northern side of the
lake there are two streams coming from the north. The lake is situated
120 li to the south of Kang-ti-ssu. The water flows out from the west
of the lake into the lake Lang-ka (= Lan-gak-tso) at a distance of 60
li. The latter lake receives a stream coming from the north-east. Lake
Lang-ka has a narrow rectangular shape, pointed and elongated, the
length from south to north being 170 li, and the width from east to
west 100 li. Its northern pointed corner has the stream coming from
north-east. There are three sources on the southern foot at a distance
of 70 li from a southern branch of Kang-ti-ssu; they flow southwards,
unite into one stream, which takes a south-westerly course for 150-160
li before entering the lake. The lake is the same in circumference and
area, but different in outline.
The water (of lake Lang-ka) flows out from the west, and after running
westwards for more than 100 li it turns to the south-west, and is now
called the Lang-chu-ho, and takes a sinuous course for more than 200
li. Then it receives the Chu-ka-la-ho coming from the north-east.
This description of the position of the source of the Sutlej is of such
extraordinary interest that I do not like to reserve it for my
scientific work, and the less so that it supports the theory I expressed
when in India, that the Tage-tsangpo is nothing but the uppermost
section of the course of the Sutlej, or, in other words, that the source
of the Tage-tsangpo is also that of the Sutlej. Many quotations have
been looked up during the discussion that has arisen on this problem,
but they cannot compare in importance with the one just cited, which,
moreover, is sixty years older than the oldest of the others, namely,
Gerard's opinion that the Gunchu-tso is the source of the Sutlej.
The description in Chi Chao Nan's _Hydrography_ is distinguished by the
same careful conformity with the truth and conscientiousness as all
other Chinese geographical descriptions. Compare the description of
Kailas (Kang-rinpoche) with what I have already said about it.
Lang-chuan-ka-pa-pu is the Chinese translation of the Tibetan
Langchen-kabab, which literally means the "Source of the Sutlej." When
the Chinese author informs us that east of Langchen-kabab lies
Tamchok-kabab, which is the source of the river Yere-tsangpo
(Brahmaputra), we must admit that his description is quite in accordance
with the truth, as I, the first European to visit this country, have
myself discovered; for on the Tamlung-la I stood on the pass which parts
the water between the Brahmaputra and Sutlej, and immediately to the
south of the pass I saw Gang-lung-gangri and the glacier from which the
Tage-tsangpo takes its rise, and in which the source of the Sutlej lies.
It is further said that the lake Gunchu-tso has two source streams--one
from the north-east, from the mountain Ta-ko-la-kung-ma, which is
evidently identical with D'Anville's Tacra-concla; the other from the
west side of the pass Marium-la: an account which agrees with Ryder's
map in all particulars. At present the Gunchu-tso is completely cut off
and is salt; it therefore is no longer connected with the Sutlej system.
But 147 years ago it had an outlet which ran partly underground, and
then, rising up again, joined the Langchen-kamba or Tage-tsangpo. And
that the Tage-tsangpo was at one time considered by the Tibetans to be
the headwater of the Sutlej is apparent from the fact that its name,
Langchen-kamba, is still applied to the upper of the two sacred source
streams in the valley of the Tage-tsangpo.
And, again, it is said: This water, that is, the water of the
Langchen-kabab, or the headwater of the Sutlej, forms the lake
Ma-piu-mu-ta-lai, the Tso-mavang or Tso-mavam, as the name is also
pronounced; on D'Anville's map (Map 2) it is written Ma-pama Talai, and
D'Anville explains that Talai signifies lake. He might have added that
it is the same word as in Dalai Lama, the priest, whose wisdom is as
unfathomable as the ocean; for the Chinese word Talai or Dalai means
ocean. By the use of this word the Chinese author wished to imply that
Tso-mavang is much larger than the other lakes mentioned in his text.
The surplus water, as there is every reason to assume, flowed in the
year 1762 from Tso-mavang through the channel to Langak-tso. The length
of the channel was 60 li, which corresponds to my 5½ miles. All the
northern tributaries which flow into the two lakes from the valleys of
the Trans-Himalaya are correctly noted. The lake Langak is called
Lang-ka. On D'Anville's map, the material for which was supplied by the
Jesuits who lived in Pekin in the time of the Emperor Kang Hi (at the
beginning of the eighteenth century), the lake is named Lanken. On the
same map the river flowing thence westwards is called Lanc-tchou
(Sutlej), but it is suggested, absurdly enough, that it is the upper
course of the Ganges. D'Anville names the mountains south of Tso-mavang
Lantchia-Kepou, which is Langchen-kabab, and the mountains lying to the
south-east of them Tam-tchou, that is, Tamchok, in which he quite
correctly places the origin of the Yarou Tsanpou, the Brahmaputra. The
material for the map of the whole Chinese Empire, which the Jesuits
presented to the Emperor Kang Hi in the year 1718, was collected between
the years 1708 and 1716, and the Emperor procured information about
Tibet through natives, who were prepared for their work by the Jesuits,
just as in later times English topographers have trained Indian pundits.
From D'Anville's map we learn that 200 years ago the Sutlej flowed out
of Langak-tso through the bed I have already described. Professor
Ogawa's translation of the Chinese text shows us that even in the year
1762, or perhaps some years before, the river still emerged from the
Langak-tso. And it is expressly said that the river Chu-ka-la-ho
(Chu-kar, which, however, is said to descend from the north-east instead
of the south-east) is only a tributary.
In the year 1846 Henry Strachey found no visible outlet, but he says
that there is one underground, and considers it probable that the
channel also may carry water when the lake has risen after heavy rains.
On July 30, 1908, I heard from the chief lama of the monastery
Dölchu-gompa, who was born in the neighbourhood and was then fifty-five
years old, that when he was quite young, water occasionally flowed out
of the lake. But when he was ten years old, that would be in the year
1863, this water had failed, and since then no more had been seen. On
the other hand, the springs in the bed are constant both in winter and
in summer, and are independent of the precipitation. The monks believe
that the water comes from Langak-tso, but nevertheless they call it the
Langchen-kabab, the river which flows out of the mouth of the elephant.
My investigations on the spot, as well as the Chinese quotation, prove
that Colonel S. G. Burrard is quite right in his masterly description of
the rivers of the Himalayas and Tibet (Calcutta, 1907), when he includes
Tso-mavang and Langak-tso and all their affluents in the drainage basin
of the Sutlej, and therefore I will here cite two sentences of Colonel
Burrard:
The connection between the two lakes may be taken as established, but
that between the western lake and the Sutlej basin is still open to
question. If the water from Rakas-tal flows into the Sutlej once a
century, and then only for such a short period as to be observed by no
one, we shall still be justified in including the lakes in the
catchment area of the river.
And in this connection I would point out that the water-level of Tibetan
rivers and lakes is subject to periodical fluctuations, dependent on the
precipitation, of the same kind as the Brückner periods. The level in
the two lakes varies from year to year. At the present time they are
very low, but there is nothing to prevent them rising gradually in a
more or less distant future. Tso-mavang may rise so that its water may
again flow through the channel to Langak-tso, and this lake at length
may discharge its surplus water, as formerly, through the dry bed of the
Sutlej. It is more probable, however, that Langak-tso is approaching a
time when it will lose its subterranean outlet also, and be quite
isolated, like Gunchu-tso and Panggong-tso, and consequently become salt
in time. But after it has lost its outlet it may be a long time, as
Professor Brückner informs me, before the lake becomes noticeably salt.
The next step in the development will be that Tso-mavang will be cut off
from Langak-tso and likewise become salt.
However, we need not plunge into speculations and prognostications of
the future, which may have surprises in store about which we can form
only more or less probable conjectures. It is our duty to rely solely on
fact and observation.
And now that we are agreed that the two lakes belong to the drainage
area of the Sutlej, the question is: Which of the rivers debouching into
Tso-mavang is the headwater of the Sutlej? Naturally, the longest and
the one which carries most water. The river which once flowed out of
Gunchu-tso has no claim to this honour, and the Gunchu-tso must be
rejected as the source of the Sutlej. The Tage-tsangpo discharged 388
cubic feet of water per second, while all the other streams entering
Tso-mavang carried at most 100 cubic feet each. The source of the
Tage-tsangpo in the front of the Gang-lung glacier is therefore the
source of the Sutlej.
[Illustration: 270. TIBETAN FEMALE PILGRIMS AT KAILAS.]
FOOTNOTE:
[1] I have only omitted a couple of sentences, which have no
immediate connection with the problem.
CHAPTER LI
A PILGRIMAGE ROUND KANG-RINPOCHE
We are again on the Khaleb moor and the day is September 3, on which we
are to begin the circuit of the holy mountain. The head Gova of Parka is
with us to hold me in check, but I take very good care not to betray my
plans. Tsering, Rabsang, Namgyal, and Ishe are to go with me; they are
Lamaists, and are glad of the opportunity to come nearer the gates of
salvation by wandering round the holy mountain. We take provisions for
three days, the absolutely necessary instruments, sketch- and
note-books. The stand of the large camera and one of the boat's
tarpaulins are to serve as a tent. The whole baggage is only a light
load for a horse. I ride my small grey Ladaki and the four men march on
foot, for no one may ride round the holy mountain unless he is a
heathen, like myself. The rest of the caravan is to wait for us in
Khaleb, and my tent is to be left untouched that the Tibetans may think
that I am expected back in the evening.
Tsering, Namgyal, and Ishe start early, and Rabsang and I a little
later. The Gova and his men come to ask what it all means and whither I
am going, but I answer only, "I shall soon be back again," and ride off
to the north, 30° E., to the mouth of the Dunglung valley.
The others wait for us among the first moraines, and then we proceed in
close column up and down among old moraines which have been thrust down
by vanished glaciers. A party of pilgrims from Kham in the distant east
are resting on the bank of the Dunglung river. They have pitched their
tents, and their horses are grazing on the fresh grass. From the top of
the moraine is seen the northern part of our stormy Langak-tso.
We ride up the valley and soon have on both sides solid rock of hard
green and violet conglomerate, with huge cones of detritus at the foot
of the slopes. Enormous boulders of conglomerate have fallen down here.
On the left bank of the river, where the road comes up from Tarchen,
stand a small cubical house and several _manis_ and _chhortens_ in long
rows: it is a sacred road, the road of pilgrims round Kang-rinpoche.
The cliffs assume ever wilder forms, falling perpendicularly to terraces
and pebble screes, forming steps and ledges, fortifications, battlements
and towers, as though built by human hands. They consist of sandstone
and conglomerate, and the strata dip 10° to the south, and to the eye
appear horizontal. A small bridge spans the river. A party of pilgrims
behind us is just crossing it. But we are on the right bank, and above
us Nyandi-gompa is perched on its terrace. Above it rises the vertical
wall of a huge mountain mass, a dangerous background for the monastery.
Up on a ledge dwells a hermit, and quite at the top stands a streamer
pole named Nyandi-kong. Five years ago a huge block fell down upon the
monastery and laid half of it in ruins. The block still lies in the
inner court. It was early in the morning after long-continuous rain; no
one was hurt, but the monastery had to be rebuilt.
Two monks, two old women, and a boy received us kindly, and said it was
the first time they had seen a European in Nyandi. The monastery, as
well as the three others on Kailas, is under Tarchen-labrang, which is
situated on the southern foot of the mountain, where the pilgrims begin
and end their circuit. Curiously enough, these monasteries belong to
Tongsa Penlop, the Raja of Bhotan. The preceding year, 1906, was a year
of the fire horse, and the year 1918 will be a year of the earth horse;
every twelfth year is a horse year, in which wood, fire, earth, iron or
water is prefixed to the name horse; the Tibetan cycle (the period of
time which is the base of the reckoning) extends over sixty years with
the names of twelve different animals. Every horse year, and accordingly
every twelfth year, crowds of pilgrims come to Kailas. The monks said
that they cannot be counted, but they knew that in the year 1907 more
than 5000 pilgrims had been at Nyandi, of whom the greater part came
from Ladak.
The _lhakang_, or hall of the gods, is very original. Four pillars
support the roof. The altar, like a Chinese kiosque of wood painted in
colours, stands alone and in deep shadow, but so many votive lights are
placed in front that they seem like a festival illumination. An especial
lamp hangs before the image of Sakya-muni, which stands against a wall.
In front of the altar is a huge copper vessel with a cover, which is
called Tosungjön. It is said to have flown in old times from India
through the air. In winter it is filled with butter, in summer with
_chang_. A lama with a brass ladle poured the consecrated beverage into
the bowls of my men, and out of the silver bowls with peacocks' feathers
he poured holy water into the hollow of their hands; they drank of it
and besmeared their faces with the rest. All, except Rabsang, paid due
reverence to the statues and prayed, and Tsering had murmured his
prayers all the way along and let the beads of his rosary slip through
his fingers. Two fine elephant's tusks (_langchen-sala-rapten_) were set
up before the altar.
In the Tsenkang hall is a figure of Hlabsen clothed in gold brocade and
_kadakhs_, the god of Kang-rinpoche and Tso-mavang. In the ante-chamber
is a whole arsenal of guns and swords and wooden and leathern shields,
each with four iron bosses. On the outside of the monastery, which
fronts the holy mountain, rows of artistically sculptured slabs are
affixed. On six of them each of the holy characters is incised, and each
of the gigantic characters is again filled in with the invariable alpha
and omega of Lamaism, "Om mani padme hum." On other flagstones gods are
carved with wonderful dexterity, and one feels a vain desire to buy one
or two of them.
The view from the roof is indescribably beautiful. The icy summit of
Kang-rinpoche rises amid fantastic fissured precipitous rocks, and in
the foreground are the picturesque superstructure of the monastery and
its streamers (Illust. 265).
But time flies. After spending three hours in Nyandi, we say farewell to
the monks, descend the steep path zigzagging among rubbish and boulders,
and continue our journey to the north-north-east along the right bank of
the river. At every turn I could stand still in astonishment, for this
valley is one of the grandest and most beautiful in its wildness that I
have ever seen. The precipice on the right side of the valley is divided
into two stages with a terrace between them, and in the midst gapes a
dark ravine. On the left side the rock forms a single vertical wall, and
here the eyes fall on a succession of singular forms of relief, rocks
like congealed cascades, citadels, church towers, and embattled
fortifications, separated by cañon-like hollows. Water from melting
snowfields pours down the steep slopes. One such jet of water is quite
800 feet high and white as milk; the wind turns it into spray, but it
collects again, only to be split up against a projection. The rock
around it is wet and dark with spurted drops. A natural rock bridge
crosses a small cleft with vertical walls.
Immediately beyond the monastery the summit of Kailas is lost to view,
but soon a bit of it is seen again through a gap. We passed twelve
pilgrims, and soon after a second party resting on a slope. They put on
solemn faces and do not talk with one another, but murmur prayers,
walking with their bodies bent, and leaning on a staff--frequently, too,
without a staff. How they have longed to come here! And now they are
here and walk round the mountain, which is always on their right. They
feel no weariness, for they know that every step improves their
prospects in the world beyond the river of death. And when they have
returned to their black tents in distant valleys, they tell their
friends of all the wonders they have seen, and of the clouds, which sail
like the dragon ships of old below the white summit of Gangri.
Small conical cairns are everywhere. Tsering never omits to take up a
stone from the margin of the road and lay it as his contribution on
every such votive pile, and thereby he does a good deed, for he makes
the way less rough for those who come after him. The sun looks out
through a gap, and throws a bright yellow light into the valley, which
otherwise is in shadow. The icy peak again appears much foreshortened.
Several tributaries come in from the sides, and towards evening the
river rises, containing quite 280 cubic feet of water.
A man from Gertse has been going round the mountain for twenty
successive days, and now has just accomplished his tenth circuit.
Dunglung-do is a very important valley junction, where three valleys
converge--the Chamo-lung-chen from the north, 70° W., the Dunglung from
the north, 5° W., and the third, called in its upper course Hle-lungpa,
which we ascend. We now have granite on both sides. Kailas turns a sharp
edge to the north, and from here the peak resembles a tetrahedron more
than ever. Again the mountain is concealed by an elevation of the ring
which girdles it as Monte Somma encircles Vesuvius. The main river
swells up towards evening; the other two are spanned by bridges. Numbers
of boulders lie all about. All is granite, and therefore the mountain
forms are rounder and more lumpy (Illust. 267).
At length we see the monastery Diri-pu in front of us, standing on the
slope on the right side of the valley. A huge block of granite beside
the path up to it bears the usual sacred characters, and there also are
long _manis_, streamers, and cairns. All the pilgrims we have overtaken
in the course of the day turn into the monastery, where they can pass
the night free of charge. The convent is crammed full after the arrival
of a party of pilgrims belonging to the Pembo sect. These, of course,
wander round the mountain in the reverse direction, and the orthodox
cast contemptuous glances at them when they meet. I prefer to pitch my
tent on the roof, where the luggage of the pilgrims is piled up. Here
also there is a fine view of Kailas, raising its summit due south. With
a temperature of 40° at nine o'clock it is cold and disagreeable, for a
strong wind blows, and my tent, consisting only of the camera-stand
covered with a linen cloth, is too small to allow of a fire being
lighted (Illust. 268).
Since I had been successful in fixing the positions of the sources of
the Brahmaputra and Sutlej, my old dream of discovering the source of
the Indus was revived, and all my aspirations and ambition were now
concentrated on this object. When I now learned from the monks that the
point where the famous river issues forth from the "Mouth of the Lion"
was only three days' journey to the north-east beyond a lofty pass,
everything else seemed of trifling consequence compared to an advance
into the unknown country in the north. We held a council of war; we had
provisions only for two days more, and we had not brought enough money
with us, and, moreover, the state of affairs in Khaleb was too uncertain
to allow of greater hazards. I therefore decided to carry out my
original plan in the meantime and complete the pilgrimage, and
afterwards make the source of the Indus the object of a fresh excursion
from Khaleb, or, if the worst came to the worst, from Gartok.
[Illustration: 271. THE GOVA BY WHOSE HELP THE SOURCE OF THE INDUS WAS
DISCOVERED (SEATED) AND TIBETANS AT KAILAS.]
On September 4 we take leave of the monks of Diri-pu, cross by a bridge
the river which comes down from the pass Tseti-lachen-la in the
Trans-Himalaya, from the other side of which the water flows to the
Indus, and mount in an easterly direction over rough steep slopes
thickly bestrewn with granite boulders. On our right is the river which
is fed by the glaciers of Kailas; it is quite short, but is very full of
water. The path becomes still steeper, winding among immense blocks of
granite, and leads up to the first hump, after which the ground is a
little more even to the next break. Here we have a splendid view of the
short truncated glacier which, fed from a sharply defined trough-shaped
firn basin, lies on the north side of Kailas. Its terminal, lateral, and
medial moraines are small but distinct. Eastwards from Kailas runs off
an exceedingly sharp, pointed, and jagged ridge, covered on the north
side with snow, and belts of pebbles in the snow give all this side a
furrowed appearance. From all corners of the ice mantle and the
snowfields foaming brooks hurry down to the river. On our left,
northwards, the mountains consist of vertical fissured granite in
wild pyramidal forms. Kailas is protected on the north by immense masses
of granite, but the mountain itself is in all probability of
conglomerate, as shown by the nearly horizontal bedding plainly
perceptible in the projecting ledges, sharply marked snow-lines, and
belts of ice. The summit rises above this sea of wild mountains like a
mighty crystal of hexagonal form.
A party of poor women and children climbed wearily up to the pass. An
elderly man, who was now making his ninth circuit, made no objection to
join our party; he knew the country and could give information about it.
On another rise in the ground, called Tutu-dapso, we saw hundreds of
votive cairns, 3 feet high--quite a forest of stone pyramids--like
innumerable gravestones in a churchyard (Illust. 270).
Slowly and laboriously we climbed up this arduous pass, one of the most
troublesome on the whole journey. Thicker and thicker lay the boulders,
exclusively of granite in all possible varieties, some pink and some so
light a grey as to be almost white. Between two boulders lay a
suspicious-looking bundle of clothes. We examined it, and found that it
contained the body of a man who had collapsed in making the tour of the
mountain of the gods. His features were rigid, and he seemed poor and
emaciated. No one knew who he was, and if he had any relations they
would never learn that his pilgrimage had launched him into new
adventures among the dark mazes of the soul's migrations.
Our old man stops at a flat granite block of colossal dimensions, and
says that this is a _dikpa-karnak_, or a test-stone for sinners. A
narrow tunnel runs under the block, and whoever is without sin, or at
any rate has a clear conscience, can creep through the passage, but the
man who sticks fast in the middle is a scoundrel. I asked the old man
whether it might not happen that a thin rogue would wriggle through
while a fat, honest fellow might stick fast; but he answered very
seriously that stoutness had nothing to do with the result of the trial,
which depended only on the state of the soul. Evidently our honest Ishe
was not certain which way the balance of his conscience inclined, for,
before we were aware, we saw him disappearing under the block, and heard
him puffing, panting, and groaning, scratching with his hands and trying
to get a foothold behind. But when he had floundered about inside long
and vigorously, he was at last obliged to call for help in a
half-strangled voice. We laughed till we could hardly keep on our feet,
and let him stay a while in his hole because of his manifest sinfulness.
Then the two other men dragged him out by the legs, and he looked
extremely confused (and dusty) when he at length emerged again into the
outer world, an unmasked villain. The old man told us that a woman had
become so firmly fixed that she had actually to be dug out.
Some 200 paces farther in this maze of granite boulders, among which we
wandered as in lanes between low houses and walls, stands a test-stone
of another kind. It consists of three blocks leaning on one another,
with two hollows between them. The task is to creep through the left
passage and return by the right, that is, in the orthodox direction.
Here Ishe made up for his previous discomfiture by crawling through both
holes. I told him frankly that there was no skill required here, for the
holes were so large that even small yaks could go through. However, the
sinner had in this second stone an opportunity of preserving at least a
show of righteousness.
Our wanderings round Kang-rinpoche, the "holy ice mountain" or the "ice
jewel," is one of my most memorable recollections of Tibet, and I quite
understand how the Tibetans can regard as a divine sanctuary this
wonderful mountain which has so striking a resemblance to a _chhorten_,
the monument which is erected in memory of a deceased saint within or
without the temples. How often during our roamings had I heard of this
mountain of salvation! And now I myself walked in pilgrim garb along the
path between the monasteries, which are set, like precious stones in a
bangle, in the track of pilgrims round Kang-rinpoche, the finger which
points up to the mighty gods throned like stars in unfathomable space.
From the highlands of Kham in the remotest east, from Naktsang and Amdo,
from the unknown Bongba, which we have heard of only in vague reports,
from the black tents which stand like the spots of a leopard scattered
among the dreary valleys of Tibet, from Ladak in the mountains of the
far west, and from the Himalayan lands in the south, thousands of
pilgrims come hither annually, to pace slowly and in deep meditation the
28 miles round the navel of the earth, the mountain of salvation. I saw
the silent procession, the faithful bands, among which all ages and both
sexes are represented, youths and maidens, strong men with wife and
child, grey old men who would before their death follow in the footsteps
of countless pilgrims to win a happier existence, ragged fellows who
lived like parasites on the charity of the other pilgrims, scoundrels
who had to do penance for a crime, robbers who had plundered peaceful
travellers, chiefs, officials, herdsmen, and nomads, a varied train of
shady humanity on the thorny road, which after interminable ages ends in
the deep peace of Nirvana. August and serene Siva looks down from her
paradise, and Hlabsen from his jewelled palace, on the innumerable human
beings below who circle, like asteroids round the sun, in ever fresh
troops, round the foot of the mountain, going up through the western
valley, crossing the Dolma pass, and descending the eastern valley.
We soon discover that most of these simple pilgrims have no clear idea
of the benefits their journey is supposed to confer on them. When they
are questioned, they usually answer that after death they will be
allowed to sit near the god of Gangri. But what they all believe most
firmly and obstinately is that the pilgrimage will bring them a blessing
in this world. It will ward off all evil from their tents and huts, will
keep away sickness from their children and herds, protect them from
robbers, thieves, and losses, will send them rain, good pasturage, and
increase among their yaks and sheep, will act like a talisman, and guard
themselves and their property as the four spirit kings protect the
images of the temple halls from demons. They march with light elastic
step, they feel neither the icy-cold cutting wind nor the scorching sun;
every step is a link in a chain which cannot be broken by the powers of
evil which persecute and torment the children of men. They start on
their way from Tarchen-labrang, and every new turn in the road brings
them a step nearer to the point where the ring closes. And during the
whole peregrination they pray "Om mani padme hum," and every time this
prayer is uttered they let a bead of the rosary pass through the
fingers. The stranger also approaches Kang-rinpoche with a feeling of
awe. It is incomparably the most famous mountain in the world. Mount
Everest and Mont Blanc cannot vie with it. Yet there are millions of
Europeans who have never heard of Kang-rinpoche, while the Hindus and
Lamaists, all know Kailas, though they have no notion where Mont Blanc
lifts up its head. Therefore one approaches the mountain with the same
feeling of respect as one experiences in Lhasa, Tashi-lunpo, Buddh Gaya,
Benares, Mecca, Jerusalem, and Rome--those holy places which have
attracted to their altars countless bands of sin-burdened souls and
seekers after truth.
Our volunteer guide said that he was on his ninth circuit of the mountain.
He took two days to each, and intended to go round thirteen times. He
called the track Kang-kora, the Gangri circle. Many years before, he had
performed the meritorious feat called _gyangchag-tsallgen_, which consists
in measuring the length of the way by the length of the pilgrim's body.
One such pilgrimage is worth thirteen ordinary circuits on foot. My
pilgrimage was of no value at all, because I was riding, the old man said;
I must go on foot if I wished to derive any benefit from it.
[Illustration: 272. _Gulam Razul beside Bales of Chinese Brick-Tea._]
When we came a second time to Diri-pu some days later, we saw two young
lamas engaged in the prostration pilgrimage round the mountain. They
were from Kham, and from that part of the country "where the last men
dwell," and had been a year on the way to Kailas. They were poor and
ragged, and had nothing to carry, for they lived on the alms of the
faithful. They had come in nine days from Tarchen to Diri-pu, and
reckoned that they had still eleven days to finish their round. I
accompanied them for half an hour on foot to observe their procedure.
This consisted of six movements. Suppose the young lama standing on the
path with his forehead held slightly down and his arms hanging loosely
at his sides, (1) He places the palms of his hands together and raises
them to the top of his head, at the same time bending his head a little
down; (2) he lays his hands under his chin, lifting up his head again;
(3) he kneels upon the ground, bends forwards and lays himself full
length on the ground with outstretched arms; (4) he passes his hands
laid together over his head; (5) he stretches his right hand forwards as
far as it will reach, and scratches a mark in the soil with a piece of
bone, which shows the line which must be touched by his toes at the next
advance; and (6) he raises himself up with his hands, makes two or three
strides up to the mark, and repeats the same actions. And thus he goes
round the whole mountain.
It is slow work and they do not hurry; they perform the whole business
with composure, but they lose their breath, especially on the way up to
the pass. And on the way down from the Dolma-la there are places so
steep that it must be a gymnastic feat to lie down head foremost. One of
the young monks had already accomplished one round, and was now on the
second. When he had finished, in twelve days, he intended to betake
himself to a monastery on the Tsangpo and be there immured for the rest
of his life. And he was only twenty years old! We, who in our superior
wisdom smile at these exhibitions of fanaticism and self-mortification,
ought to compare our own faith and convictions with theirs. The life
beyond the grave is hidden from all peoples, but religious conceptions
have clothed it in different forms among different peoples. "If thou
lookest closely, thou wilt see that hope, the child of heaven, points
every mortal with trembling hand to the obscure heights." Whatever may
be our own convictions, we must admire those who, however erroneous
their views may be in our opinion, yet possess faith enough to remove
mountains.
[Illustration: OM MANI PADME HUM]
CHAPTER LII
OM MANI PADME HUM
Now begins the last very steep zigzag in the troublesome path among
sharp or round grey boulders of every form and size, a cone of blocks
with steps in it. Dung-chapje is the name of a round wall of stone, in
the midst of which is a smaller boulder, containing in a hollow
depression a round stone like the cleft hoof of a wild yak. When the
faithful pilgrim passes this spot, he takes this stone, strikes it
against the bottom of the hollow and turns it once round like a pestle.
Consequently the hollow is being constantly deepened, and one day it
will be lowered right through the block.
We mount up a ridge with brooks flowing on both sides. On every rock,
which has a top at all level, small stones are piled up, and many of
these pyramidal heaps are packed so closely that there is no room for
another stone. Thanks to these cairns the pilgrim can find his way in
snowstorm and fog, though without them he could not easily find it in
sunshine.
At length we see before us a gigantic boulder, its cubical contents
amounting perhaps to 7,000 or 10,000 cubic feet; it stands like an
enormous milestone on the saddle of Dolma-la, which attains the
tremendous height of 18,599 feet. On the top of the block smaller stones
are piled up into a pyramid supporting a pole, and from its end cords
decorated with rags and streamers are stretched to other poles fixed in
the ground. Horns and bones, chiefly shoulder-blades of sheep, are here
deposited in large quantities--gifts of homage to the pass, which is
supposed to mark the half-way point of the pilgrimage. When the pilgrim
arrives here, he smears a bit of butter on the side of the stone, plucks
out a lock of his own hair and plasters it into the butter. Thus he has
offered up some of himself and some of his belongings. Consequently the
stone resembles a huge wig-block, from which black locks of hair flutter
in the wind. In time it would be completely covered with Tibetan hair,
were it not that the locks occasionally fall off and are blown away by
the wind. Teeth are stuck in all the chinks of the Dolma block, forming
whole rosaries of human teeth. If you have a loose tooth, dedicate it to
the spirits of the pass. Tsering unfortunately was toothless, or he
would gladly have conformed to this regulation.
Heaps of rags lie all around, for the pilgrim has always a spare shred
to hang on a string or lay at the foot of the block. But he not only
gives, but also takes. Our old man took a rag from the heap and had a
large quantity of such relics round his neck, for he had taken one from
every cairn.
The view is grand, though Kailas itself is not visible. But one can see
the sharp black ridge lying quite close on the south side with a mantle
of snow and a hanging glacier, its blue margin cut off perpendicularly
at the small moraine lake on the eastern side of the pass.
While I sat at the foot of the block, making observations and drawing
the panorama, a lama came strolling up leaning on his stick. He carried
a book, a drum, a _dorche_, and a bell, and likewise a sickly-looking
child in a basket on his back. The parents, nomads in the valley below,
had given him _tsamba_ for two days to carry the child round the
mountain, whereby it would recover its health. Many pilgrims gain their
livelihood by such services, and some make the pilgrimage only for the
benefit of others. The lama with the child complained that he had only
made the circuit of the mountain three times, and did not possess money
enough to go round thirteen times. I gave him alms.
Then he sat down on the pass, turned his face in the direction where
the summit of Kang-rinpoche was hidden, placed his hands together, and
chanted an interminable succession of prayers. After this he went up to
the block and laid his forehead on the ground--how many times I do not
know, but he was still at it when we descended among boulders to the
tiny round lake Tso-kavála. We followed its northern shore, and our old
friend told me that the ice never breaks up.
But time slips away and we must hasten on. We walk, slide, and scramble
down steep slopes where it would be easy to tumble down head over heels.
The old man is sure-footed, and these slopes are old acquaintances. But
woe betide him if he turned round and went in the reverse direction. At
length we reach the main valley, called in its upper part Tselung, and
in its lower Lam-chyker. Through the large valley, which enters the main
valley on the right side, and is called Kando-sanglam, we now look
eastwards upon the highest pinnacle of the summit of Kailas, which has a
sharp edge towards the north-east, and still looks like a crystal. At
two _manis_ erected side by side we pass the border of the granite and
the conglomerate, which now appears again. The further we proceed the
more numerous are the boulders of this kind of rock, while those of
granite at length occur no more. We march south-west and bivouac on the
roof of the monastery Tsumtul-pu. All day long, at all the cairns and
all the resting-places, I have heard nothing but an endless murmur of
the words "Om mani padme hum," and now, as long as I am awake, "Om mani
padme hum" sounds in my ears from all nooks and corners.
The temple had no other curiosity but a statue of Duk Ngavang Gyamtso, 5
feet high, sitting as at a writing-desk, two not very large elephant's
tusks, and a five-branched chandelier from Lhasa. Our visit, therefore,
did not last long, and we rode down the valley in which the river
gradually increased in size. Here, too, _manis_ and _chhortens_ are
erected, and at the end of the valley, where again numbers of granite
boulders are accumulated, we see once more Langak-tso and the grand
Gurla group.
[Illustration: 273. TIBETAN TENT.]
[Illustration: 274. MONASTERY OF GAR-GUNSA.]
[Illustration: 275. IMAGES AT CHUSHUT.]
At Tarchen-labrang we reached the termination of the pilgrimage. Here
twenty-three tents were pitched, and we received the greatest attention,
were refreshed with milk and _chang_, and rested two hours. Then we left
the pilgrim road to the right, and came into sight of the fourth
monastery, perched high up on a terrace in the valley below the holy
peak. A curious local wind at the north-west corner of Langak-tso raised
up clouds of dust like the smoke of a burning town. A short while after,
we lay peacefully among our men in the camp on the Khaleb moor.
By this pilgrimage round the holy mountain, which I had been able to
accomplish by an unexpected lucky chance, I had gained an insight into
the religious life of the Tibetans. It had also been, as it were, a
revisal of all the experiences I had already collected in this
connection.
Our knowledge of Tibet is still defective, and some future traveller
will find sufficient material to show on a map of the whole Lamaistic
world all the great pilgrim routes to innumerable sanctuaries. On such a
map numerous roads would converge, like the spokes of a wheel, to Da
Kuren, the temple of Maidari in Urga. Still closer would the rays from
every inhabited spot of the immense territory of Lamaism run together to
their chief focus, Lhasa. Somewhat less thickly they would unite at
Tashi-lunpo. Innumerable winding roads and paths would start from the
farthest border countries of Tibet, all tending towards the holy Kailas.
We know that they exist, and no great imagination is required to
conceive how they would look on a map. But it is with the routes of
pilgrims just as with the flight of the wild-geese: we know nothing of
their precise course. Besides, among the principal foci are scattered a
number of smaller centres whence radii diverge to a sanctuary, a lake,
or a spring, and from the heart of all these wind-roses peals out a cry
to the faithful, similar to the exhortation of Isaiah: "Look upon Zion,
the city of our solemnities: thine eyes shall see Jerusalem" (Isa.
xxxiii. 20).
In the ears of the Tibetan another saying rings, the mystical formula
"Om mani padme hum," not only on his wanderings to the goal of his
pilgrimage, but throughout his life. Concerning this Waddell makes,
among others, the following remarks: "Om-ma-ni pad-me Hum, which
literally means '_Om!_ The Jewel in the lotus!' _Hum!_--is addressed to
the Bodhisat Padmapani, who is represented like Buddha as seated or
standing within a lotus-flower. He is the patron-god of Tibet and the
controller of metempsychosis. And no wonder this formula is so popular
and constantly repeated by both Lamas and laity, for its mere utterance
is believed to stop the cycle of re-births and to convey the reciter
directly to paradise. Thus it is stated in the Mani-kah-bum with
extravagant rhapsody that this formula 'is the essence of all happiness,
prosperity, and knowledge, and the great means of deliverance,' for the
_Om_ closes re-birth amongst the gods, _ma_ among the Titans, _ni_ as a
man, _pad_ as a beast, _me_ as a Tantalus, and _Hum_ as an inhabitant of
hell. And in keeping with this view each of these six syllables is given
the distinctive colour of these six states of re-birth, namely: _Om_,
the godly _white_; _ma_, the Titanic _blue_; _ni_, the human _yellow_;
_pad_, the animal _green_; _me_, the 'Tantalic' _red_; and _Hum_, the
hellish _black_" (_The Buddhism of Tibet_, 148-9).
Köppen and Grünwedel translate the four words: "O, Jewel in the
lotus-flower, Amen."
Wherever one turns in Tibet, he sees the six sacred characters engraved
or chiselled out, and hears them repeated everywhere. They are found in
every temple in hundreds of thousands of copies, nay, in millions, for
in the great prayer mills they are stamped in fine letters on thin
paper. On the monastery roofs, on the roofs of private houses, and on
the black tents, they are inscribed on the fluttering streamers. On all
the roads we ride daily past wall-like stone cists covered with slabs,
on which the formula "Om mani padme hum" is carved. Seldom does the most
lonely path lead up to a pass where no cairn is erected to remind the
wanderer of his dependence all his life long on the influence of good
and bad spirits. And on the top of every such _lhato_ or _lhadse_ is
fixed a pole or a stick with streamers, every one proclaiming in black
letters the eternal truth. At projecting rocks cubical _chhortens_ or
_lhatos_ stand beside the road in red and white. On the sides of granite
rocks polished smooth by wind and weather figures of Buddha are
frequently cut, and below them, as well as on fallen boulders, can be
read in gigantic characters "Om mani padme hum." On the piers between
which chain bridges are stretched over the Tsangpo or other rivers,
heaps of stones are piled up, and on all these innumerable votive cairns
lie yak skulls and crania of wild sheep and antelopes. Into the horns
and the bleached frontal bones of the yak the sacred formula is cut, and
the incised characters are filled in with red or some other holy colour.
We find them again in innumerable copies and in many forms, especially
on the high-roads which lead to temples and pilgrims' resorts, as well
as at all places where there is danger, as on mountain passes and river
fords. And even the ferry boats of hide are decorated with blessed
streamers.
In every caravan one man at least, and usually several, has a
prayer-mill in his hand. This is rotated by means of a weight round the
axle of the handle, and is stuffed full of paper strips bearing the holy
formula in many thousands of impressions. All day long, whatever the
duration of the journey, the believer turns his prayer-mill and babbles
in chanting tones "Om mani padme hum." The militia who are called out to
catch a robber band have on their ride more confidence in their
prayer-mills than in their guns and sabres, and, sad to say, there are
some even among the robbers who rattle off their Om and Hum in order to
make their escape. Among the escorts which accompanied me on various
occasions there were always one or two horsemen armed with a _mani_
machine. One always sees this convenient praying instrument in the hands
of the people one meets. The herdsman murmurs the six syllables beside
his herd, his wife when milking the sheep, the merchant as he goes to
market, the hunter as he stalks the wild yak on untrodden paths, the
nomad when he sets out to move his tent to another pasture, the artisan
as he bends over his work. With these words the Tibetan begins his day,
and with them on his tongue he lies down to rest. The Om and Hum are
not only the Alpha and Omega of the day, but of his whole life.
The mystic words rang constantly in my ears. I heard them when the sun
rose and when I blew out my light, and I did not escape them even in the
wilderness, for my own men murmured "Om mani padme hum." They belong to
Tibet, these words; they are inseparable from it: I cannot imagine the
snow-capped mountains and the blue lakes without them. They are as
closely connected with this country as buzzing with the bee-hive, as the
flutter of streamers with the pass, as the ceaseless west wind with its
howling.
The life of the Tibetan from the cradle to the grave is interwoven with
a multitude of religious precepts and customs. It is his duty to
contribute his mite to the maintenance of the monasteries and to the
Peter's pence of the temples. When he passes a votive cairn he adds a
stone to the pile as an offering; when he rides by a _mani_, he never
forgets to guide his steed to the left of it; when he sees a holy
mountain, he never omits to lay his forehead on the ground in homage; in
all important undertakings he must, for the sake of his eternal
salvation, seek the advice of monks learned in the law; when a mendicant
lama comes to his door he never refuses to give him a handful of
_tsamba_ or a lump of butter; when he makes the round of the temple
halls, he adds his contribution to the collection in the votive bowls;
and when he saddles his horse or loads a yak, he again hums the
everlasting "Om mani padme hum."
More frequently than an Ave Maria or a Paternoster in the Catholic
world, "Om mani padme hum" forms an accompaniment to the life and
wanderings of humanity over half Asia. The boundless vista opened out by
the six holy syllables is thus expressed by Edwin Arnold in the
concluding lines of his poem, _The Light of Asia_:
The dew is on the lotus. Rise, Great Sun!
And lift my leaf and mix me with the wave.
Om mani padme hum, the sunrise comes.
The dewdrop slips into the shining sea.
[Illustration: 276. THE POLICEMEN FROM SIMLA.]
[Illustration: 277. MY BOAT ON THE INDUS.]
[Illustration: 278. LADAKI WOMEN.]
CHAPTER LIII
THE DISCOVERY OF THE SOURCE OF THE INDUS
Immediately on my arrival in Khaleb I told the old gova, who had the
hopeless and thankless task of watching my proceedings, that I now
intended to take the road past Singi-kabab, or the source of the Indus.
"If you go thither, Bombo," he answered, "I shall at once send a courier
to the Garpuns, the two chiefs in Gartok."
"I do not think that the Garpuns will have any objection to my taking a
more northerly route."
"Oh yes, the Garpuns received orders from Lhasa five days ago to watch
carefully that you followed no other way but the great high-road to
Gartok. The Garpuns straightway sent couriers to twelve different
places--Parka, Misser, Purang, Singtod, and others--to make it known
that you were not permitted to travel on byroads. If this letter had not
reached me, I would willingly have let you march northwards, but now I
dare not for my own sake."
"What would you do if I quietly disappeared one night? I can buy yaks in
Tarchen, and then I shall not be dependent on those I have from you."
"Yes, of course. A man lives in Tarchen who has sixty yaks, and will
sell them as soon as he sees silver money. But I shall at once send word
to the Garpuns, and they will send men after you and force you to come
back. To buy yaks would therefore be useless waste of money. However, if
you like to let the main part of your caravan follow the high-road, and
make yourself an excursion of a couple of days northwards to the
Singi-kabab, and then join your caravan again, I will put no obstacles
in your way. But you do it at your own risk, and you will most certainly
be caught before you reach the source of the Indus."
I was as much astonished as delighted by this sudden change in the
attitude of the gova, and arranged with Robert that he should lead the
main caravan in very short day's marches to Gartok, while I made as
rapidly as possible for the source of the Indus. I took only as many
things as a small leathern trunk would contain, and as companions only
five men, among them Rabsang as interpreter and Adul as cook, with our
own six animals and three dogs, one of which, a new purchase, ran away
on the first day. I had Robert's small tent, and our arsenal consisted
of two guns and a revolver, for robbers were said to make the country
very unsafe. I could not find a guide, but on the way to Diri-pu, where
I encamped once more, I came across an old man from Tok-jalung, who
wished to make the round of Kailas thirteen times, and gave me much
valuable information. But no money could induce him to accompany us
farther.
On the 8th we continued our way through the valley that runs
north-north-eastwards from Diri-pu to the Tseti-la. The stream, divided
into many arms, was covered in the night by a thin coating of ice,
smooth as glass, where the water had run off, but it disappeared when
day came. The valley is broad, and the road showed traces of
considerable traffic, though we did not meet a soul. The marmots
whistled in front of their holes; the summer would soon be over for
them. Kang-rinpoche can be seen from many places, and here pilgrims from
the north have piled up cairns. Granite predominates everywhere, but
crystalline schists occur here and there. We followed the fresh tracks
of three horsemen. The gradient became steeper and the scenery assumed
more of an alpine character. We mounted up among huge cones of detritus
with babbling brooks of melted snow to the pass, which lay at a height
of 18,465 feet. Its plateau is singularly flat. On its northern side
camp No. 234 was pitched.
In the evening Rabsang reported that our fuel-gatherers had heard
whistles, and that these signals had been answered from the other side.
The men believed that there were robbers here, and did not dare to sit
outside by the fire lest they should be good marks for shots out of an
ambush. I quieted them with the assurance that no robber would venture
to attack a European, but gave orders to the watchmen to keep an eye on
our animals.
The night passed quietly and the minimum temperature went down to 16.2°;
autumn was come again into dreary Tibet. I had supposed that the
Tseti-la was the pass on the main divide, but we had not gone far when
we saw its brook, which flowed northwards, make a bend to the west, and
descend through a well-defined valley to the Dunglung. It therefore
belongs to the catchment basin of the Sutlej and not to the Indus, and
the Tseti-la is a pass of secondary order. But we soon reached the
actual pass, an extremely flat threshold. Here lies a small muddy lake
drained by a brook issuing from its eastern side, which we followed all
day. This pass is the Tseti-lachen-la, and it is a water-parting between
the Sutlej and the Indus. Its height is less than that of the Tseti-la,
for it is only 17,933 feet; it lies on the main chain of the
Trans-Himalaya. Kailas, therefore, lies a good day's journey south of
the watershed of the two rivers, and belongs entirely to the basin of
the Sutlej.
From the lake we follow the little affluent of the Indus northwards. The
ground is marshy and rough. Here and there are seen three hearthstones.
A dead horse lies among the luxuriant grass. It is singular that no
nomads are encamped here. At length we see at a far distance quite down
in the valley men going downstream with large flocks of sheep. Tundup
Sonam and Ishe are sent after them, and by degrees the rest of us come
up with the party. They are nomads from Gertse, who have taken salt to
Gyanima and are now transporting barley on their 500 sheep. All the
valley is dotted over with white sheep, which trip along actively,
plucking the grass as they go. In front of us rises a steep purple
mountain chain, and along the flank turned towards us the Indus is said
to flow. We joined the men of the sheep caravan and camped together with
them. There were five of them, all armed with guns, and they said that
the district was frequently haunted by robbers, who at times seemed to
vanish altogether, and then suddenly came down like a whirlwind, and no
one knew whence they came.
Our camping-ground on the bank of the Indus (16,663 feet) is called
Singi-buk. Eastwards the valley is broad and open, but the Indus itself
is here an insignificant stream. I was therefore not astonished when I
heard that it was only a short day's journey to the source, which, I was
told, does not proceed from snow or a glacier, but springs up out of the
ground. The men called the river the Singi-tsangpo, or Singi-kamba, and
the source itself Singi-kabab, though we afterwards heard the word
pronounced Senge more frequently than Singi.
It turned out that one of the five men knew all about us. He was a
brother of the Lobsang Tsering on the Dungtse-tso who had sold us three
yaks the winter before (see Chapter XV.). It was a singular chance that
we should fall in with him. He said he had heard how well we had treated
his brother, and offered us his services--for a good reward, of course.
As he had travelled several times through this region, quite unknown to
Europeans, and was acquainted with all the passes, roads, and valleys, I
thought he would be very valuable to me, and I proposed to give him 7
rupees a day, that is about half a month's pay of one of my Ladakis. Of
course he accepted the terms at once and soon became our intimate
friend.
But these business matters were not yet settled. The man had a quantity
of sheep and barley. He consented to let us eight sheep on hire, and
sell us their loads, which would last our horses for a week. He was to
receive a rupee for the hire of each sheep, which was high, for a sheep
is worth only 2 to 3 rupees. The old man would therefore receive 18
rupees every evening as long as he was with us; but it was cheap after
all, for the discovery of the source of the Indus was involved.
[Illustration: 279, 280, 281. AT THE MONASTERY DOOR IN TASHI-GANG
BETWEEN GARTOK AND LADAK.]
The large sheep-caravan had already started on September 10, when we,
with our new guide, whose own _tsamba_ was carried on a ninth sheep,
followed in its track. After an hour's march we crossed a tributary, the
Lungdep-chu, which comes from a valley in the south-east, with flattish
mountains in the background.
A little farther up the Singi-kamba expands into a basin containing an
abundance of medium-sized fish. As we passed, the fish were darting
upstream in compact shoals, and passed a very shallow place with slight
swirls. Here Rabsang attacked them, but all his catch was only one small
miserable fish. Then we threw up a dam by the bank, with an opening on
one side, and the men went into the water and drove in the fish with
shouts and splashing. Then the entrance was built up. After we had
repeated this diversion three times, we had procured thirty-seven fine
fish, and I was eager for my dinner, which I usually looked forward to
with some loathing, for the hard dried mutton had become thoroughly
distasteful to me. Our old man, who sat and watched us, thought that we
had taken leave of our senses. Farther up, the fish were so crowded in a
quiet pool that they made the water seem almost black with their dark
backs.
We rode up the valley, leaving on our right a red, loaf-shaped mountain
called Lungdep-ningri. Opposite, on the northern side of the valley,
were seen two fine Ovis Ammon sheep feeding on a conical elevation. They
bore splendid horns, and carried their heads royally. They soon
perceived us, and made slowly up the slope. But they paid too much
attention to our movements, and did not notice that Tundup Sonam, with
his gun on his back, was making a detour to stalk them from the other
side of the hill. After a while we heard a shot, and a good hour later,
when the camp was pitched, Tundup came back laden with as much of the
flesh of his victim as he could carry. Thus we obtained a fresh addition
to our somewhat scanty rations, and Tundup's exploit enhanced the glory
of this memorable day. In the evening he went off again to fetch more
meat, and he brought me the head of the wild sheep, which I wished to
preserve as a memento of the day at the source of the Indus.
The ground rises exceedingly slowly. Singi-yüra is a rugged cliff to the
north, with a large hole through its summit. Singi-chava is the name of
a commanding eminence to the south. Then we wade through the outflow of
the Munjam valley running in from the south-east. Above this the Indus
is only a tiny brook, and part of its water comes from a valley in the
south-east, the Bokar. A little later we camp at the aperture of the
spring, which is so well concealed that it might easily be overlooked
without a guide.
From the mountains on the northern side a flattish cone of detritus, or,
more correctly, a slope bestrewn with rubbish, descends to the level,
open valley. At its foot projects a slab of white rock with an almost
horizontal bedding, underneath which several small springs well up out
of the ground, forming weedy ponds and the source stream, which we had
traced upwards, and which is the first and uppermost of the headwaters
of the mighty Indus. The four largest springs, where they issued from
the ground, had temperatures of 48.6°, 49.1°, 49.6°, and 50.4°
respectively. They are said to emit the same quantity of water in winter
and summer, but a little more after rainy seasons. Up on the slab of
rock stand three tall cairns and a small cubical _lhato_ containing
votive pyramids of clay. And below the _lhato_ is a quadrangular _mani_,
with hundreds of red flagstones, some covered with fine close
inscriptions, some bearing a single character 20 inches high. On two the
wheel of life was incised, and on another a divine image, which I
carried off as a souvenir of the source of the Indus.
Our guide said that the source Singi-kabab was reverenced because of its
divine origin. When travellers reached this place or any other part of
the upper Indus, they scooped up water with their hands, drank of it,
and sprinkled their faces and heads with it.
[Illustration: 282. DANCING WOMEN IN CHUSHUT, A VILLAGE ON MY WAY BACK
TO LADAK.]
Through the investigations made by Montgomerie's pundits in the year
1867 it was known that the eastern arm of the Indus is the actual
headwater, and I had afterwards an opportunity of proving by measurement
that the western, Gartok, stream is considerably smaller. But no
pundit had succeeded in penetrating to the source, and the one who
had advanced nearest to it, namely, to a point 30 miles from it, had
been attacked by robbers and forced to turn back. Consequently, until
our time the erroneous opinion prevailed that the Indus had its source
on the north flank of Kailas, and, thanks to those admirable robbers,
the discovery of the Indus source was reserved for me and my five
Ladakis.
We passed a memorable evening and a memorable night at this important
geographical spot, situated 16,946 feet above sea-level. Here I stood
and saw the Indus emerge from the lap of the earth. Here I stood and saw
this unpretentious brook wind down the valley, and I thought of all the
changes it must undergo before it passes between rocky cliffs, singing
its roaring song in ever more powerful crescendo, down to the sea at
Karachi, where steamers load and unload their cargoes. I thought of its
restless course through western Tibet, through Ladak and Baltistan, past
Skardu, where the apricot trees nod on its banks, through Dardistan and
Kohistan, past Peshawar, and across the plains of the western Panjab,
until at last it is swallowed up by the salt waves of the ocean, the
Nirvana and the refuge of all weary rivers. Here I stood and wondered
whether the Macedonian Alexander, when he crossed the Indus 2200 years
ago, had any notion where its source lay, and I revelled in the
consciousness that, except the Tibetans themselves, no other human being
but myself had penetrated to this spot. Great obstacles had been placed
in my way, but Providence had secured for me the triumph of reaching the
actual sources of the Brahmaputra and Indus, and ascertaining the origin
of these two historical rivers, which, like the claws of a crab, grip
the highest of all the mountain systems of the world--the Himalayas.
Their waters are born in the reservoirs of the firmament, and they roll
down their floods to the lowlands to yield life and sustenance to fifty
millions of human beings. Up here white monasteries stand peacefully on
their banks, while in India pagodas and mosques are reflected in their
waters; up here wolves, wild yaks, and wild sheep, roam about their
valleys, while down below in India the eyes of tigers and leopards
shine like glowing coals of fire from the jungles that skirt their
banks, and poisonous snakes wriggle through the dense brushwood. Here in
dreary Tibet icy storms and cold snowfalls lash their waves, while down
in the flat country mild breezes whisper in the crowns of the palms and
mango trees. I seemed to listen here to the beating of the pulses of
these two renowned rivers, to watch the industry and rivalry which,
through untold generations, have occupied unnumbered human lives, short
and transitory as the life of the midge and the grass; all those
wanderers on the earth and guests in the abodes of time, who have been
born beside the fleeting current of these rivers, have drunk of their
waters, have drawn from them life and strength for their fields, have
lived and died on their banks, and have risen from the sheltered freedom
of their valleys up to the realms of eternal hope. Not without pride,
but still with a feeling of humble thankfulness, I stood there,
conscious that I was the first white man who had ever penetrated to the
sources of the Indus and Brahmaputra.
CHAPTER LIV
A RESOLUTION
From the source of the Indus we travelled on north-eastwards with our
friendly guide to a locality called Yumba-matsen, which lies in lat. 32°
N. And thence I betook myself to Gartok, the chief town of western Tibet
and the residence of the two Garpuns, where I arrived after many
adventures on September 26, having crossed the Trans-Himalaya for the
fifth time by the Jukti-la (19,111 feet high). I must, alas! omit a
description of this journey for the present, though it passed for the
most part through unknown country. Mr. Calvert crossed over the Jukti-la
two years before.
In Gartok (14,656 feet) a new period began. This town is a turning-point
in the chronicles of my journey. In the first place, I again came into
contact with the outer world. Thakur Jai Chand, the British commercial
agent, handed me immediately on my arrival a thick packet of letters,
including a quantity from my dear home, and others from Lord and Lady
Minto and their daughters, from Colonel Dunlop Smith, Younghusband,
O'Connor, Rawling, and many other friends in Europe and Asia. Nothing,
however, was heard of the heavy consignment I expected from Simla. But
soon afterwards I heard from Dunlop Smith that all I had ordered was on
the way and would arrive in due course, and meantime I had to wait in
patience.
The Garpuns at once sent me presents as a token of welcome, with the
usual polite phrases. They were of too great importance to visit me
first, so next day I went to them. The elder was ill; the younger, a
gentleman from Lhasa, thirty-five years of age and of distinguished
appearance, received me most cordially in his simple Government
buildings, and was so little angry at the liberties I had recently taken
that he did not even ask me where I had been. It was an irony of fate
that a letter in most friendly terms and most liberal in its
concessions, which I now received from Lien Darin by the hand of the
Garpun, had not reached me until it was too late. When Lien Darin
received my letter from Raga-tasam, he immediately sent off two Chinamen
fully authorized to come to an agreement with me about the route I was
to take. "For I shall be glad to know," said the Amban of Lhasa, "that
you are travelling by the road that suits you." He was quite convinced
that my movements, whichever way I took, would give no cause for
political complications. And he concluded with the words: "Now, I hope
that you will have a successful and peaceful journey, and I will pray
for your health and prosperity."
How I regretted now that I had not stayed in Saka, and so much the more
when the Garpun told me that the two Chinamen had arrived with an escort
of four Tibetans only two weeks after we had left! But the Garpun was
friendly disposed towards me; he was the most powerful man in western
Tibet, and could still throw open all doors for me, if he dared and was
willing to do so.
[Illustration: 283. OLD WOMAN.]
[Illustration: 284. LAMA IN CHUSHUT.
Sketches by the Author.]
I was, indeed, pleased and thankful for the results which I had already
been able to secure. Besides many other problems that had been solved, I
had crossed the Trans-Himalaya by five passes, namely, the Sela-la,
Chang-la-Pod-la, Angden-la, Tseti-lachen-la, and Jukti-la, of which the
first four had been entirely unknown. But between the Angden-la and the
Tseti-lachen-la I had been obliged to leave a gap of quite 330 miles in
the exploration of the Trans-Himalaya. Of this region nothing was known
but the summits Ryder had seen from his route, and which he and Wood had
measured by observation. We also possessed some uncertain statements of
Nain Sing's journey in 1873, but his route lay to the north of the blank
patch, and this blank represented an area of 5300 square miles. I could
not return home without having done all that was humanly possible to
traverse the unknown country by at least one route. Precisely there was
the line forming the watershed between the Indian Ocean and the inland
drainage of the salt lakes on the Tibetan plateau. There many lakes and
rivers might be expected to exist, and there lay the large province of
Bongba, of which so many hazy reports had reached our ears from its
northern, eastern, and southern boundaries. But the greatest and most
important question of all was: Does the Nien-chen-tang-la run right
through Tibet in a westerly and north-westerly direction to the north of
the Tsangpo and the upper Indus? No European and no pundit had hitherto
ventured on this problem; but Hodgson, Saunders, and Atkinson had many
years before laid down a hypothetical range on their maps of Tibet. Did
it actually exist? Or was a labyrinth of ranges hidden under the white
space, or a comparatively flat plateau, on which foundation isolated
snowy peaks and chains were based? Hypotheses are absolutely worthless
compared to proved facts. Such facts I would procure. I knew that if I
did not succeed now in penetrating into the country which on the latest
English map of Tibet (1906, Map 1) bears only the word "Unexplored," one
fine day another explorer would come and rob me of this triumph. And
this thought I could not endure.
In Gartok my old friend from Leh, the rich merchant Gulam Razul, was
staying (Illust. 272). I consulted him, and he was to be my delivering
angel. He took a very sanguine view of our position, for the Garpun owed
him 7000 rupees for goods delivered, and feared his influence; he could
therefore put pressure on the Viceroy of western Tibet. He first tried
stratagem, which, however, completely failed, for the Garpun replied he
was too fond of his head to expose it to risk by assisting a European
who had no permission to travel about the country. Then we tried gold,
but the Garpun answered most theatrically: "If this house were of gold
and you offered it to me, I would not take it. If you travel on
forbidden roads, I will send armed men after you who will force you to
return hither."
He was incorruptible, and he was too strong for us. How sorry I was now
that I had not proceeded eastwards when I was in enjoyment of complete
freedom at the source of the Indus and in Yumba-matsen! But no, that was
impossible, for my cash-box was then not full enough, I had only five
men with me, and I could not have left the rest of my caravan to their
own devices.
What if I went down into Nepal and came back again into Tibet by
unguarded roads? No, that would not do, for snow would soon close the
Himalayan passes. And if we tried to slink through to Rudok and thence
make eastwards? No, Rudok swarmed with spies. And soon Gulam Razul
learned also that the Garpun had sent orders throughout his territory to
stop me in case I attempted to travel even to Ladak by any other than
the main high-road.
Thus we planned this and that, and mused day and night, sometimes in my
tent, sometimes in Gulam Razul's, and waited for the consignment from
Simla, heard bells jingle when couriers came from the east, saw one
merchant after another return from the fair in Lhasa, met the _serpun_
or gold commissioner who came from Tok-jalung, and felt the cold of
autumn cut our skins more sharply as the thermometer fell to -11°.
Then in lonely hours I came to the resolution to return to Ladak and
thence, as in the year before, penetrate into Tibet from the north,
traverse the whole country once more, and cross the blank space. I knew
very well that by this roundabout way it would take half a year to reach
districts situated only a month's journey from Gartok. A new caravan
would be necessary, new dangers and adventures awaited us, and winter
was before us with its Arctic cold. But it must be done in spite of
everything. I would not turn back until the obstacles in my way became
quite insuperable. To enter Ladak, a country under British protection,
was a risk, and therefore I must make all haste to cross the frontier
again. I could not avoid Rawling's and Deasy's country, but what did it
matter? My aim was the unknown region, which I would try to explore by
some route or other.
Gulam Razul and Robert were the only ones who were initiated into my new
plans, for in them I could place the blindest confidence. During our
conferences we spoke in Persian, and Robert kept a watch that no
eavesdropper came near my tent. Gulam Razul undertook to get together
the new caravan from Leh, and it was to reach at a certain time Drugub,
where I meant to dismiss my last thirteen men; they were worn-out and
longed to get home. Gulam Razul undertook the responsibility of finding
me fresh men.
On October 20 we left Gartok to await in Gar-gunsa the arrival of the
consignment from India. Gulam Razul, Thakur Jai Chand, the postmaster
Deni Das, and the doctor Mohanlal, also moved thither. Robert had heard
in Gartok the sad news that his elder brother had died in Further India,
and now he received a fresh blow, for his little brother, ten years old,
had been drowned in Srinagar. He was inconsolable, and begged me to let
him go home to his mother, who had now only one son left. So I was to
lose him also.
Gulam Razul had three large tents within his fence of boughs (Illust.
254). There he sat like a pasha on his divan, smoked a large silver
narghilé, and received his guests with Oriental dignity. He was jovial
and agreeable, undertook to do everything, and thought nothing of
difficulties. There we made our plans and long lists of things to be
bought, and as my arrival in Ladak could not be kept secret for long, we
spread the report that I wanted a new caravan for a journey to Khotan,
and that I intended to travel to Pekin in the spring. For the success of
the plan it was essential that no one should have any suspicion of my
real intentions; for in that case, especial orders would be sent to
Rudok and to the nomads. My own servants and all Hajji Nazer Shah's
household believed therefore that it was my settled purpose to go to
Khotan, and that I had given up all thoughts of Tibet. I even went so
far as to send a telegram from Drugub to Reuter's correspondent in
India, my friend Mr. Buck, with the information that I was about to make
a short journey to Khotan. The object was to mislead the mandarins. If
no one else would help me, I must help myself, and, if necessary, with
cunning and trickery. None of my Indian friends must have any suspicion
of my real plans, not even Colonel Dunlop Smith; it would, of course, be
silly to put them in a position where they must either betray me or be
disloyal to their own superiors. Except Gulam Razul and Robert, only my
parents and sisters were let into the secret. But, unfortunately, I had
given them a far too optimistic estimate of the length of my enterprise,
and therefore when they heard no news they became day by day more
uneasy, and at last came to the conclusion that I had come to grief
(Illust. 234).
On October 29, 1907, Gulam Razul's mules arrived, and were subjected to
a thorough inspection. They were in splendid condition--small, sturdy,
and sleek animals from Lhasa, accustomed to rarefied air, and, according
to the owner, capable of enduring hardships of every kind. Gulam Razul
even offered to buy them back at the price I paid, if they returned
alive. I paid for all the twenty 1780 rupees. I still possessed five of
my own animals, after a small white mule had been torn to pieces by
wolves in Gartok. A whole pack had attacked our last six animals, the
camp watchman had been unable to drive the wolves away, and the mule had
been horribly wounded. He had been seen running before the wolves with
his entrails trailing on the ground. The last mule from Poonch still
survived, as well as my little Ladaki grey and one of his fellows, the
veterans of Leh.
[Illustration: 285. ON THE WAY TO TANKSE.]
[Illustration: 286. IN THE INDUS VALLEY ON THE WAY TO LADAK.]
[Illustration: 287. THE NEW HORSES AND MULES AT DRUGUB.]
Gulam Razul also undertook to procure for me fifteen excellent horses
from Ladak at a price of 1500 rupees. The other purchases consisted of:
barley for the animals, 60 rupees; rice, 70 rupees; _tsamba_, 125
rupees; provender sacks, 60 rupees; clothes for the new men, 152 rupees;
butter, 80 rupees; tea, 50 rupees; stearin candles and sugar, 104
rupees; a Lhasa skin coat for myself, 40 rupees; and a sleeping-bag of
soft goatskin, also for myself, 25 rupees; in addition there was the
hire of the pack animals which conveyed my baggage to Leh, 40 rupees,
and the cost of transporting the newly purchased goods from Leh to
Drugub, 20 rupees. Eleven men were to be enlisted in Leh, all having
served in Hajji Nazer Shah's commercial house and known as honest
respectable people. They were to receive 15 rupees a month each,
though their usual wages had not been more than 12, and three months'
pay in advance. The caravan bashi was to receive 50 rupees a month and
be selected with very great care. My whole debt to Gulam Razul amounted
to nearly 5000 rupees, for those who had had the trouble of making all
these purchases were to receive a douceur over and above. I sent a note
of hand to Colonel Dunlop Smith, with directions that this sum should be
paid to Gulam Razul, in order that he might have security if I did not
return from this journey.
On October 30 Gulam Razul sent his son to Leh to equip the new caravan,
which was to reach Drugub, ready in all particulars, on November 30. For
the valuable services rendered me on this occasion Gulam Razul
afterwards received from H.M. King Gustaf of Sweden the gold medal "for
distinguished service," and I recommended him to the Indian Government
for the title of honour, Khan Bahadur; of course I based my appeal in
this case on the great commercial services he had rendered to the Indian
Empire.
In Gar-gunsa I heard news of a new treaty between Great Britain and
Russia, which had been concluded in October of this year. "Great Britain
and Russia bind themselves not to allow any scientific expedition of any
kind whatsoever to enter Tibet for the next three years without previous
agreement, and call upon China to act similarly" (Illust. 274).
It seemed as though this clause were especially designed to meet my
case. I said not a word to Gulam Razul about it. But I saw that I could
no longer travel in Tibet as a European. Last year I had been successful
when the political situation was still unsettled, but I had taught both
the Chinese and Tibetans a lesson, and shown them that it was possible
for a European to travel right across the country. I had also placed a
weapon in their hands against me. I should not be able to manage it a
second time. Now they would keep their eyes open along the periphery of
the inhabited country. I must travel in disguise to attract as little
attention as possible. Another courier was therefore sent to Leh to
procure me a complete Ladaki costume in Mohammedan fashion. Gulam Razul
also was of opinion that, considering all circumstances, it would be
wisest to travel as a merchant. The new caravan leader was to be our
master, while I myself should figure as "the least of his servants," and
keep myself out of sight in all negotiations.
The whole affair was a desperate game, a political and diplomatic game
of chess, the stakes being my own life or great geographical
discoveries. I, who had hitherto stood on the most friendly and
confidential terms with the Tibetans, must now avoid them as enemies. I
should not be able to see any Tibetan face to face, and should have to
conceal my own eyes in order not to be caught. Therefore a large pair of
round goggles with dark glasses was bought; inside them I fastened
polished glasses of the strength suited to my sight. My European outfit
was restricted as much as was at all possible; the large camera and the
boat were sent to Leh with my other baggage, and I took with me only a
small Richard's camera.
The main point was that in inhabited districts I should conduct myself
with Oriental self-control and be entirely passive. The outcome of this
mad plan was to me enshrouded in impenetrable darkness. I only knew that
I must go northwards from Drugub in the direction of the Karakorum pass,
then turn to the east and south-east, and endeavour to cross from
Lemchung-tso the blank space lying to the south of Bower's route in
1891, and thence continue my journey through the great blank patch on
the north of the upper Tsangpo. If I were successful, I would go south
to India either through Nepal or through Gyangtse, where perhaps I might
have an opportunity of meeting Major O'Connor, as I had always wished to
do. Gulam Razul advised me to be very cautious, for the Rudok-dzong had
a paid spy in Drugub, who had to report on the movements of Europeans on
the English side of the frontier. This spy was one of the most dangerous
reefs in my fairway; the suspicion of the Tibetans was at once roused
when they found that I had bought twenty mules from Gulam Razul. The
Garpun sent a messenger to find out what I wanted them for. He was told
that they were for a journey to Khotan.
Thakur Jai Chand had an excellent _jamadar_ whom he sent to meet the
baggage coming from India. At length, in the beginning of November, we
received news that the consignment was coming. Then Robert proposed to
go to meet our wished-for guests with some of our new mules. Late on the
evening of the 6th they all turned up when I was already in bed. They
were five policemen from Rampur, one of them suffering from inflammation
of the lungs and more dead than alive. When Robert met them they were so
starved and exhausted that he had first to massage the whole party to
put new life into them (Illust. 276).
I at once gave orders to light a roaring fire and serve tea. They came
up with their laden mules, two Mohammedans, three Hindus--all in dark
blue uniforms with tall blue-and-white turbans, rifles, and bayonets. I
bade them welcome, thanked them for the excellent way in which they had
performed their task, and made their corporal give me an account of
their difficult and trying journey over the Ayi-la. Then they were shown
to sleeping-places in a tent, and next day I looked through the nine
chests sent to me by Colonel Dunlop Smith. Three of them contained 6000
rupees in silver, all of the Queen's reign, none of the King's, for the
Tibetans will not take rupees on which King Edward's face is stamped.
The other boxes contained tinned meat of all kinds, preserves,
chocolate, cheese, cakes and biscuits; cigars, cigarettes and tobacco;
gold and silver watches, and revolvers with ammunition, for presents;
cartridges for two of our guns; note-books and map paper; a whole
library of new novels, including Jack London's _The Call of the Wild_--a
present from O'Connor and suitable reading for the adventurous time
before us; an anemometer and a hydrometer, presents from the chief of
the Central Meteorological Institute in Simla, Dr. Gilbert Walker; and a
host of other necessary and acceptable articles. The amiable Colonel,
his equally amiable sister, and his daughter, had had no end of trouble
in selecting and purchasing the things, packing them up and
transmitting them to Tibet. It was owing to their kindness that I was
able for a long time to live like a prince, and I cannot be sufficiently
grateful to them.
Now I had nothing more to wait for. The policemen were well paid, and I
also bore the expense of their return journey and gave them winter
clothing; took a hearty farewell of my sincere friend Gulam Razul,
without whose help the new journey would have been impossible; thanked
Thakur Jai Chand and the other Hindus for their kindness, and started
off on November 9, 1907, north-westwards along the course of the upper
Indus.
On the 26th we reached Tankse, where the dignitaries of the district and
even the _tesildar_ of Leh came to meet us. They had already heard that
I intended to travel to Khotan in midwinter. The following day was to be
a day of rest, for here I was to discharge all my old servants except
Robert and the Gurkha, Rub Das. When I had breakfasted, Tsering carried
out the plates and dishes, which now had many chips out of their enamel.
"This is the last time, Tsering, that you will wait on me." Then the old
man began to weep, and hurried out quickly.
Then I summoned all the men to my tent and made them a speech, telling
them that they had served me faithfully and obediently, and had well
earned the comfort and repose that awaited them by their domestic
hearths in the bosom of their families. I wished them good fortune and
prosperity in the future, and reminded them of the loss we had all
sustained by the death of Muhamed Isa--good old Muhamed Isa, who, when
we were last at Tankse, had made all arrangements so cleverly and
conscientiously. And to show them that we were not the only ones who
mourned for him, I read them what Younghusband, O'Connor, and Rawling
had written to me about the deceased.
[Illustration: 288. ROBERT IN WINTER DRESS.]
While their five horses and five yaks were being loaded with all their
belongings, they came to me in my tent, one after another, to receive
their pay and an extra present. Tsering, Rehim Ali, Shukkur Ali, and
Tundup Sonam received especial gifts of money, the latter three
having exposed themselves to danger on my account. Old Tsering asked
to be allowed to keep the lame dog from the Ngangtse-tso; its bark
before his hut in Leh would remind him of the time when the dog kept
watch at our camp-fires. Shukkur Ali kept another dog from the same
country. Now I had only the brown puppy, which, with Robert and the mule
from Poonch, were among the oldest veterans of the caravan, all three
having accompanied me from Srinagar.
And then came the bitter moment of parting. So much grief, such loud
weeping! They could hardly tear themselves away. The _tesildar_ was
quite overcome at witnessing the deep attachment of my simple followers.
The bonds were strong that were now torn asunder, for there is nothing
which knits men together so firmly as common sufferings and dangers. I
myself felt a catch in my throat, and, as the men reluctantly followed
their yaks down the road to Drugub, I stood and watched them until they
were out of sight. Then I dried my eyes before going into my tent, where
Robert and the _tesildar_ were waiting for me with tea and cakes served
up by Rub Das. I could not help thinking of a funeral repast after an
interment, at which a wreath of violets had been laid on the grave of a
departed friend.
Next morning I awoke to new surroundings. All my old companions were
scattered to the four winds, and now they were gone all seemed empty and
deserted. Robert read off the meteorological instruments as usual, and
Rub Das laid my breakfast as noiselessly as an elf. I was glad that in
spite of everything I felt not the slightest irresolution. The same
angel who had protected me on my former journey would again attend my
steps. I seemed to hear once more in the distance the rustle of his
wings in the cold winter nights on the Chang-tang.
CHAPTER LV
A NEW CHAPTER
As soon as we were ready we mounted our horses and rode down to Drugub.
Soon the old village came in sight with the house in which I had dwelt
six years before, and the garden in which we had halted in the year
1906. On a terrace below the village stood our three tents and a fourth.
The _jamadar_ Ishe, old Hiraman, who never omitted to greet me, and
young Anmar Ju, another of my old friends, salaamed and presented to me
my new men. These three had orders from the _tesildar_ to accompany me
to Shyok.
"Who is the caravan bashi?" I asked.
"I am," answered a little wrinkled old man called Abdul Kerim, and
wearing a large yellow skin-coat (Illust. 289).
"What are the names of the others?"
"Kutus, Gulam, Suen, Abdul Rasak, Sedik, Lobsang, Kunchuk, Gaffar,
Abdullah, and Sonam Kunchuk."
"You are then eleven men altogether--three Lamaists and eight
Mohammedans?"
"Yes, Sahib."
"I shall at some future time take down your names, ages, places of
abode, the journeys you have made, the services you have been in, etc."
It turned out that very few of them had ever been in the service of a
European, but all had been employed by Nazer Shah, and his son Gulam
Razul answered for them. Four had been in Lhasa, and almost all the
Mohammedans in Yarkand, and all seemed pleasant and cheerful, and were
in the prime of life.
[Illustration: 289. ABDUL KERIM, THE NEW CARAVAN LEADER.]
"Which of you is my cook?"
"I am," answered Gulam, a comical little fellow, who immediately
received a lecture from Rub Das how I was to be attended on (Illust.
291).
"Are you all Ladakis?"
"Yes, Sahib, all except Lobsang, who is a Tibetan from Gar-gunsa, but
has married in Leh and has served with the Hajji Nazer Shah."
I was somewhat loath to take a Tibetan with me on a journey where it was
essential to keep the Tibetans as long as possible in the dark. If
danger threatened, how easily he could betray me to his countrymen! I
considered whether I would not exchange him for another man, or simply
leave him behind. But how often had I reason subsequently to rejoice
that I had not given effect to the suggestion! With the exception of the
four Russian cossacks and Robert, Lobsang was the best servant who ever
accompanied me on my journeys through the wilds of Asia. He was a
splendid man, and I cherish a warm recollection of him (Illust. 290).
All were now welcomed into my service, and I expressed the hope that
they would perform their duty as faithfully as their predecessors,
promised them an extra donation of 50 rupees each if I were contented
with them, and told them that I would pay the expenses of their return
home from the point where our journey ended, just as I had done before.
When it was known in Leh that I wanted fresh servants for the journey to
Khotan, Guffaru and all the men I had sent home from Tokchen presented
themselves and begged earnestly to be restored to my service. But the
old Hajji had received strict directions from his son. Not one of my old
servants might accompany me this time, for it would increase the danger
if we met Tibetans with whom we were already acquainted.
The new horses seemed fine and strong, and stood, eating hay and barley,
in a long row along a wall, beside the mules and the veterans from Leh.
They were to be well fed, for the days of feasting would soon be over,
and it would be well if they put on flesh, on which they could fall back
in evil days. All the goods ordered were of the best quality, and
packed in new strong boxes covered with leather (Illust. 287).
On the morning of November 29, 1907, three Tibetans came from
Rudok-dzong and set up their tents on our left wing. There, I thought,
now espionage is beginning. An hour later we heard the sound of bells up
in the valley. The noise became louder and louder between the cliffs,
and a great din was raised as thirty-four fine little mules with loads
of salt passed by my tent. All had a chain of small bells round their
necks, most of them were adorned with red and blue ribands, and some had
large red tassels hanging at their chests, which almost touched the
ground and swung about at every step. It was a bright and lively scene,
and the jingle of bells allured me out to fresh adventures in distant
regions. In the twinkling of an eye the animals were relieved of their
loads and driven up the valley like a herd of wild asses, to graze on
the scanty grass among the granite. The owners must then be traders.
They afterwards came into my tent, took tea and cigarettes, and asked
Abdul Kerim whither we were travelling. He answered without lying, "To
Khotan." It was I who lied. But had I told the truth, I should have been
stopped in fourteen days, and might as well have gone home at once.
We had three new tents. The two larger accommodated my eleven servants;
the smallest, which was so small that one could only stand upright under
the ridge-pole, and could only hold a bed and two boxes, was mine. I
wished to have one as small as possible that it might more easily be
kept warm. All my baggage was re-packed. I gave some superfluous
articles to Robert and to the Rev. Mr. Peter in Leh. There was a very
thorough sorting out, and only what was absolutely indispensable was
packed, filling two boxes, one of which chiefly contained Swedish and
English books, sent by my sister Alma and Colonel Dunlop Smith. As soon
as they were read, they would be offered to the winds. When I moved at
night into my new tent and laid myself to rest in the large sleeping-bag
lined with sheep's wool, and covered myself, I was as warm and
comfortable as in a bed at home.
[Illustration: 290. LOBSANG; 291. GULAM; 292. KUTUS--MY LAST TRUSTY
FOLLOWERS.]
Gulam Razul's son, Abdul Hai, visited me, and our business matters were
transacted with him. Robert remained responsible for my heavy baggage
until he had deposited it in the house of the Hajji Nazer Shah. It
consisted of ten regulation horse-loads. In my leisure hours I wrote a
heap of letters, which Robert was to hand in at the post-office in Leh.
We had now 21 mules and 19 horses, the brown puppy, and a large yellow
dog from Gartok. All the mules and horses, except mine and Abdul Kerim's
saddle-horses, carried loads (Illusts. 296, 297, 298). I rode my little
white Ladaki, which had grown marvellously strong again, and was as
spirited as one of the new horses. He and two others were the survivors
of the large caravan which had, on the former occasion, set out from
Leh. In order to make sure that Abdul Kerim took sufficient provender, I
told him he must not think that I would follow the direct road like
ordinary caravans. I might make excursions right and left, and often
remain stationary for a week at a time. He must, therefore, provide
barley for the animals for two-and-a-half months, and he must take care
that the provender we took with us lasted out. But it is stupid to trust
to others. All the heavy baggage from Simla, the silver money, and the
tinned provisions made four loads; Gulam's chests of kitchen utensils,
two; the tent, the bedding, and the belongings of the men made several
loads; all the other animals were to be laden with rice, barley, and
_tsamba_. We also took 25 sheep from Tankse.
In the night of December 3 the thermometer fell to -10.1°. Next morning
all the baggage was packed up and carried down the valley to Shyok by
coolies. Two fellows, as strong as bears, carried my two tent-boxes. The
animals carried only their new saddles. One group after another marched
off, and at last I remained alone. Then I shook hands with my faithful
companion, Robert, thanked him for his invaluable services, his honesty,
his courage, and his patience; asked him to greet for me the
missionaries, Dr. Neve, and warm India; took leave also of honest Rub
Das and all the others; mounted into my new Ladak saddle on my trusty
white, and rode down to the Shyok valley with Anmar Ju. I was the last
remaining of the original caravan, and was surrounded by men who were
complete strangers to me. But I was also strange to them, and they had
no suspicion of the foolhardy adventures I intended to lead them into.
The wind, however, was the same, and the same stars would twinkle in the
sky during the cold silent nights in Tibet. So I should not be quite
alone.
It is little more than 6 miles to Shyok, and yet this short distance
took almost eight hours. We had to cross the river six times, which just
below the village of Drugub has cut a deep narrow passage between rocks
of granite and gneiss. The first crossing was easy, for there the river
had been frozen over in the night, and though the ice cracked, we passed
over by a path strewn with sand. At the second passage the river was
open, but broad and shallow, and the ice belts on both sides had been
strewn with sand. The third, where we had to cross over again to the
right bank, was very awkward, because ice belts suddenly ending in the
middle were flooded in consequence of a damming up of the ice lower
down. They could not therefore be strewn with sand, and we had to be
careful lest we should fall out of the saddle when the horses set their
feet down in the water 3 feet deep. It is little more agreeable when he
jumps up on the opposite edge, and his hoofs slide about before he can
get a firm foothold on the smooth ice.
Below this place was the fourth crossing--the worst of all--and here the
whole train had come to a halt. On the right bank, where we stood, the
river was broad and deep, with icy cold, dark-blue, transparent water
winding down, but at the left bank lay a broad belt of ice. Suen, a
tall, black-bearded man with very Jewish features, bared his body and
examined the ford on horseback. In so doing he got into water so deep
that his horse began to swim. Then he jumped in himself and swam to the
edge of the ice, where it cost him great effort to climb up. Poor man! I
shivered as I looked at him; he had been quite under water.
[Illustration: 293. BEGGARS.]
[Illustration: 294. ABDUL KERIM'S NEW TENT.]
Four of the others made an attempt a little higher up, and got over, but
they were up to their necks in water. Then the whole troop of mules and
horses were driven into the river; the horses managed best. One mule, I
felt sure, would be lost. He made no attempt to hoist himself on to the
ice until he had been pelted with stones from our bank. And when at
length he was up and was following the track of the others, the ice
cracked and gave way under him, and there he lay enclosed. All five men
had to pull him out and drag him over the ice to solid ground.
Barely 100 yards farther down is the fifth ford. Between the two stands
a steep, smooth, projecting rock, its foot washed by the river. It is,
however, possible to climb over the rock up small fissures and over
slight projections and thus avoid the two detestable fords. Here all the
baggage was carried over by the coolies, and I myself climbed over the
rocks barefooted; a short way beyond this crag a strong man carried me
over smooth flooded ice. Here we had plenty of time for meditation,
while the animals were again driven through such deep water that they
almost had to swim. All were wet up to the root of the tail and many had
water over their backs. The poor creatures stood together closely in a
group, with pieces of ice hanging from their flanks and knocking
together like castanets. We kindled a fire that the five men who had
been in the water might undress, dry themselves, and change every stitch
of clothing.
Then we went some distance downstream to a place where the heavy
provisions were piled up on the bank, and the poor animals had to enter
the icy water before they had got warm again. Here the baggage had to be
carried over the river by stark-naked men, who tried with staves in
their hands to keep their equilibrium among the treacherous rounded
stones in the river bed. An elderly man was seized with cramp when he
was half-way across, and could not move a step. Two bold youths jumped
into the water and dragged him to land. Two mules, which could not be
induced by coaxing or scolding to enter the water, were tugged over with
a rope. I had a guide before my horse, which was wet half-way up the
saddle, so that I had to tuck up my legs as high as possible, and in
this position it was very difficult to keep my balance, as the horse
made unexpected jumps among the blocks. The men raised such a loud
hurrah that the mountains rang again when I was over the last ford with
a whole skin; a blazing fire prevented any ill effects from my
foot-bath. Every man, who came across shivering, dripping, and blue with
cold, had to sit down immediately by the fire. I could not understand
why they were not frozen to death.
Then we rode in the twilight up and down hill, and it was pitch dark
before a welcome blazing fire showed us that we were near the village of
Shyok. We gathered round it as we came up, and delighted in its
radiating heat. I could not help consoling myself with the thought that,
if any pursuers followed me up from the English side, they would at any
rate get a cold bath before they found me.
In the night the temperature fell to only 15.4°, but here we were at a
height of only 12,365 feet. We stayed on December 5 in Shyok, to dry the
pack-saddles and give the animals a day's rest after their trying work.
In the evening the men held a farewell festival, for Shyok was the last
village in Ladak. As soon as the drums and flutes were heard, all the
women and girls of the country flocked to the dance.
On December 6 we took leave of our last friends, and marched down the
slopes to the floor of the Shyok valley, where the altitude is 12,300
feet; it was the lowest spot we were in for a long time (Illust. 300.)
For from here we mounted northwards up the valley excavated by the great
affluent of the Indus. There is no road or path to speak of, only
rubbish and rounded boulders, but the scenery is wonderfully fine, and
gigantic granite crags tower up on all sides. We crossed the river five
times, which here carries about 420 cubic feet of water and has belts of
ice of varying breadth. A solitary starved wanderer from Yarkand met us,
and was given a meal of _tsamba_. We pitched our camp among the bushes
in a bed of sand at Chong-yangal, where I had stayed in the year 1902.
We were now alone. Only one man not belonging to the caravan was still
with us, Tubges of Shyok, who had charge of our sheep during the early
days of our journey, especially at the fords. In the evening I had a
conversation with Abdul Kerim, Kutus, and Gulam. I now told them that I
would not travel to Khotan by the ordinary road, because I knew it
already. We would strike more to the east, and the sooner we came up on
to the plateau the better. They replied that Tubges knew the country
well. He was called in to the consultation. What if we went through the
Chang-chenmo valley to Pamzal and the Lanak-la? "No," he answered, "that
is impossible; one can go as far as Oro-rotse, but there the valley
becomes as narrow as a corridor, and ice cascades and boulders cover the
bottom of the valley. Animals cannot get through even without loads." It
was then evident that we must continue up the Shyok valley and watch for
an opportunity of diverging eastwards.
So on the 7th we went on between grand mountain gables, silent and
solemn, like Egyptian pyramids, like cathedrals and fortress towers.
Between them detritus cones descend to the valley floor, where their
bases are eroded by the high water of the summer flood and cut off in
perpendicular walls. It must be a magnificent spectacle when the turbid
thundering water rolls down from the melting snow of the Karakorum and
fills all the valley, making its way with tremendous force to the Indus.
An enormous block of perhaps 70,000 cubic feet has fallen down; it has
cracked in falling, as though a giant had split it with his axe; one
fancies one can see the gap it has left on the heights above. Four times
the path crosses the stream, and the rather narrow opening of the
Chang-chenmo valley is left on the right. We encamped among the dunes of
Kaptar-khane. In the night the temperature fell to 2.5°.
The way is terribly trying, nothing but detritus and blocks of grey
granite, against which the horses wear out their shoes. Again we crossed
the river twice and set up our tents in the oasis Dung-yeilak, where a
worn-out caravan from Khotan had already settled, and had sent a
messenger to Nubra for help, as several of their horses had foundered.
As long as there was pasturage we could take matters quietly and make
short marches. Only too soon the grass would come to an end, and then we
must make more haste. So we rested a day when the merchant Muhamed Rehim
from Khotan arrived at the oasis with his caravan. But he only remained
an hour, for he wanted to reach warmer regions, and was glad to have the
Karakorum pass behind him. He earnestly advised me to wait till spring,
for the snow lay deeper than usual on the pass. One of his caravan men
also came to me and gave me a handful of dried peaches. "Does the Sahib
remember me?" he asked. "Certainly, you are Mollah Shah." The good
fellow, now fifty-seven years old, and with his beard greyer, had never
visited his home in Cherchen again since he had left my service in the
spring of 1902. What a singular wandering life, full of toil and
adventure, these Asiatics lead! He implored me to engage him again, but
I told him he ought to be glad to go down into Ladak instead of
returning to the frightful pass in the middle of the icy winter. It
would certainly have been pleasant to have with me an old tried
companion. But no, he would have been out of place in my Ladaki company.
Mollah Shah told us for our encouragement that a large caravan had lost
fifty-two horses on the pass, and had been obliged to leave behind the
greater part of their goods.
None of my people knew yet my actual plans. As long as we were on the
great winter route to Eastern Turkestan they must all believe that
Khotan was my destination. We had also the advantage that all who met us
would report in Ladak that they had seen us on the great highway, and
thus no suspicion would be aroused.
[Illustration: 295. MY BROWN PUPPY WITH MY COOK, TSERING. 296, 297, 298.
MY WHITE LADAKI HORSE.]
December 10. It was colder, the minimum temperature being -2.4°. My
Curzon hat was burned in the fire. In its place I put on a large
skin-cap which Muhamed Isa had sewed together, and wound round it a
pugree as a protection against the sun. Arms of the river with a gentle
current were covered with glittering ice, but the main stream, now much
smaller, was nearly free. At the camp at Charvak a spring brook dashed
down the rocks in a tinkling cascade, though the cold did all it could
to silence it. The animals were driven up the slopes where the grass
was better. A huge fire was lighted when the day declined, and a narrow
sickle of a moon stood in the sky. Where the animals were driven up,
there was a thundering fall of stones in the night, and some blocks
rolled down and lay among our tents. It was a dangerous place.
We had a cold march on the way to Yulgunluk. When thick snow-clouds
cover the sky, the wind blows in the traveller's face, and the
temperature at one o'clock is 14.9°, one feels the cold dreadfully, and
has to tie a thick neck-cloth over the face. The valley is lifeless and
deserted. Hitherto we had only seen a hare, an eagle, and a raven; the
last followed us from camp to camp. Six times we crossed the stream; the
brown puppy was carried over, but the yellow dog found his way
across--he howled piteously whenever he had to go into the cold water.
In Yulgunluk also, at a height of 13,455 feet, we encamped a day. Now
the thermometer fell in the night to -6.2°. This was the last really
pleasant and agreeable oasis we came across. During the day of rest we
heard the horses neighing with satisfaction on the pastures and the
sheep bleating. The loads of provender were already smaller, so we could
load four horses with good knotty firewood. On the right side of the
valley rose a snowy mountain. As early as two o'clock the sun
disappeared, but it lighted up the snow long after the valley lay in
deep shadow; the sky was blue and cloudless. In the evening the men sang
at the fire just the same melodies as their predecessors. The winter
days are short, but they seem endlessly long to one tortured by the
uncertainty of his cherished hopes. By eight o'clock the camp is quiet,
and at nine Gulam brings in the last brazier after I have read the
meteorological instruments. How I long to get out of this confined
valley on to the plateau country! Here we are marching north-north-west,
and I ought to be going east and south-east. If we could find a way up
to the Chang-tang by one of the valleys to the east, we should be saved
much time and many a weary step.
On December 13 we looked in vain for such a way. We crossed the river
twice more on its ice-sheet. At the second ford the whole caravan
passed over dry-shod, and only my small white horse broke through and I
wet my feet. After a third crossing we camped in a desolate spot just
opposite the Shialung valley. It looked promising. Tubges and Kutus were
sent up the valley to spy out the land. In the evening they returned
with the tidings that we could go a fairly long distance up the valley,
but beyond it became impassable owing to deep basins, abundant ice, and
large boulders, just as in the Drugub river. We must therefore keep on
the route to the Karakorum pass. This increased the risks for the
caravan, for it lengthened the distance; but, on the other hand, it
lessened the danger of discovery, for when once we had got into Tibet we
could avoid the most northern nomads.
Now Tubges begged permission to accompany me to the end, and his
petition was eagerly supported by all the other men. I was the more
willing to take him that he was a skilled hunter. I had now twelve men,
and I made the thirteenth in the caravan. But we were not superstitious.
CHAPTER LVI
UP TO THE HEIGHTS OF DAPSANG
Heavy clouds and piercingly cold wind increased the difficulty of our
march on December 14 up the valley. We saw two bales of goods, sewed up
in linen and with the stamp of a Turkestan firm, lying on the ground, as
though they had fallen from a dying horse, the carcase of which we had
passed. Higher up two more. They contained silken materials from Khotan.
So far the caravans come with failing strength after excessive exertions
on the pass. They are like ships which must throw their cargo overboard
when they begin to sink. At Köteklik also we found passable grass and
firewood. Gulam is a capital cook; he prepares me the most delicate
cutlets and rissoles, and for a change gives me chickens and eggs.
On the 15th there is little water in the valley; it runs under rubbish,
but farther up the river is again fresh and clear. We frequently pass
the remains of unfortunate caravans--dead horses, bales of goods, and
pack-saddles from which the hay has been removed to save the life of a
dying horse. We travel west-north-westwards, and therefore ever farther
from our goal. But at length we come to a valley which will lead us in
the right direction. We leave the Sasser valley to the left and enter a
valley portal full of treacherous ice, often as thin as skin. We wait
till our scouts have tried the ice, which they declare to be impassable.
Tubges, however, finds another, longer way, over steep hills, and at
their foot we pitch our camp.
Next morning we went over a steep spur of porphyry to reach a better
place on the frozen river which was to afford us an easterly passage up
to Murgu. We crossed again and again the strip of ice, which was first
strewn with sand that the horses might not break their legs. As usual,
two scouts went in advance. One of them came back and called to us from
a distance that a fallen rock closed up the valley. On reaching the spot
I found that a landslip had lately taken place. The blocks of porphyry
barring the channel were as big as houses, and between them the river
formed deep basins covered with a thin coat of ice. We had therefore to
turn back and retrace our steps all the way down to camp No. 279, over
the terrible rock, which on this side was so steep that each animal had
to be shoved up separately, and the men had to look out for themselves
when a pack got loose and rolled down the acclivity. Then we went some
distance up the Sasser valley. A strong icy wind blew in our faces.
Beside a wall of rock the dogs put up a hare which took refuge in a
hole, but Kunchuk pulled him out again and he was condemned to be eaten.
Our camp this time was in an almost barren place, and after all the
fording of the river during the day icicles clinked on the flanks of our
wearied animals.
It is evening again. The mountain spurs project, dark and rugged, into
the valley like huge sarcophagi, and on them rest moon-lighted
snowfields like shrouds. The Ladakis sing no more; their ditties are
frozen on their lips. It is awfully quiet. The kitchen fire flickers
with yellowish-red tongues in the white moonshine. One can almost hear
the sound of the frost outside.
[Illustration: 299. PANORAMA FROM CAMP 422, BONGBA.]
[Illustration: 300. PANORAMA FROM CAMP 277, SHYOK VALLEY.
Sketches by the Author.]
After Gulam has brought in the last brazier I undress myself, put on my
large woollen dressing-gown, set myself a while right over the fire to
get a little heat into my body before I creep into my lair of fur, and
smile to hear the yellow dog, who is lying outside, and barks and snarls
at the increasing cold in the angriest and most comical tones. No wonder
he is enraged, for the thermometer falls in the night to -12.8°. Then I
hear a singular squeaking in Gulam's tent. We had already anticipated a
happy event, and now I inquired whether there was an addition to the
Puppy family. Four small puppies had again come into the world. They
had waited for the very coldest night we had yet experienced. Gulam had
contrived a cage of frieze rugs in which Puppy lay, licking her young
ones. Two of the tiny animals were of the female, two of the male sex;
the former were drowned, for we thought that the others would grow
stronger if they monopolized all the milk and heat that would otherwise
have been divided among four. I sat by the hutch and studied the
interesting group till I was so stiff with cold that I could hardly walk
back to my tent. Next morning the tiny curs were going on splendidly;
one of them whined in quite the orthodox fashion, and no doubt thought
what a grim cold country fate had launched him into. We determined to
take good care of them, for they would be pleasant companions for me. Up
here they would at any rate be immune from the sickness which had
carried off their elder sisters. Kunchuk had to carry them against his
bare skin to keep them warm. Half-way Mamma Puppy was allowed to occupy
herself for a while with her little ones, though these did not seem
quite to understand the milk business.
We had a bad march on December 17. No shouts of encouragement were
heard, but the caravan moved on slowly and apathetically. Within half an
hour our feet were benumbed and lost all feeling. I wound the ends of my
_bashlik_ like a visor several times round my face up to the eyes, but
the breath turned it into a thick crust of ice which froze to my
moustache and beard, which I had allowed to grow since leaving Gartok to
suit my intended Mohammedan disguise. All the men put on their furs.
Dust and soil flew about, and our faces had a singular appearance.
At a place where a Yarkand caravan was encamped, we turned to the right
up a very narrow valley, in which the floor, covered with bright
milky-white ice, looked like a marble pavement between the rocky walls.
Fortunately the Yarkand men had strewn sand over the ice, but still it
did not prevent several of our animals from falling, so that they had to
be loaded again.
When we at length camped in Long the temperature was at zero even at
three o'clock. A second large Yarkand caravan, on the homeward journey,
was halting here. The leaders asked us to travel with them over the
Karakorum, but I refused, with the excuse that we could make only short
day's marches. Observation by any who might tell the Chinese in Yarkand
that I had again passed over into Tibet was exactly what I must avoid
above everything.
Here lay a poor man, both of whose feet had been frost-bitten on the
Karakorum, so that the flesh and toes actually fell off. He crawled up
to our camp and wept over his disastrous fate. He had been engaged with
the Yarkand caravan we had met first, but as he had become incapable of
work owing to his wounds, the barbarous merchant had dismissed him in
the midst of the wilds and left him behind. In such a case it is hard to
know what to do. We could not cure him, and to take him with us or give
up a part of the caravan for him was out of the question. He said
himself that he would crawl to Shyok, but how was he to get across the
river? I let him warm himself at our fire, drink tea and eat, and on the
18th, when we went on after 56½° of frost in the night, I gave him
_tsamba_ for several days, matches, and a sum of money which would
enable him to hire a horse from a caravan travelling to Shyok.
This day's march took us eastwards to a place called Bulak (the spring);
it should properly have been called Guristan (the graveyard), for here
lay at least twenty dead horses. During a ride of two hours I had
counted sixty-three carcases of horses; it is wonderful that trade on
this caravan route, the highest in the world, can be profitable.
From there the route ran up the narrow fissured Murgu valley, at first
up and down over hills, where numbers of dead horses, which had once
been strong and fat, showed us the way. Then we descended a break-neck
path into the deep valley, where spring water at the bottom formed
cracked domes of ice. Then on the slopes of the left flank we climbed
again up a zigzag path; the snow became deeper and was piled up,
especially on the path, so smooth that if the horses had made a false
step we should have been lost beyond recovery. The landscape was
magnificent, but it could not be properly enjoyed when the temperature
about one o'clock was only 0.3°. And then again we went down headlong to
the valley bottom, where we passed over a natural bridge of rock
improved by the hand of man. Our direction had been east, but now we
diverged more and more to the north and north-west.
The snow becomes deeper, the sun sinks, the shadows creep up the
reddish-yellow hills, the wind is stronger, and one thinks: If this
lasts much longer I shall freeze. At last we halt at the foot of a
terrace on the right side of the valley, where the sheep are driven into
a cave to keep them warm in the night. I slip down from the saddle with
all my limbs numbed, and long for a fire. Not a trace of organic life
was to be seen at camp No. 283. The horses and mules were tethered so
that they stood in a close pack.
At this unlucky camp I made the first discovery on this new journey
through Tibet. Abdul Kerim came to me at the fire and said:
"Sahib, we have barley for eight to ten days more; but in that time we
shall reach Shahidulla, where we can get everything."
"Eight to ten days! Are you mad? Did you not obey my orders? Did I not
tell you expressly to take barley for 2½ months?"
"I brought a supply with me which was enough for the journey to Khotan."
"Did I not tell you that I was not going to Khotan by the ordinary
route, but by roundabout ways which would demand at least two months?"
"Yes, Sahib, I have acted wrongly," answered the old man, and began to
sob. Abdul Kerim was an honest man, but he was stupid, and he had not
the great experience of Muhamed Isa.
"You are caravan bashi, and the duty of a caravan leader is to see that
there is sufficient provender for the journey. When the ten days are
over, our animals will starve. What do you mean to do then?"
"Sahib, send me with some animals to Shahidulla. I can be back again in
a fortnight."
"You know that everything that happens in Shahidulla is reported to the
Amban of Khotan. The Chinese must know nothing of our intentions."
My first notion was to dismiss Abdul Kerim at once and to write to the
Hajji Nazer Shah for more provender, which might be brought up on hired
animals. But what would they think in western Tibet and Ladak if I sent
for more provender from Leh when I was barely eight days' journey from
Shahidulla, which lies on the direct road to Khotan? My whole plan would
be betrayed and must fail. I should be stopped by the first nomads,
perhaps by the English whom I had so happily escaped hitherto. It was
only necessary to forbid the natives to supply me with provisions and
baggage animals. And if I procured all we wanted in Shahidulla, the
Amban of Khotan would send word to Kashgar, whence a telegraph line runs
through Asia to Pekin, where His Excellency Na Tang proved so absolutely
immovable when the Swedish Minister Wallenberg had given himself so much
trouble to obtain for me permission for a new journey through Tibet. Up
here in this desolate valley my position was strong. We had sneaked
quietly and cautiously through British territory without exciting
suspicion. But as soon as we came into contact with the outer world we
should be caught.
I sat in my tent all the evening, considering the matter from all sides,
and measured the distances on my map with compasses. We were about 100
miles from my camp No. 8 of the preceding year, where the grass was so
good. So far we could travel without the least difficulty. But beyond we
had 430 miles more, to the district on the Tong-tso. However, before we
came there we must meet with nomads and grazing land. The horses,
indeed, would be lost, but the Tibetan mules were, so Gulam Razul said,
accustomed to shift for themselves, and they were not given barley. The
first step was to reach the free open Chang-tang and get out of this
frightful mousetrap, the Shyok valley, which was always taking us
further north-north-west. Even if we had to sacrifice everything and
creep on all fours to the nearest tent, I would not give in: I would
not depart a hair's breadth from the original plan.
Night came with a clear sky, twinkling stars and sharp frost; by nine
o'clock the temperature was down to -20.4°. The animals stood quietly
crowded together to keep themselves warm. When I awoke occasionally I
did not hear them, and they might have vanished. The minimum was reached
at -31.2°. When I was awakened, Kutus had been out on the prowl into a
broad valley, coming in from the east, and had found a road which, as
far as he could see, was excellent. We had still two days' journey from
camp No. 283 to the dreaded Karakorum pass, which I wished to avoid. If
we ascended the side valley eastwards, we should soon arrive at the main
crest of the Karakorum range and be spared two days' journey. I resolved
to try it.
So we travelled on December 20 to the east-north-east over crunching
snow. The valley looked very promising, especially as old horse tracks
could be seen in some places. In the middle of the valley was the bed of
a brook covered over with smooth, treacherous ice, but elsewhere there
was nothing but detritus. After we had passed a hill thickly overgrown
with _burtse_ tufts, all vegetation ceased. At one o'clock the
temperature was -5.8°. My beard was white with rime, my face-cloth
turned into a mass of ice, and all the animals were white. For hours we
slowly mounted upwards. In some places the valley was so contracted that
it was only 2 yards broad. The best of the day was over when the caravan
suddenly came to a halt. All was quiet in the front, and I waited with
Kutus for whatever was to happen.
After a time came Abdul Kerim, much cast down, with the news that the
valley was impassable at two places. I went to look. The first barrier
of rocks might be forced, but the second was worse. We could certainly
have dragged the baggage over the ice between and under the blocks, but
there was no passage for the animals. Should we try to make a road along
which the animals could be helped over the blocks by the united strength
of the men? Yes; but first men must be sent up to find out whether
there were more of such barriers to cross. When they came back with the
news that the way was still worse above, I gave orders to pitch the
camp, as the shades of evening were falling.
Good heavens, what a camp! Not a blade of grass, not a drop of water!
Again we sat in a mousetrap between steep mountain walls, where, at any
moment, devastating blocks might be detached from the sides by the
frost. The horses scraped about in the snow looking for grass. During
the night they roamed about, and stumbled over the tent ropes. The
thermometer fell to -30.6°. One puppy lost his way, got outside, and
came of his own accord into my tent; fortunately for him I was awakened
by his whining, and gave him shelter in my bed, where he was warm and
comfortable.
A frosty morning! we must take care not to touch metal, for it burns
like fire. A mule made his way into my tent and looked for something
edible in my washing-basin. To his great astonishment it stuck to his
nose, and he took it a few steps with him. The hungry animals had
consumed two empty sacks and six ropes during the night, and played the
mischief with one another's tails. In winter, life up here is a
desperate struggle with the frost.
The orders for the day were to encamp in a place where there were stalks
of _yapchan_ and _burtse_, and remain there all the next day. I set out
at a temperature of -23.8° and found the camp all ready on the right
side of the valley. The animals were immediately sent up the slopes, and
there grazed with a good appetite on the dry frozen stalks. During the
day of rest, pieces of ice were hewn out of the brook and melted in the
two large kettles of the men. Horses and mules were then able to drink
their fill.
In the night a most welcome change took place in the weather, the whole
sky was overcast, and the thermometer fell only to 1°; it felt quite
warm in the morning. Some mules had stampeded, but Lobsang found them
after a diligent search. I set out with Kutus soon after the caravan. We
had not gone far when we saw Muhamed Isa's white Shigatse horse lying
frozen stiff in the snow. He had been in a wretched state for some
days, and the last hardships had been too much for him. Worn-out and
emaciated he really needed a long, long rest.
After a while we passed the valley junction and the unlucky camp No.
283, and were again on the great caravan route, the road of dead horses.
Four lay in a ravine quite close together, as though they did not wish
to part even in death. A large dapple-grey showed no change, but another
horse looked as if it were stuffed, and a third, with its outstretched
legs, resembled an overturned gymnasium horse. Some were nearly covered
with snow, and others had fallen in a curious cramped position, but most
of them lay as though death had surprised them when they were composing
themselves to rest after violent exertion. Nearly all were hollow: the
hide was stretched over the backbone and ribs, and they looked intact
from the back, but on the other side it could be seen that they were
only empty, dry skeletons, hard as iron, which rattled when the yellow
dog, who had nothing else to eat on the way, pulled them about. The dogs
barked at the first carcases, but soon they became familiar with the
sight of them. What sufferings and what desperate struggles for life
these dreary mountains must have witnessed in the course of time! Lying
awake at night one fancies one hears the sighs of worn-out pack animals
and their laboured breathing as they patiently go towards their end, and
sees an endless parade of veterans condemned to die who can endure no
more in the service of cruel man. When the dogs bark outside in the
silent night they seem to bark at ghosts and apparitions who try with
hesitating steps to make their way out of the snowfields that hold them
fast, and intervene between them and the juicy meadows of Ladak. If any
road in the world deserves the name "Via dolorosa," it is the caravan
road over the Karakorum pass connecting Eastern Turkestan with India.
Like an enormous bridge of sighs it spans with its airy arches the
highest mountain-land of Asia and of the world.
Higher and higher our slow train ascends the fissured valley where here
and there small glacier tongues peep out between the steep crags.
Frequently old camping-places are seen with ripped-up pack-saddles.
Hurricanes from the south prevail here; fine red dust from weathered
sandstone flies like clouds of blood through the valley and colours the
snowfields red. The valley shrinks to a hollow way where a somewhat more
sheltered spot bears the name "Daulet Bek ulldi" (where Daulet Bek
died). Who was he? No one knows; but the name has remained. Probably an
ordinary trader from Khotan or Yarkand, or a pilgrim who died on his
wanderings, and therefore found the doors of paradise wide open. For
over the Karakorum pass runs the main pilgrim route from Eastern
Turkestan to Mecca.
The valley becomes ever smaller--a mere corridor between walls of red
conglomerate. This is the Kizil-unkur, or the Red Hole, an appropriate
name. Here the caravan has pitched its camp. Not a sign of organic life.
The animals stand in a group, and the mules gnaw at the frozen dung of
former visitors. From this hole the way rises up to the Dapsang plateau,
where a snowstorm is now raging, and even in the valley flakes of snow
dance and whirl in the air. In the twilight Tundup Sonam comes up with
only twelve sheep; the others have been frozen to death on the way.
Night falls threatening and awful on the everlasting snow. Everything up
here is so dreary and cold (16,824 feet); there is nothing living far
and wide, and yet the yellow dog fills the ravine with his barking.
The men set up the tents near together, and a very scanty fire burned
among them, for we had to be economical with the firewood from Köteklik.
The Mohammedans started a low charming song in rising and falling tones,
and now and then a strong voice intoned a hollow "Allahu ekber." When
Gulam came with the brazier I asked him what it meant, and he said that
it was a _namas_ or hymn of prayer to Allah, that the Most High might
protect us in the morning from the snowstorm. For if a caravan is caught
in a snowstorm on the heights of Dapsang it is lost.
I often heard this melodious hymn again in days of hardship, and it
always affected me painfully. Not as the reproachful warning clang of
church bells ringing for service, when I pass a church door without
going in, but because the men sang the hymn only when they were out of
spirits and considered our position desperate. It seemed as though they
would remind me that defeat awaited me, and that this time I had aimed
too high.
CHAPTER LVII
ON THE ROOF OF THE WORLD
On Christmas Eve 1905 I had dined with Mr. and Mrs. Grant Duff in the
hospitable English Embassy, and on another day supped with Count
d'Apchier in the French Legation, and was invited to a reception by
Count Rex in the German Embassy,--all in Teheran, now in such a
disturbed state. The same day twelve months later I had still Muhamed
Isa and Robert with me, and we were in inhabited country. Little I
dreamt now that old Asia would demand still another Christmas Eve in my
life, and that on December 24, 1908, I should sit at table amid a circle
of pleasant and intelligent Japanese in distant Mukden, where a few
years before the thunders of war had rolled above the graves of the
Manchurian emperors. But this year, 1907, I was quite alone, and with
twelve satellites on the way to my--Ukraine.
In the morning with a bright sun and calm weather the caravan marched
slowly up towards the heights of Dapsang, while Kutus and I followed in
the crunching snow. I had given Abdul Kerim orders to wait at the top.
After I had read the instruments and found a height of 17,808 feet, I
scoured the horizon with my field-glass--a confusion of snowy mountains.
Only to the north-east a broad erosion furrow sloped gently down, and I
chose that direction.
"Now we leave the Karakorum route and ride eastwards," I said; "follow
my track; I will ride in front." The men stared in astonishment; they
had looked forward to the gardens and vineyards of Khotan, and I offered
them the granite and snowstorms of Chang-tang. They said nothing,
however, but silently and patiently followed in my footsteps. It was not
easy to lead the way, for the country was covered with deep snow. I
directed Kutus, and he went before my horse to test the depth. The
ground was quite level, but contained hollows where the snow lay 3 to 6
feet deep; and the crust was exceedingly treacherous, for sometimes it
broke, and I was thrown out of the saddle, while the horse plunged and
floundered like a dolphin, and was almost suffocated in the fine dry
snow. We therefore turned back to try another direction.
Lobsang, who was always on the alert when we were in a critical
situation, was already looking for a better way. But we must in any case
cross the valley, and the men tramped out a furrow in the snow, through
which the animals were led one at a time. The horses managed best, while
the mules often fell and caused long delays. How far would this snow
extend? It checked our progress and concealed any wretched pasture that
might exist in some ravine. We crawled on like snails. I went on foot,
and my skin coat felt as heavy as lead. But after several hours of hard
toil we reached the terrace skirting the right side of the valley, where
the snow was thinner and we made more progress.
Camp No. 287 was in the most desolate spot I can remember in all my
travels, except the sandy sea of the Takla-makan desert. Behind us our
trail wound through the white snow and in front all was snow. The
animals were tethered close together, and they had a feed of corn in the
evening.
After the day's work was over I lighted two candles--usually I had but
one--and set up the portraits of my family on a box, as I had often done
before on Christmas Eves in Asia. At half-past eight o'clock the moon
rose gloriously over the mountains to the east-north-east, and at nine
the thermometer had sunk to -16.8°. I could not get the temperature
above -4° in my tent, and my hands were so benumbed that I could not
hold a book, but had to crawl into bed, which was the best thing to
do--there one forgets Christmas with all its precious memories and its
melancholy solitude.
The thermometer sank to -37.5°. A horse lay frozen hard in his place in
the line; the others stood stupefied, with drooping heads, and great
icicles on their noses. Christmas Eve brought us good weather. I almost
longed for a snowstorm. We had no fear of pursuit, but if a Turkestan
caravan now went down to Kizil-unkur, the men would see our trail in the
snow and report that we were off to Tibet. A snowstorm would obliterate
all traces.
Meanwhile we stumbled on eastwards through the snow. A spring supplied
water where all the animals got a drink. We halted in a ravine with
tufts of _yapchan_ (17,087 feet). The animals made greedily for the dry
hard stalks, which also provided us with a grand fire, and this evening
it was warm and comfortable in my tent. I rejoiced to think that the
days would again become longer, and subtracted the length of each day's
march from the distance between us and the Tong-tso. Ah, would we were
there! And there we should be only on the northern margin of the blank
space. What an immensely long way we had to travel!
Next day we followed the same flat valley eastwards between mountains of
moderate height, making use of a path worn down by Pantholops antelopes.
The snow became less deep and was only occasionally troublesome, usually
covered with a crust as dry as parchment. When we had encamped in a
perfectly barren spot, I consulted with Abdul Kerim. Only two sacks of
barley were left. I saw that he had been weeping, and therefore I
restrained my wrath. The others, too, were astonished and doleful. I had
not yet said anything to them, but they understood that there was no
question of Khotan. The men had _tsamba_ for nearly three months and
rice for two. I therefore ordered that some should be given to the
horses when the barley was finished, but enough should be left for the
men to last two months. The others gathered outside the tent during the
consultation. Lobsang was calm and unconcerned, and could be heard
singing and whistling as he watched the animals. I took to him most,
perhaps because he was a Tibetan; but I liked them all, for they were
capital fellows. In the evening they sang hymns to Allah, knowing that
our situation was exceedingly critical.
Next day we started early, and I rode at the head of the caravan. We all
had severe headaches, but the height was enormous (17,644 feet). We had
marched little more than a mile when we found sparse grass in a slight
hollow on the northern slopes. That was a Christmas box. Here we pitched
our camp. The animals ran up to the pasture with their loads on. How
they ate! It was a pleasure to see them. Suen cut ridiculous capers
between the tents. The men were in high spirits. I heard no more hymns
to Allah, but the caravan bashi, who seemed to think he was in some
degree responsible for the spiritual welfare of all the Mohammedans,
usually read every evening at sunset one of the five daily prayers. Our
supply of fuel was at an end, but Lobsang found a hard moss which burned
for a long time and gave out plenty of heat. Now I perceived that when
we should some time part, I should miss Lobsang most.
On December 28, leaden clouds lay over the earth, and therefore the cold
was less severe. We continued our course eastwards, and marched slowly
till we came to a spring, which at the orifice had a temperature of
33.6°. The water felt quite warm; it formed large cakes of ice in the
flat valley, which looked from a distance like a lake. While the men set
up the tents here, Puppy, as usual, took charge of her young ones in a
folded piece of felt. One of them had a white spot on the forehead and
was my especial favourite, for he never whined unnecessarily. To-day he
had opened his eyes and given a short glance at the cold inhospitable
world around him. However, before my tent was ready, he died quite
suddenly, and was buried under some stones that the yellow dog might not
eat him up. Mamma Puppy looked for him, but soon contented herself with
the last of the four. We would do all we could to keep this little
creature.
On the way to the next camping-place, No. 292, we still followed the
same blessed valley which had afforded us such an excellent route since
Christmas Eve. The minimum temperature had fallen to -21.8°, as though a
cold wave were passing over the country. At one place some wild yaks had
left their visiting cards, and the men collected a sack of dung.
Evidently these animals come hither only in summer; the winter is too
cold even for them. A mule died before we reached a spring surrounded by
fair grazing. So far we had got on well, but had made little progress;
on the past six days we had covered only 47 miles.
December 30. With a minimum of zero and a temperature at one o'clock of
3.2° the range between day and night is not great. But now the sky was
covered with dense clouds; it snowed and became half dark; the men could
not tell in which direction they were marching, and asked where the sun
rose. We had the help of the longitudinal valley for another day's
journey, and we followed it down to a junction of valleys where there
was a huge sheet of ice. On the way I saw a flock of twenty-two wild
sheep, which fled with great agility up a slope of detritus, bringing
the stones rattling down.
In the evening I informed Abdul Kerim, Gulam, and Kutus that we were to
advance into Tibet and steer our course past the Arport-tso to the upper
Brahmaputra. And I told them that I should travel in disguise in order
to escape notice. They were amazed, and asked if I should not expose my
life to danger daily; but I calmed them, saying that all would go well
if they only obeyed my orders implicitly. Our chief concern was to
preserve our animals, for if the caravan were lost we should never get
on. "Yes," answered the caravan bashi, "if we only find good pasture, so
that the animals can rest and eat their fill, we can certainly hold out
for two months, but they will not bear long marches."
Here we stood at a parting of the roads. Our valley opened into another,
which came down from high mountains in the south, part of the Karakorum
range. The united streams continued their course northwards, and could
not be any other river but the upper course of the Karakash Darya; in
its lower valley on the Khotan Darya I had many years before almost
lost my life. Now the question was whether we should go up or down, and
we decided to devote the last day of the year to finding out which was
the better road, sending out Abdullah to reconnoitre south-eastwards,
Tubges north-eastwards. As in any case we should have to cross the ice
sheet, a path was sanded.
We packed the 6000 rupees Colonel Dunlop Smith had sent from India in
two sacks, which were lighter than the wooden boxes, and these were to
be used as firewood some time when all else failed. At every camp our
baggage became lighter, as our provisions diminished, and I threw away
one book after another after I had read them. I had received from home
the numbers of a Swedish journal for half a year, and these were very
useful in lighting our camp-fires. We had still nine sheep left, but the
time was fast approaching when our meat supply would come to an end, for
we could hardly reckon on finding game so soon.
New Year's Day 1908 was bright and sunny--a good omen as regarded the
dark riddles this year concealed. The two scouts returned with the same
report: that there were no obstacles in the way; and I let them discuss
the question themselves, and decide which way was the best. They chose
Abdullah's route, which led up the valley south-eastwards. The road here
was excellent. At the mouth of the valley we found a couple of small
round stone walls, which, however, might very well have been a hundred
years old. The sight of a dead yak had an enlivening effect on us,
contradictory as it may sound. Higher we mounted to where a lofty snow
mountain with glaciers could be seen at the end of the valley. Then we
stopped, and scouts were sent forwards. They declared that the way was
impassable, and voted that Abdullah should be thrashed. But as such
measures would have been of no use to us in our difficulty he got off
with a good scolding. He admitted that he had not been so far up as we
were now, yet on his return he had asked for, and been given, a bit of
tobacco for his reconnoitring work. I told him that he had done a mean
trick, and that he should never see the smoke of my tobacco again.
There was nothing to do but pitch our camp. A strong south-west wind
blew, and fine snow was driven down from all the crests and summits.
When the men went out to gather fuel they looked like Polar explorers.
After all, New Year's Day had brought us no good luck, but, on the
contrary, a retreat.
This was commenced early on the morning of January 2, and we passed
again camp 293, and marched onwards over slopes of detritus on the
eastern side of the ice sheet. At one spot spring water formed a little
bubbling fountain in the midst of the ice. After the valley had turned
to the east-north-east we encamped in a corner where driftsand was piled
up into hillocks.
I wanted to get out of this labyrinth of mountains and valleys which
pour their waters into Eastern Turkestan. We were still in the basin of
the Karakash river, and must sooner or later cross a pass separating it
from the salt lakes of the Chang-tang. On the 3rd we again mounted up
one of the head valleys and camped in its upper part, while the country
was enveloped in a furious snowstorm. It continued till late in the
evening, and what was most remarkable was that the stars shone all the
time though the snow was falling thickly. Before, there had been
blue-black clouds above us without a snowflake. Extraordinary land!
Next day we rested. The animals had been without drink for a long time,
fuel was abundant, ice was taken from the river bed and melted in pots.
In this region the mountains are less continuous, and form sharp peaks
and pyramids of small relative height. It snowed all night, but the
morning of January 5 was fine as we travelled eastwards along the route
Kutus had investigated. It led up over snow-covered ground to a small
pass (17,995 feet), on the other side of which another branch of the
Karakash crossed our course. We must get out of this entanglement, which
delayed our march and told on our strength. As long as the animals kept
up we had nothing to complain of. I was glad of every day that brought
us a little nearer to spring and out of the winter's cold. It penetrated
through everything. My feet had no feeling in them. Gulam rubbed them
and massaged me in the evening over the fire, but could not bring them
to life. The ink was turned into a lump of ice and had to be thawed
before the fire; when I wrote I had to bend over the brazier, and still
the ink congealed in the pen and froze on the paper. Singularly enough I
have still an unquenchable desire for ice-cold water and prefer it to
warm tea, but the water we usually get is far from pleasant. It is
generally Tubges who takes a spade and fills an empty sack with snow,
and then melts it in a kettle. Gulam tries to persuade me to drink tea,
and cannot understand how it is that I am not sick of water. It is no
use being thirsty in the night: a cup of water standing near the brazier
is frozen to the bottom in a quarter of an hour.
After a temperature of -28° and a stormy night, which drove the animals
to seek shelter in the men's tent, we crossed the broad valley up to the
next pass. We left a lofty snow-covered mountain to the south. At the
foot of a hill a wild yak was musing. When he saw our dark train against
the white snow he made straight towards us, but before long he took his
way through the valley and dashed in wild flight to the north, followed
by our two dogs. It was very encouraging to find something living in
this God-forgotten wilderness; for now we had lost even the raven.
It was a steep and slow ascent up to the pass, which had a height of
18,005 feet. We were surprised to find that it was a snow limit, for
east of the pass there was no snow at all. As we descended the other
side along a broad, open, sandy valley we had to be careful that we did
not find ourselves without water in the evening. Far to the south
appeared an ice sheet, but it lay too far out of our course. We
therefore filled two sacks with snow from the last drift, encamped where
thin tufts afforded fuel, and sent five men with all the animals
southwards to the ice in search of water and fodder.
The water question now became pressing, for apparently we could not
count on snow much farther. And we could not dig for water, as before,
for the ground was frozen into stone. We must therefore proceed
cautiously. We had a great open wilderness in front of us; we must make
our way from one point of support to another, and explore the routes in
advance, lest we might come to a catastrophe. I therefore gave orders
that, now that the loads were considerably smaller, a couple of our
animals should carry snow or ice. At every camp we left an empty
meat-tin. I think less of the time soon approaching when the excellent
goods from Simla will come to an end than of the fact that the burdens
of our animals are daily becoming lighter. The rock specimens I collect
do not weigh much. Of course the provender has long given out, but where
the pasturage is scanty or altogether absent, loaves of parched meal are
kneaded together for the animals.
The men are to come back on the 7th, and we wait for them till mid-day.
There, too, they come: the black group is plainly visible; they march
and march, but come no nearer. Ah, it is only some black stones dancing
in the mirage. A little later Suen reports that some of the animals have
run away, and consequently we have to remain the whole day at this
dismal camp.
How slowly the hours pass on a day like this! I am a prisoner in my own
tent, for cold and wind keep me from work out of doors. As long as the
sun is above the horizon I pass the time very comfortably, for I can see
the mountains, these silent, dreary, lonely mountains, where men never
wander, and I see the sandspouts whirling along before the wind. But
when the sun sets, the long winter evening begins, and I hear only the
howl of the storm without. Patience! Spring will come some time. Every
day that passes we are a step farther from this horrible winter. Brown
Puppy and her whelp keep me company, and I look upon them as comrades in
misfortune. She has her mat in a corner of the tent, and takes her meals
when I do. The whelp we call Black Puppy amuses me immensely. He has
begun to take notice of the world and the life around him. When the big
dogs bark outside the tent, he turns his head and gives a feeble growl.
When his mother leaves him on the mat in the cold, he makes an attempt
at a bark and seems to think it strange. He wanders about the tent,
though he is still so unsteady on his legs that he constantly topples
over. He has already conceived a highly salutary respect for the
brazier, and sniffs and shakes his head when he chances to come too near
it. Sometimes it happens that he misses his mother in the night, when
there may be as many as 54 degrees of frost in the tent; but his
complaining squeal awakens me, and I take him under the furs--an
attention he is very fond of. One morning he wakened me by crawling of
his own accord on to my pillow and trying to get into my bed. After that
I felt no concern about his future; he must learn how to make his way in
life, and that he was doing.
On the 8th we went over a small pass 17,569 feet high. A horse and a
mule perished on the way. Camp 299 was pitched where the first pasture
was found, in a valley on the other side (16,946 feet). There was no
water, but we had four sacks of ice. Seven sheep were left, and the
raven had also come again.
The aim of our next day's journey was to find water for the animals. My
trusty white Ladaki horse, which I always rode, used to get my washing
water every morning, and I used no soap that I might not spoil it for
him. From a small rise in the ground we were able to enjoy the view I
had so longed for--the great open plain we had crossed in the autumn of
1906. To the east-south-east I easily recognized the spur we passed
then, and we could not be more than two days' march from the Aksai-chin
lake. I had now followed for several days much the same route as Crosby,
and at the lake I should cross my own route of 1906, after which we
should go down towards the Arport-tso, and, as last year, intersect the
paths of Bower, Deasy, Rawling, and Zugmeyer.
The whole country lay under a vault of dense clouds. After a march of
only 3 miles we found a flowing spring of beautiful water (33°), where
camp No. 300 (16,329 feet) was pitched. In the evening my servants sang
bright and happy melodies again, and Suen performed his most ridiculous
dances. We were again up on the roof of the world, and all dreary Tibet
lay in front of us. Should we be able to cross it with our little
caravan?
CHAPTER LVIII
FORTY DEGREES BELOW ZERO
With fresh blocks of ice in our sacks we set out on January 10 straight
towards the projection at the foot of which camp 8 had been pitched, and
where I knew that the grass was good. The great level barren plain
stretched between us and the spot, and we had 15 miles to cover. The
wind was boisterous, and we were frozen through in a minute. In the lee
of the caravan, which went in advance, lay a cloud of dust like smoke.
The yellow hue of the grass could be seen from a distance, and the sight
so refreshed my men that they began to sing on the march. The animals
understood that they were coming to good pasturage, and quickened their
pace without any shouts from the men. The tents were set up in the same
place as last year, and here I closed my long circuitous route through
Tibet. It was with a melancholy feeling I saw this place again, where
Muhamed Isa had raised his tall cairn. Now we had avoided all dangers
from Rudok, and we minded little that England and Russia had promised
each other not to let a European into Tibet for three years. The height
here was 16,198 feet.
[Illustration: 301. View from Camp 307.]
[Illustration: 302. The small salt Lake south of Camp 309. (Smudge in
sky caused by the freezing of the colour.)]
[Illustration: 303. Horses going to drink at the lake near Camp 310.
Abdul Kerim on the left.]
[Illustration: 304. Mountain north-east of Camp 310; the freshwater Lake
in the foreground.]
[Illustration: 305. Storm Clouds over the snowy mountains south of Camp
312.
Water-colour Sketches by the Author.]
For several days I had spoken of this place with its good pasturage, and
when we broke up our camp on the 11th I was able to promise my men a
still better camp for the next night. They were astonished that I was so
much at home in these dreary regions. The track of the great caravan of
1906 was blown away by the passage of many storms, but the Aksai-chin
lake soon came into sight, its surface looking grey and dismal in the
chilly weather. Six kiang spoors converged to the fine spring of
fresh water near the shore, where we kindled our fires among the same
stones as last time. Pasturage and fuel are abundant in the
neighbourhood; it is a veritable oasis--the best camp we had had since
Köteklik. But the storm still raged, and the salt waves rose high over
the lake, cooled down to 20.7°, though there was no sign of ice. In the
night it snowed hard again, and on the 12th, which was made a day of
rest, the lake lay blue amidst a landscape of shining white.
When all goes well the Mohammedans read no prayers. Probably they think
that when we can help ourselves it is unnecessary to disturb Allah.
We had to pay a horse as toll for the good pasturage. He lay frozen hard
in the camp on the morning of the 13th, after a night temperature of
-18.4°. The yellow dog remained beside him, and when he came late at
night into the next camp, he was so fat and puffed up that it was
evident he had stored up food for several days. Two ravens followed us
with their hoarse croaking. Snow fell thickly and hid the view. A herd
of antelopes disappeared like shadows in the mist. A sheep died on the
way, and two more had to be killed, for they were worn-out; we had now
only three left. The cold penetrated everywhere in the night, and the
thermometer sank to -33°.
On January 14 we made south-eastwards over a plain of soft, tiring
ground, which caused us the loss of a mule. The caravan moved very
slowly forward and in close order; the animals marched more comfortably
when they were together; those which would linger behind, overcome with
fatigue, were driven forward by the Ladakis. At camp 304 the grass was
poor, and two mules seemed to be near their end. The cold was fearfully
sharp in the night. The thermometer fell to -39.6°, or to nearly 40
degrees below zero, and almost to the freezing-point of mercury. That
was the lowest temperature I ever recorded in all my journeys in Asia.
But January 15 brought a fine morning and an Italian blue sky. Abdul
Kerim and all the other Mohammedans waited on me, in a tragi-comical
procession, with dried apricots and almonds, and a simultaneous cry of
"Aid mubarek," or "A blessed Festival." One of the festivals of Islam
fell on this day. Exceedingly comical was the procession of the four
Lamaists, who came up as the others retired; and Lobsang, who led them,
took off his cap and scratched his head in Tibetan fashion, but did not
put out his tongue--he had no doubt learned in Leh that this performance
was not pleasing to a European. I gave them 10 rupees each and handed
the caravan bashi a watch, which he was to wind up well every evening to
be sure of the time.
On we marched again, moving slowly, for the ground rose. We proceeded
like a funeral procession, and Suen was the parson. There was no longer
reason to fear thirst, for half the country was covered with snow. But
every mile caused us a struggle, and it was long before we came to the
cliff we were making for. We left a huge snowy massive on the right
hand.
Next day's march took us over a flat saddle to a small side valley where
there was some grass. The temperature had been down to -29.9°, and I
could not by any means get life into my feet. Sometimes they ached,
sometimes there was an uncomfortable pricking in my toes, and then again
they lost all feeling. During the day's rest we allowed ourselves in
camp 306 Tubges shot an antelope and an Ovis Ammon, a feat which
prolonged the lives of our last two sheep. In the evening the men were
cheerful and hopeful as they sat around the flesh-pot.
Gulam Razul had presented me with six bottles of whisky, which, sewed up
in thick felt, had been brought all the way; for Ladakis maintain that
when a mule shows signs of exhaustion and weakness it can be cured by
giving it whisky or other spirits. But the bottles were heavy, so three
of them were emptied and set up as a memorial on some stones. Perhaps
some time or other they may be found by another traveller. The other
three were kept.
On the 18th we continued to follow the same longitudinal valley. All the
ranges in this country run east and west, the usual direction in Tibet.
To the right was a lofty range we must cross if we would travel
south-eastwards. Through a gap in the northern mountains was visible to
the north-east the mighty snowy dome we had passed to the right of in
1906. Eastwards there seemed to be no obstacle in the way, but we
diverged south-eastwards up a valley. Before we encamped (Illust. 301)
another mule had fallen, and then we had lost a fourth of the caravan.
Next day we proceeded further up the valley. Sometimes it was only 10
yards broad between solid horizontal terraces. Below a steep crag lay
five pot-stones, and therefore Tibetan hunters must have come thus far.
The Ladakis were delighted to meet with signs of human beings again. The
valley opened out into an extensive plain, and a gap was seen to the
south-east, but as the ground was lower towards the east we turned our
steps in that direction. From the low threshold the view was anything
but encouraging--a world of mountains. We resolved to encamp where we
were (17,405 feet high) and to try the other, southern, passage next
day.
A miserable camp! The storm raged so violently that the tents could
hardly be set up, and the iron tent-pegs beat together and rattled until
they were fixed. We had first to make a fire before we could use our
numbed hands, and a small stone wall had to be raised to prevent the
fire from being carried away. Now Nature and the elements were against
us, whereas we might in the future expect opposition from man. The
pasture was wretched, and a grey horse and the last mule from Poonch lay
dead in the morning. It was the senior of the veterans, for it had come
with me all the way from Srinagar and had done good service, and I was
grieved at losing it. Now there was only one creature left which had
seen the first beginning of the caravan, namely, our brown Puppy. She
and the little puppy kept me company in this oppressive, weary solitude.
From camp 309, where we stayed a day, there was an uninterrupted view
over another longitudinal valley, to the south of the former. There lay
a contracted salt lake. At almost every camp, as on the former journey,
I drew a panorama of the surroundings, and tried sometimes to paint
small water-colour drawings (Illust. 302). Then I had to sit in the
opening of the tent and hold the block over the fire to prevent the
brush freezing into a lump of ice. But the sky, which should have been
of an even blue or grey tone, usually turned into a film of ice with
strange stars and crystals.
In camp 310 we also remained a day, for the pasture was better than we
had found for a long time. The grass grew in sand on the shore of a
small freshwater lake with a free opening, where at length the animals
got a good drink after having had to quench their thirst with snow. We
had travelled 188 miles since Christmas Eve, or about 6½ miles a day on
an average--a terribly slow pace. Now we had had a furious storm for
three days, and here yellow whirls of sand flew over the ice and the
wind moaned and rustled through the grass. Abdul Kerim sewed together a
long Mohammedan coat for me, which I was to wear under my fur when I
assumed my disguise.
On January 24 the whole country was covered with dazzling snow and the
sun shone, but a stormy blast drove the fine snow particles in streaks
over the land, and a roaring sound was heard. Antelopes careered lightly
over the ground, dark against the white snow. A mule died on the way;
not even Tibetan mules can bear this climate. I was benumbed and
half-dead with cold before I reached the camp.
After a temperature of -21.3° the neighbourhood was enveloped in
semi-darkness by heavy clouds. The jagged mountains to the south
reminded me of a squadron of armoured vessels at gunnery practice in
rainy weather. Their grey outlines peeped out from the low clouds. The
valley was about 6 miles broad. Towards the east the snow lay less
thickly, and finally only the footprints of wild animals were filled
with snow, like a string of pearls in the dark ground.
[Illustration: 306. CAMP 307.]
[Illustration: 307. CAMP 333. THE BEGINNING OF A STORM.]
[Illustration: 308. CAMP 335. LEMCHUNG-TSO, LOOKING EAST.]
[Illustration: 309. CAMP 401. KANCHUNG-GANGRI FROM THE NORTH.
In the foreground Lapchung-tso, the source of Chaktak- or
Charta-tsangpo.]
As I turn over the leaves of my diary of this terrible journey how often
I come across the remark that this was the hardest day we had hitherto
experienced. And yet days were always coming when we suffered still
more. So it was on January 26. The sky was covered with such compact
clouds that we might fancy we were riding under a prison vault. The
storm raged with undiminished violence, and a quarter of an hour after I
had mounted my horse I was benumbed and powerless. My hands ached, and I
tried to thaw my right hand by breathing on it whenever I had to take a
note, but after reading the compass for two seconds my hands lost all
feeling. My feet troubled me less, for I had no feeling at all in them.
I only hoped I should reach the camp before the blood froze in my veins
(Illust. 305).
Then we come at length to the Arport-tso and leave the northern basin of
the lake on our left, while a large basin swells out like a fjord
towards the south. A mountain spur sends out a cape into the lake, which
has a very irregular outline. It stands in our way. Shall we leave it on
the right or left? We come up to the middle of the lake shore and wait
while Lobsang goes to see if the caravan can travel over the ice. He
hurries forward and makes us a sign to follow. We go down to the beach
and along a spit which narrows down to a fine point.
Here the ice on our left hand has been piled up into hummocks, 6 feet
high, of grand transparent green flat slabs, but on the right, as far as
we can see over the southern basin, the ice spreads its level smooth
sheet of a beautiful dark green colour like leaves of laurel and lilac.
We feel the usual fascination of the ice, and stand and stare down into
the dark cold depths. Drifting snow sweeps like comets' tails over the
smooth course. We stand on the very point of the promontory, with the
narrowest part of the Arport-tso in front of us, for the lake is
contracted like a wasp's waist. Here there are fences, walls, and
barriers raised by ice pressure, and between them snow is drifted up,
hard and dry on the surface. It would have been quite impossible to
march over the bare ice; the caravan would have been carried away like
chaff before the wind. But the snow affords us an excellent path.
Lobsang leads the way, guiding us in many a wind, but we get across and
come to the farther shore at the foot of a cliff.
Worse followed, for the rocky point fell straight down to the lake on
its eastern side, and here we had slippery ice swept clear of snow
which we sanded. One horse or mule after another slipped and fell. Some
of them made no attempt to get up again, but were dragged over the ice
to firm ground, where their loads were put on again. Some fell with a
heavy thud on the hard treacherous ice. We had to double a whole series
of points in this way till we came to one where further progress was
impossible, for at its foot issued forth springs which produced large
openings in the ice. There icy cold waves beat with a sharp sound
against the edges of the ice under the lash of the wind, which drove
continually clouds of snow dancing like elves over the dark green field
of ice. We had to struggle up over steep slopes till at last we reached,
thoroughly tired out, an inlet where a few leaves of grass grew. We had
left a mule on the ice, and two men went back and gave it a drop of
whisky so that it could come on to the camp. But my brown horse from
Shigatse, which had so often carried me up to the east gate of
Tashi-lunpo, remained behind for good. It is sad and depressing when a
veteran dies.
Arport-tso lies at a height of 17,382 feet. The water, which was drawn
from an opening in the ice, was quite potable. There was a high pass in
front of us to the south-east, but we could not reach it in one day, and
we camped on the plain at the south-east of the lake where Rawling had
once stayed. It was little more than a mile thither, but the grass was
good and the animals needed nourishment. It snowed thickly all day. It
was warm and comfortable under cover, and we pitied the poor animals
which were out grazing in the cold. The small puppy had grown so much
that he could wander alone between the tents watching for an opportunity
to steal meat. A sheep was slaughtered.
At night the cold was more severe again, and the thermometer sank to
-30.3°. The sick mule sought shelter behind the men's tent, lay down at
once, and gave vent to a piteous sound. I went out to look at it, and
caused it to be put out of its misery.
[Illustration: 310. MY DYING PONY.
Sketched by the Author.]
On the morning of the 28th we found two horses dead on the grass. One
was one of the veterans of Leh which Robert had ridden, and which also
bore me to the springs in the Sutlej bed. We had now only
twenty-three animals left, and my small white Ladaki was the last of the
veterans. Little I thought, as he carried me over the Chang-lung-yogma,
that he would survive a hundred and fifty comrades. Every morning two
long icicles hung down from his nostrils. He was taken great care of,
and I always saved a piece of bread from my breakfast for him. I had a
particular affection for him and for Brown Puppy. They had been with me
so long, and had passed through so many adventures.
A loss of three animals in one day was serious for such a caravan as
ours. How would it all end? We had still an immense distance before us.
We struggled for three hours with halting steps up this terrible pass
which had a height of 18,281 feet. We encamped in the shelter of a rock
and killed the last worn-out sheep, and then had no live store of meat.
The temperature fell to -24.5°, and the first sound I heard in the
morning of the 29th was the everlasting howl of the storm. We marched
south-eastwards through snow a foot deep. "One of our worst days," it is
styled in my diary. We cared about nothing except to get to our camp
alive. I had a scarf wound several times over my face, but it was
quickly turned into a sheet of ice, which cracked when I turned my head.
I tried to smoke a cigarette, but it froze on to my lips. Two horses
died on the way, and Abdul Kerim's horse took over the load of one of
them, while the man himself went on foot like the others. I followed the
track of the caravan with Kutus. Then we found Kunchuk Sonam and Suen
unable to go further; they suffered from pains at the heart. I tried to
cheer them up, and promised to give them medicine if they would follow
slowly in the track of the caravan. Was it now the turn of the men after
half the caravan had been lost? Quite overcome with fatigue they hobbled
at twilight into camp.
Abdul Kerim came into my tent very cast down and asked if we should fall
in with nomads within ten days, for otherwise he considered our
condition desperate. In truth, I could give him no consolation, but
could only tell him that we must go on as long as there was a single
mule left, and then try to drag ourselves along to the nomads with as
much food as we could carry. Now we thought no longer of pursuers
behind, or of dangers before us, but only wished to preserve our lives
and come to country where we could find means of subsistence. Behind us
the snow obliterated our tracks, and the future awaited us with its
impenetrable secrets.
CHAPTER LIX
IN THE SNOW
The storm howled round us all night long, and our thin tent canvas
fluttered in the blast. Gulam awaked me with the information, "It is
nasty weather to-day; we can see nothing." Even the nearest mountains
were hidden by the snow, and if I had not already taken a bearing along
the valley in the direction south, 35° E., we could not have set out.
This day, January 30, we had to keep together, for the driving snow
obliterated the tracks immediately. We had two leaders, and I rode last
along the trail, which at first was marked as a black winding line, but
farther on, where the snow lay 2 feet deep, no ground or rubbish could
be seen. A brown horse which carried no burden lay down and died in the
snow. We could see the snow making ready its grave before it was cold.
It vanished behind us in the dreadful solitude.
We move forwards at a very slow pace through the snowdrifts. The fury of
the storm carries away the warning shouts from the lips of the guides
and they do not reach our ears; we simply follow the trail. Lobsang goes
first, and he often disappears in the dry loose snow and has to seek
another direction. In the hollows the snow lies 3 feet deep, and we can
take only one step at a time after the spades have cut us a ditch
through the snow. One or other of the animals is always falling, and the
removal of his load and readjusting it causes a block, for all must
follow in the same furrow. All, men and animals, are half-dead with
fatigue and labour for breath. The snow sweeps round us in suffocating
wreaths; we turn our backs to the wind and lean forwards. Only the
nearest mules are plainly visible, the fifth is indistinct, and those at
the front are seen only as slight shadows amidst the universal
whiteness. I cannot catch a glimpse of the guides. Thus the troop passes
on a few steps till it comes to the next block, and when the mule
immediately in front of me moves on again it is only to plunge into a
hollow filled with snow, where two men wait to keep up its load. The
direction is now east and the ground rises. A few such days and the
caravan will be lost (Illust. 312).
At length we come to a low pass (18,268 feet high). Even at sea-level
such a journey would be hard enough, but how much worse it is in a
country which lies some hundreds of feet higher than Mont Blanc, and
where there is nothing but granite. On the eastern side of the saddle
the snow lay 3 feet deep in some places, and it seemed as though we
should be stuck fast in the snowdrifts; and what had we to expect then?
For the provender was coming to an end, and we must go on if we would
find pasture. Now we went gently down, the snow became a little less
deep, and we came to an expansion of the valley where there were
stretches of ground swept bare by the blast. On the right appeared a
slope where Abdul Karim thought he saw blades of grass sticking up out
of the snow, and he asked permission to camp. It was difficult to set up
the tents that evening. At dusk the two sick men came up, their faces
blue and swollen.
A miserable camp! The storm increased to a hurricane, and nothing could
be heard but its howling. When I looked out of my tent I could see
nothing that was not white, and there was no difference between the
ground, the mountains, and the sky--all being alike white. Not even the
men's tent could be distinguished in the driving snow. The fine
particles penetrated into the tent and covered everything with a white
powder. It was impossible to look for fuel, and at three o'clock the
temperature in the tent was 1.4°. I could see nothing living outside,
and I might have been quite alone in this wilderness.
[Illustration: 311. LOST BEYOND RECOVERY.]
My trusty Gulam comes, however, at length with fire, for Lobsang and
Sedik have found some brushwood. Gulam says that Sonam Kunchuk is ready
to lay himself down on the snow and die, but I advise him to take a good
dose of quinine instead. Late at night the tones of the hymn to Allah
reach my ears, sounding softer and sadder than usual amid the raging of
the storm. We are moving towards a dark destiny, I have attempted too
much, and any moment the catastrophe may come. We are snowed up here,
the animals must die of starvation and I myself--well, it is but a
question of time.
A little below the camp the valley made a turn to the right. Thither the
animals had gone at night, but came back as there was no grazing. A grey
mule had stayed behind to die. It lay in a curious position, as though
it had died in the act of getting up--on its knees with its nose pressed
against the ground, and was frozen hard in this position. Yet the
temperature fell only to -16.4°.
The storm continued with undiminished violence on January 31. We loaded
the nineteen mules and horses and marched down the valley at random in
the same dense snow. The snow came down in incredible quantities; such a
snowstorm I had never witnessed even on the Pamir. We could not travel
more than 2¾ miles, and then we halted and pitched the tents, which
looked dirty against the pure snow. Four big wild yaks were moving over
the slopes, tramping like snow-ploughs. The dogs made after them, but
soon gave up the chase, for they could not go far in the drifts. The
animals received their allowance of rice, and then trailed off to a hill
where they poked about for the scanty grass.
I examined all the baggage with the help of Abdul Kerim and Gulam, and
discarded all that could be spared. Unnecessary clothing and worn-out
boots were burned, and reserve garments were brought out. My articles,
note-books, and instruments were stuffed into two small sacks. Writing
materials and other things for daily use were packed in a small handbag
from Stockholm. The other chests were used as firewood, when the men had
stripped off the leather coverings to make new shoe-soles. Even the box
for the cooking utensils and the provision boxes were burned, and all
the baggage was henceforth carried in sacks. By this means the loads
were made lighter and more convenient, though there was more trouble in
turning everything out of a sack when anything was wanted from the
bottom.
In the afternoon there was a short break in the snowstorm. Beyond the
white limits of the valley was seen to the south-east the large lake
Shemen-tso, with a dark purple sky above it, presaging more snow. I took
bearings of the next day's route, and it was well I did so, for soon the
snow began to fall again unusually thickly. It snowed all day and all
night, and a swishing sound was heard as the snowflakes were driven by
the wind against the canvas of the tent and from time to time slipped
down. In the morning of February 1 piles of snow lay round the tents.
The minimum temperature was only -0.8°, and it felt quite pleasant. We
loaded our weary hungry pack animals and marched slowly south-eastwards.
The gale blew from the south, and the snow pelted on to our faces.
Silently and heavily the fainting troop moved on towards the lake. All
the men's beards and moustaches were white with rime, and we seemed all
to have turned grey in a night. Abdul Kerim walked in front with his
staff, but he took a wrong direction, and I chose another leader. In
some places we were nearly suffocated in the snow, and the crestfallen
men stood in the drifts, at a loss what to do. But we plunged and
floundered on a bit, and then stood still; then a little bit further.
The pass over which we had made our way the previous day was no doubt
blocked by snow. Had we reached it two days later we should never have
forced a way over it. Now our retreat was cut off, and we must seek
safety southwards. It was some consolation to know that we had burned
our ships.
[Illustration: 312. "IF THIS CONTINUES A FEW DAYS LONGER, WE ARE LOST."]
Fortunately the ground sloped down, and as we toiled on hour after hour
the snow diminished and travelling became easier. But the storm, which
had now raged for a fortnight, showed no signs of abatement. Down on the
western flat by the lake the snow mantle was thin, and we encamped in
a spot where the grass was not bad. I gave the men some cigarettes every
evening--at other times they smoked yak-dung and filled their narghilés
with tea-leaves.
The night was unusually mild, with the minimum temperature only 5.2°,
but the clouds were as dense as ever and the snow fell unceasingly. It
was dark all day, as though a curtain hung over the forbidden land. We
stayed at camp 319. The storm blew from the south-west more wildly than
usual. The animals grazed with their heads to leeward, and had to be
driven windwards again every time they came to the edge of the
restricted area of grass. On February 3, also, we remained where we
were. All night long the hurricane had raged, tearing, raving, ploughing
up the ground like a gigantic plough, and endeavouring to pull down our
tents. In the evening I secured everything that could fly away if the
tent were overthrown. In the morning all the animals had disappeared as
though they had been carried away by the blast; at any rate, they had
gone with the wind to the northern shore of the lake.
Immediately beyond our camp was a spring of fresh water and a round fold
for sheep. I had ceased to look forward to spring, it seemed so
hopelessly distant, and to be farther off every day that passed. Brown
Puppy and Little Puppy kept me company as usual, and we played together
to pass the hours of our imprisonment. Gulam continued to rub my feet,
but with little result, for they remained numb and cold as ice. Then he
brought two pairs of _paipaks_ of thick felt and a pair of _charuks_ or
Yarkand boots of soft leather outside. They were really warmer than my
Kashmir boots, which were ruthlessly burned.
CHAPTER LX
DEATH OF THE LAST VETERAN
Studded with twinkling stars the winter sky stretched its dark-blue
canopy over our lonesome camp, and 50 degrees of frost foretold a clear
day. On February 4 not a cloud hovered over the mountains, and this
plateau, abandoned by gods and men, which had lately been buried under
the white shroud of winter, was again illumined by bright sunlight. Sad
news was brought me in the morning: a horse and a mule lay dead beside
the tents. With the seventeen remaining animals we continued our journey
along the irregular northern shore of the Shemen-tso (16,266 feet). The
quantity of snow became less, and at camp 320 the gravelly ground was
almost bare. The view over the lake was grand. Captain Rawling's map of
this district is executed with great accuracy.
On February 5, also, we encamped on the shore of the great lake, having
followed the curves of its bays and capes. A mule died on the way.
Though we had burned all we could dispense with, yet the loads were much
too heavy for the surviving animals. A big strong mule always led the
van, at the heels of Gulam; it carried at least two ordinary loads, and
yet was fat and fresh. There was no sign of human beings. A flock of
jackdaws were perched on a crag. At the camp the provisions were
inspected, and we decided to relinquish three heavy sacks of rice. The
rice was to be given on the following days, mixed with parched meal and
water, to the animals. Of my provisions, only two boxes of tinned meat,
some jam and biscuits, were left. We had not tasted meat for some time.
The storm raged all day and the sun had vanished again.
On February 6 we passed a very abundant spring of water at a temperature
of 46.2°, which poured into the lake. There flocks of sheep had recently
drunk, and rows of cairns ran from the shore to guide antelopes into the
traps in the ground. Now no game was seen except a single kiang. A mule
died, and Abdul Kerim's yellow horse fell by the way. Only fourteen
animals reached the camp this day, and of these my small white Ladaki
was in the worst plight; he stumbled and fell, and I made a somersault
over his head.
The day after, we made a short journey, left the lake and its barren
shore behind us, and set up our tents amid good grass. The weather was
fine; at one o'clock the temperature was 14°, and it felt as though
spring had come. All the animals lay down to rest and warm themselves in
the sun. Only my small Ladaki began to graze immediately; he would not
die, but would follow me to the end. Wild asses and antelopes grazed on
the steppe, and hares were plentiful. I was alarmed by a message that
three men could be seen at some distance to the north, and the caravan
bashi wished me to come and examine them through my field-glass.
Apparently they were on the way to our camp. But I had plenty of time to
put on my disguise. I watched them a long time, till at last they turned
into three wild yaks which had been lengthened out by mirage. We had no
need yet to trouble ourselves about men, but perhaps these yaks were
forerunners.
Now I had ridden my small white horse for the last time. On February 8,
when we continued our march east-south-east after a minimum temperature
of -18.9° he followed the caravan loose and unladen, and fell even
without a rider. I rode instead a grey horse from Tikze. We made barely
5 miles, but yet the journey was full of events. On the other side on a
low hill stood a Pantholops antelope, which did not run away though we
were quite close. We soon noticed that it was held fast and was
struggling to get free. The dogs rushed at it, but a couple of men
hurried on to keep them off. The animal was fast in a snare laid in an
antelope track, where also we noticed fresh footprints of two men. We
were evidently not far from winter hunters, who perhaps had already
caught sight of us. Perhaps they had seen me, the only one riding in
European dress. Perhaps it was too late to disguise myself. All my plans
would then be spoiled, and all the labours of the winter lost.
But at any rate we had now fresh meat. Let us examine the ingenious trap
in which the game is caught. Plates of rib bones of antelopes are firmly
fixed in a ring of hard twisted vegetable fibres, which form a funnel
with the points in a ditch. The antelope is enticed into the trap by a
row of small cairns, and tramps about in the funnel, the plates giving
way, but forming immovable impediments when he attempts to draw his
hoofs out. But the snare must be held secure if it is to have the
desired effect. A rope as thick as a finger is made fast in the bottom
of the ditch, which is filled with water, and after freezing becomes as
hard as stone. The free end of the rope forms a noose above the ring of
fibres, which tightens when the animal first attempts to lift his leg
and holds down the funnel of ribs. The more the poor animal jumps about,
the faster is the hold of the twisted snare.
The victim was slain; the dogs ate their fill of the entrails, and the
meat made ordinary loads for four men. Then we went on. At the mouth of
a valley to the south were seen a sheepfold and two black specks we took
for stones. Beyond a grass-grown mound we found a pool of fresh water,
and we pitched the camp near it. It was not long before the Ladakis were
sitting round a fire and roasting pieces of delicate, much-appreciated
meat.
Now, when we were evidently in the neighbourhood of human beings, it was
time for me to give directions to my people. All were summoned to my
tent. I told them that we should succeed in crossing the forbidden land
only by craftiness and cautiousness, and that I had made the great
sacrifices which they had witnessed only to see regions where no Sahib
had ever been. If our scheme were to be successful, every man must do
his duty and play his part well. Whenever Tibetans put the usual
questions, whence we came and whither we were going, they should answer
that we were all, without exception, Ladakis, in the service of a
merchant named Gulam Razul, who had sent us to Chang-tang to find out
how much wool could be bought from the nomads next summer. Abdul Kerim
was our leader and chief, and had to manage our affairs. He was
therefore given 100 rupees for expenses, and every evening when no one
could spy upon us he was to render an account to me. I myself was one of
his servants, a Mohammedan named--Abdurrahman, the caravan bashi
suggested--but no; Hajji Baba sounded better to me. Accordingly, when we
came among Tibetans, they should never forget and call me Sahib, but
only Hajji Baba. All understood the matter and promised to do their
best.
A little later, Lobsang came running up and declared that the two black
stones were tents. We went out and examined them through the
field-glass. Quite true; smoke rose from one of them, but neither men
nor animals were visible. I at once ordered Abdul Kerim, Abdul Rasak,
and Kutus to go and pay for the antelope, buy anything they could, and
obtain information. They soon came back again and asked if it would not
be wiser to avoid the tents and march on eastwards, the more so that the
inmates might be robbers. No; these men had seen us and might send a
report to Rudok, and then we should be stopped. It was best, then, to
enter into friendly relations with the men and lull them into security.
"Bismillah," cried the three and took themselves off, while the others
sat by the fire in lively conversation about the incidents of the day
and the prospects of the future. It was now sixty-four days since we had
left the last village in Ladak, while on the former journey we had been
in solitude for eighty-one days.
After three hours my men returned. The two tents contained nine
inmates--two grown-up men, two women, three girls, and two boys. The
older man was named Purung Kungga, and he owned 150 sheep and 4 dogs,
but no other animals. During their journey from Yildan their tents and
goods were carried by sheep. They had arrived two months before, and
intended to stay half a month more. The day before they had just been to
look at their antelope trap, when they were alarmed at the sight of the
caravan. They took it for granted that only robbers could be travelling
in this district, which lay outside the haunts of honest and honourable
men. The antelope had, then, been not more than an hour in the trap.
Abdul Kerim paid 3 rupees for it, 3 for a sheep, and 1 for milk and
butter. We could get more milk early in the morning, but we should have
to send for it, for the nomads dared not come to our tents. We might
have kept the antelope without compensation, for we were wayfarers and
had a right to take what we found. In answer to their inquiry who we
were, Abdul Kerim repeated the yarn he had just learned. The country
about camp 324 is called Riochung. In one of the tents lay the hides and
meat of nine antelopes. The people lived almost exclusively on the game
they caught in their snares.
So far we had been fortunate. With provisions for twenty-one days
instead of for seventy-five, we had struggled up to the Karakorum
instead of finding a passage to the east; we had been persecuted by
raging storms, biting cold, and deep snow all the way, and yet we had
lighted on the first men. They were like a rock in the ocean, and now
again we were to venture over the raging waves. This day found us only a
few miles up a gently sloping valley filled with ice. Little Puppy was
let loose and had to look after himself a bit. But he was soon tired,
and lay down till Kunchuk fetched him.
February 10. The valley bottom is full of ice sheets, which we often
cross after they have been strewn with sand. We wander through a
labyrinth of clay hills. In an expansion to the left are seen three
stone cabins and some _mani_ heaps; here is the gold placer which
Rawling calls Rungma-tok, and the hunters we saw yesterday Getsa-rung.
The gold-diggers come hither only in summer. The camp to-day, No. 326,
is in an excellent spot, with a sandy soil, plenty of fuel, and an
unfrozen brook. It is pleasant to listen to the purling water, a sign of
approaching spring. East and south-east rises a wreath of lofty
mountains, which we have to surmount. As long as the ground is flat and
there is grass the animals do very well, but they cannot endure a high
pass. My white Ladaki has picked up again, and the men are ordered to
tend him carefully.
February 11. We ascend the valley, and the snow becomes deeper again. In
one place are seen fresh tracks of three men. We camp behind a cliff to
get shelter from the wind, but first we have to cross the ice belt in
the valley bottom, where a path has been recently sanded. It is evident
that we shall soon fall in with men--perhaps on the march between the
two camps. Therefore I put on my new Ladaki costume with a girdle round
the waist. The white turban is kept ready at hand in case we meet
Tibetans. The _chapkan_ looks suspiciously clean, but Gulam undertakes
to soil it with fat and soot. My soft leather vest is sacrificed and cut
up for soles. After this camp Lobsang and Kutus were required to give me
every evening lessons in Tibetan, and I arranged all the new words in a
vocabulary, which afterwards grew to a considerable size. Thus we spent
a couple of hours each day when all my literature was at an end. I
especially practised the answers I was to give in case I, Hajji Baba,
were subjected to cross-examination.
On the 12th we marched up through the snowdrifts in the valley, where
small, graceful, elegant Goa antelopes were seen on two occasions. The
camping-ground was so wretched that all the animals wandered back in the
night to the former camp, and therefore the next day was lost, and we
waited wearily. In my grey _chapkan_ I am too conspicuous among the
other ragamuffins, and whenever I have an opportunity I smear soot and
butter on it and cut holes in it here and there. A continuation of such
treatment will at length make it as disreputable as the others. I also
try to leave off washing my face and hands, but do not succeed in
looking as dirty as my men. With them the dirt seems to be engrained and
never to be removed, and they could grow potatoes under their nails. My
desire was to become like them as soon as possible, that I might escape
the notice of the Tibetans.
February 14. Temperature -22.9°. Again we are a few miles nearer our
destination and a day nearer spring. Our progress is slow, but we must
be glad that we can get along at all. Camp 329 is in the valley leading
to the pass, which we have taken several days to reach. A mule is
fatigued and is relieved of his load. Some grass is again found, and all
the animals go out to graze, except my small Ladaki, which stands beside
my tent with drooping head and icicles under his eyes. He has been
weeping, knowing well that he will never be able to cross over the pass
and that we shall leave him. I sit beside him for several hours, patting
and stroking him, and trying to induce him to eat lumps of meal mixed
with rice. He revives again and goes slowly after his comrades.
February 15. Temperature -22.5°. A hard, toilsome day. Through ice and
snow among sharp detritus we march up the valley. My white horse leads
the way of his own accord and I ride in the rear. We keep together for
some time, and ascend step by step towards the troublesome pass. But
first one and then another lags behind. Among them is my white horse. I
stop and whisper in pure Swedish into his ear: "Do not lose courage; put
out all your strength and climb the pass, and then you will go down in a
few days to fine rich pasture." He raises his head, pricks up his ears,
and gazes at me as I go on up to the pass with Kutus and Gulam. Only a
couple of lively mules follow my horse and halt where he halts, at every
twentieth step.
At last we came up to the flat pass, which attains to the considerable
height of 18,553 feet. Here we waited a long time. The large black mule
passed first over the snowy threshold of the pass and then the others,
till nine baggage animals had gone by and my grey Tikze horse last.
Abdul Kerim reported that four animals were thoroughly tired out. I
ordered that they should be led step by step even till night if
necessary, and he went down to them again. A little later appeared
Tubges and Abdullah carrying two loads. One of the four animals had
already departed this life.
To the west-north-west, the direction from which we had come, the view
was magnificent--a sea of wild, red, gigantic undulations, with snow
crowning the summits and streaming down their sides. During the last
days we had noticed schists, porphyry, red and grey granite. The country
was absolutely barren, and we must try to reach the nearest grass in the
descending valley, but it was full of snow, and the train moved slowly
and wearily through the drifts. I went on foot like the rest; every man
carried a load to help the animals. All were silent, and tramped and
balanced themselves in the track marked by the leader. The valley
contracted to a ditch, and where the first yak-moss grew we threw down
our burdens. A sorry camp in the close dismal valley. The last animals
stood tied together, and were fed with pulverized yak-dung and moss
mixed with meal and rice.
At dusk the other men came up leading a mule. Three animals were gone,
and one of them was my small white Ladaki horse. He had struggled up to
the very top of the pass, where I had sat watching for him in vain, and
then had laid himself down to die. He had served me and carried me
faithfully and patiently for a year and a half, and had never from the
first been missing from the camping-ground, and now that the last of the
veterans was gone I felt very lonely. During the whole journey he had
never reached a higher spot than that whereon he died; on the very
saddle of the pass his bones would be bleached by the winter storms and
the summer sun. The caravan this evening was empty and forlorn, for I
had lost a trusty friend. Now Brown Puppy was my consoler, for she had
been with me from Srinagar, and her little whelp was the youngest and
least anxious member of our struggling troop.
Two mules had crossed the pass but died in the valley. If another such
pass lay in our way the caravan would perish. The loads were much too
heavy for the surviving animals. A thorough weeding-out was necessary.
My ulster and most of my European clothes were burned. Felt mats, tools,
kitchen utensils, and spare shoes for the horses were thrown away. My
small Swedish bag was burned, and all the medicines except the quinine
jar were sacrificed; my European toilet necessaries, including my
razors, went the same way, and only a piece of soap was kept. All
European articles that were not absolutely indispensable were cast into
the fire. I tore out of Fröding's poems the leaves I did not know by
heart, and left the rest at the camp. The remaining matches were
distributed among the men; I kept myself twenty-four boxes, which must
suffice until the time when we must use only flint and steel to preserve
our incognito.
Cold and sad the night spread its wings over the silent valley where our
lonely camp, a picture of desolation, was buried among black cliffs and
white snowdrifts, while the stars came out above like lights burning
round a bier.
While the lightened loads were being placed on the animals I started on
foot followed by two men. One of them, Kutus, walked beside me, and I
steadied myself by his shoulder as we floundered through the drifts. The
wind blew furiously, and the snow danced in spirals and appeared as
white clouds on all the crags and ridges. After a march of about 3 miles
we encamped when we came to grass. Snow had to be melted in pots, for
the animals had been long without drink. This process did not take so
long now that only eleven animals were left.
With tottering steps we continued to the east-south-east on the 17th and
18th, sometimes along valleys, sometimes over open country, and always
through deep tiring snow. Camp 333 (Illust. 307) was barely made ready
when a terrible storm burst over us. The sky had been clear, and then
all of a sudden the pure blue colour was wiped out by orange clouds of
dust which swept up from the south-west. I was sitting in the lee of my
tent when in an instant the contents of the brazier were carried away. A
heap of wild asses' dung which the men had collected also flew away, and
we saw the small round balls dancing up the slopes as though they were
racing. A herd of antelopes cantered past our camp, and their smooth
coats shimmered like satin and velvet according as the hair was exposed
to the wind and the light. Again our ears are filled with the din of the
storm. I hurry inside, and hear from time to time a shout when some part
of the men's tent threatens to give way, or the sound of iron against
iron when the tent-pegs have to be driven in again, or a singing
dying-away sound when my towel is seized by the blast and borne away
towards the foot of the mountains. We might be on an unsound vessel with
the sails flapping and beating in cracking strips, and the mountain
spurs, which still peep obscurely from the mist, might be dangerous and
threatening reefs, against which we are to be dashed in a moment. Grand
and majestic is such a storm when it sweeps over the earth in unbridled
fury.
CHAPTER LXI
THIRTY DAYS OF STORM
On February 19 we had good country for travelling, declining gently to
the shore of the Lemchung-tso, which appeared in the distance. I
travelled mostly on foot, as I could easily do, for the storm had
abated, but, as usual, we were chilled through by the wind, though the
temperature rose to 28° at one o'clock. At the foot of some hills in the
south we perceived numbers of black spots, which we took for tame yaks.
They soon resolved themselves, however, into whole troops of antelopes,
which sped in light springs over the plain northwards. Now were often
seen signs of the summer visits of the Gertse nomads. We had left
Deasy's and Rawling's routes a couple of days behind us, and now found
ourselves on the western margin of one of the largest blank spaces in
the map of Tibet.
After a grey horse had perished in the night we had only ten animals
left, or a fourth of the original caravan. They were fed in the morning
with meal and spent tea-leaves in water, which they swallowed with
avidity. Our store of provisions would last out barely a month.
We were 6 or 7 miles from the shore of the lake, and on arriving there
we encamped close to a cave in which a millstone and a couple of yak
hides had been left in the summer. Along the shore ran a path worn by
the feet of men. We stayed here a day and sorted out the baggage again.
All spare instruments, such as thermometers, measuring tape,
eye-glasses, etc., as well as some European garments, a couple of caps,
bandages, portfolios, were sewed up, together with some stones, in a
sack, and sunk in a hole in the ice, which covered the lake to a depth
of nearly 3 feet. Now I had only three changes of under-clothing left,
one of which might be sacrificed at the next sorting out--we were like a
balloon from which ballast is thrown out to keep it in the air till it
has crossed a sea and has firm ground below it.
In the evening we hear a whole orchestra of roaring winds. The air hurls
itself down like cascades from the mountains on to the camp, and cannot
rush fast enough over the clear ice of the lake, where the moon produces
bright silvery streaks on the surface, while the mountains show a dark
outline to the north. Grazing and fuel are plentiful to-day, and
therefore we are in high spirits. The men sing, sometimes softly like a
swinging lullaby or rounded billows in a bay, sometimes in the wild and
passionate style of Asiatics, and dance around the fire. But when the
most violent gusts rush down, they pause, prepared to prevent the tent
from falling over the fire. They seem to sing responses to the storm,
and I am pleased with the performance, for it chases away thoughts of
the long hours of solitude, and calls forth pleasant dreams and hopes of
spring, warm winds, discoveries and adventures in Tibet. I wonder daily
how this journey will end, but every day I am a step nearer to the
answer.
On February 22 we left the little freshwater lake on our left hand,
while the Lemchung-tso proper extended its partly frozen surface to the
right. In the middle the water was quite open and of a dark-green
colour, and was lashed into vapour by the storm. To the east-south-east
the country seemed favourable--an open plain, where no obstacle came in
our way. In front of us were two grazing animals--perhaps yaks or wild
asses. Gulam, who went in front, held up a field-glass and reported that
they were horses. So we were near nomads again. We searched about in
every direction but could perceive no tent. Had, perchance, the horses
strayed away? However, they were not shy, but became very sprightly when
they caught sight of us, galloped straight to the caravan, and greeted
every horse and mule individually. After this civility they followed us
all the way, prancing and neighing. They were three-year-old colts
which had never carried a saddle or a load--fat, fresh, and
nimble-footed, very different from our last three horses. When we
encamped they went off to the south and were lost to sight. The storm
increased in violence, and our last iron spade and a kettle were carried
away by the wind, but were afterwards recovered.
February 23. The thermometer sank to -19.8°. Our last ten animals made a
short day's march along the same easy valley. I could perceive no trace
of the "Snowy Range" of English maps in the prolongation of this valley.
We observed a couple of tents in the mouth of a valley to the north, but
we were now in no distress. I lived exclusively on tea, bread, and jam,
of which there were still two pots left.
The storm continued next day also. We seldom covered more than 6 or 7
miles. In the past month we had travelled 220 miles, 30 more than in the
previous month. During the evening and night the snow pelted on to our
tents. I still had my warm comfortable bed, but at a pinch it would also
go piecemeal into the fire. Everything that was discarded was burned or
buried, lest, if it were left, it might arouse suspicions.
For another day's march we had the advantage of this fine longitudinal
valley, which imperceptibly rises to a flat threshold, beyond which we
passed a gold placer. The holes from which the auriferous sand is
extracted are 3 to 16 feet in diameter, and little more than 3 feet
deep. It is evident that some of them have been dug out last summer. A
little farther down gold had been searched for some time ago. Folds,
stone shelters for marksmen, and stone cairns were to be seen in several
places.
[Illustration: 313, 314, 315, 316, 317. PANORAMAS FROM THE CAMPS 318,
333, 335, 359, 360; IN THE LAST TWO, SHA-KANGSHAM.
After Water-colour Sketches by the Author.]
Still lower down we came, on the following day, to a third placer,
situated where the valley contracts to a trough. Here large sheepfolds
and abundant tracks of men were found. The gold is washed out on flat
stones in a flume 100 yards long. The valley afterwards contracts to a
breadth of 5 yards, and the bottom is mostly filled with ice, here and
there forming ledges. These had to be levelled with axes and strewn with
sand, and each animal was led and held up by men. We could not afford to
let any one of them break his leg and be lost to us. Then the ice
came to an end, the valley opened out, and we pitched our tents in an
extensive flat. Towards the east the land was all favourable, and no
"Snowy Range" stood in our way. We could see 25 miles ahead. Tubges shot
five hares and we had a feast that evening. A pack of wolves howled
round the camp at night.
February 27. A thousand wild asses were seen on the plain which sloped
down gently to the east-south-east. They formed dark lines, sometimes
large, sometimes small, sometimes spots like a rosary. Some herds
galloped off to a point about two hundred yards in front of the caravan,
where they stood and gazed and then dispersed, springing away in
graceful movements. Perhaps they were here for a great spring congress,
to decide questions relating to their territory and pastures. It is
certain that, like the nomads, they migrate at fixed seasons, for they
also are dependent on the occurrence of grass and its varying abundance
at different heights and different times of the year.
Farther down the plain, beyond a small cliff, were five herds of kiangs,
the nearest of which numbered 133 head. They came galloping almost up to
us. Lobsang ran towards them. Then they set off in wild flight one after
another, their hoofs thundering over the ground, made a wide curve
behind us, and vanished in a dense cloud of dust, the hard beat of their
hoofs being still audible. A strong puff of wind dispersed the cloud,
and they came into sight again; they stood quaking with fear, and looked
at us, pricked up their ears, dilated their nostrils, and sniffed the
wind.
To the south of our route we perceived two tents among small scattered
heights. Abdul Kerim and two men went off to them while we pitched camp
341. On their return they reported that the tents were the property of a
certain Tsering Ngorpel from Gertse, who had come hither with his family
for two months and was going back in a month. They were poor people, and
owned only 70 sheep and goats, 6 yaks, and 1 dog. The neighbourhood of
camp 341 the man called Senes-yung-ringmo, and he said that if we
marched south-eastwards we should almost daily meet with nomads from
Gertse and Senkor, districts in the south which I had passed through in
1901. They were afraid of our men and would not let them enter the
tents. Two fine sheep and a lump of butter were bought, and rescued us
from starvation for a time. The hare meat was discarded and given to the
dogs.
We made the two sheep carry themselves our newly-acquired store of meat
to camp 342; we had no room for extra loads. We mounted slowly to a flat
pass. Three tents stood in a side valley and some men came out to look
at us, but we passed on without exchanging questions and answers. On
February 29 the wind raged furiously all day long. Clouds swept
ceaselessly over the country, and at one o'clock the temperature was
22.1°, quite low enough to chill a rider down to the bones and marrow.
In front of us lay a large flat hollow, in the midst of which two small
lakes shone white with ice. We slowly approached the isthmus between
them. A herd of antelopes took to flight and nearly fell over a lonely
wild ass, which looked at them uneasily, but at the last moment they
turned off in another direction as though they were afraid of him. On
the left, in a deep trough running towards the lake, a flock of sheep
was driven along by two shepherds. Wait one moment. Hand me the turban.
Gulam wound it round my head, and then I went on foot like the rest.
Along the shore a young man was driving six yaks. Abdul Kerim and Gulam
went up to him while we set up the tents on the shore (15,200 feet).
After a while they returned with the yak-driver, a boy of fourteen in a
large white skin hood. He was terribly frightened, and could with
difficulty be persuaded to come to our tents; our intention was that he
should guide two of our men to his dwelling. He called the lake
Lumbur-ringmo. As my disguise was now complete, I went to look at the
boy, who did not seem at all suspicious.
Lobsang and Tubges followed the boy to his tent, and after a long time
returned with unwelcome news. Two Tibetans had rushed out of the tent,
stopped them, and asked roughly what they wanted. They replied very
quietly that they wished to buy food; but there was nothing of the kind
for sale.
"But who are you?" an elderly man asked.
"We are Ladakis in the service of a merchant, and we are on the way to
Saka-dzong," they answered.
"No," the Tibetan exclaimed; "you lie. No merchant travels this way,
least of all in winter; there is no trade in Chang-tang."
"We are not trading," Lobsang replied; "we are commissioned to inquire
how much sheep's wool can be bought up next summer."
"Sheep's wool--in uninhabited districts! No; you are servants of a
European, who keeps himself out of sight in one of your tents. Out with
the truth, or it will be bad for you."
"Ask the boy here," returned Lobsang in his most innocent tone, "if he
saw any European in our tent. We abhor Europeans as heartily as you. If
you doubt us, you can come to our tents and see for yourself."
"No, thank you; we will not come to your tent," the old man answered,
and disappeared with his people behind the black hangings.
Lobsang was very serious when he came back, and proposed that, if we had
not already come to a standstill, we should in future set up our camp as
far as possible from the nomads. I was alarmed, and I had a feeling that
we should not advance much farther into the forbidden land. It was also
disappointing to be so openly suspected to be a European.
Now good advice was precious, for evidently the nomads would betray us
to the nearest authorities. At the evening's lesson in Tibetan, which
occupied some hours, I discussed the situation with Lobsang and Kutus.
It was resolved that Abdul Kerim should go early in the morning to the
tent, and if the nomads were still hostile we would try to lengthen our
day's march so as to get out of the way of a probable summons to stop.
This time Lobsang met with a better reception, as he could present our
chief and leader, whom the nomads correctly addressed as _bombo_. The
old man introduced himself under the name of Sogbarong Tsering
Tundup--Sogbarong is his home in the west, and this name is placed
before his own much as Anders Persson i Stor-gården. The old man invited
his guests into his tent, took a couple of sheep's trotters, cut them in
pieces with an axe, threw them into the caldron, and offered some broth
to Abdul Kerim, saying it was the only tea he had. In the tent were five
antelopes cut up, a gun, a knife, and other articles. The old man did
not this time express any suspicions of us, but related that a European
with a large caravan had crossed the country to the east more than a
year ago. He did not suspect, of course, that that same European was
hiding in one of our tents. When the messengers came back they had a
fine fat sheep and a can of milk with them.
This day, March 1, the wind was so strong that it was impossible to
travel. My tent fell over and was held fast by the load of sand and
stones on its folds. Not a trace of the surroundings was visible, and I
should have obtained no notion of country on the route. At two o'clock
Tsering Tundup and another Tibetan came to return the visit. They
emerged from the mist only when they were close at hand, and a couple of
men hastened to protect them from the dogs. The visit was a complete
surprise, but there was nothing which could excite the least suspicion.
My things were crammed into a sack, and I was disguised as usual;
indeed, I had now no other clothing to put on. Even if they had come and
looked into my tent there would have been no danger.
Our guests had capacious sheepskin coats drawn up above the belt so as
to form the usual protruding bag where a large part of their property is
stored. They wore hoods of sheepskin and looked like Samoyeds or
Chukchis. They stood a while and chatted with our men in the wind, but I
did not hear a word, though they were standing only 3 yards from the
loophole in my tent through which I was watching them. After some
hesitation, they went into Abdul Kerim's tent, and then the yak question
was discussed. They had only six yaks, which they required for their own
journeys; but if we would buy sheep, they would let us have as many as
twelve, and each sheep could easily carry a fifth part of a mule's load.
The offer was accepted with pleasure, and the price was fixed at 38
rupees. Then they went off through the storm and I felt safe again.
The purchase was concluded on March 2, and the twelve sheep stood with
their heads together in the shelter of the men's tent. To start on our
travels was impossible, for we could not have kept our legs in such a
storm. We therefore remained here another day, and the men had full
occupation in sewing sacks for the sheep, arranging and weighing the
loads. I was worse off, for I had nothing to do and nothing to read, but
I sat and wrote Tibetan notes and entered new words in my lexicon. Then
I heard a hasty step coming towards my tent; it was Kunchuk bringing
fire. A rustle, an oath, all the contents are swept out of the shovel,
and the man has to crawl back to the camp-fire for more embers. So the
day passes and the storm roars, and every one is weary and listless.
During these stormy days our animals lay for the most part quietly in a
hollow where they were sheltered from the wind. The storm kept them from
grazing, and they were much enfeebled by fasting. A white mule,
therefore, remained behind at Lumbur-ringmo-tso when we moved off
south-eastwards on March 3 with 3 horses, 6 mules, and 12 sheep,
delighted that we had passed this critical point with a whole skin.
Freshwater springs formed a number of picturesque ice volcanoes on the
shore of the small lake. Before we encamped behind a projecting cliff,
we met three large flocks of sheep with their shepherds. On such
occasions I always went on foot. The new sheep all carried burdens, and
gave invaluable help to our tired animals. They were tied up every night
between the tents that they might be safe from wolves, and the yellow
dog from Gartok proved an excellent guard. They bleated piteously the
first evening, probably distressed at leaving their native country. I
was sorry for them, for they had been treated as cruelly as Uncle Tom,
but in time they became quite accustomed to their new way of life.
Violent storms prevailed all day and all the following day, on which we
passed two black tents. At every camp we had to take the greatest care
that no pieces of paper, match-boxes, candle ends, or cigarette stumps
were left lying about, for we might be sure that the Tibetans dwelling
near would come and search about after we had left the spot. Our route
took us over a low pass (16,030 feet). The rocks comprised weathered
schists, quartzite, and granite--the last only in detached blocks. On
the other side we followed a deeply excavated valley opening out on to a
plain, and we were just setting up our tent by a projecting rock when
two large black dogs came running towards us barking. Nomads, therefore,
were encamping in the neighbourhood, and we must be on our guard. Abdul
Kerim, who always showed himself prudent and tactful in delicate
negotiations, went off to a tent which stood on the other side of the
rock and was inhabited by four Senkor nomads who owned 400 sheep. The
chief of them was named Shgoge, and sold us three sheep at 3 rupees a
head, some butter and milk. He said that the country here, around camp
345, was called Pankur, and that we were three days' journey from the
encampment of the Gertse Pun, or the chief of Gertse. With him, however,
we had nothing to do. It was to our interest to avoid as much as
possible officials of all kinds, not to approach Gertse or Senkor in the
west too closely, and not too near my route of 1906 to the east. We must
steer our way through many pitfalls. Just in this district we crossed
the meridian of 84° E., and my plan was to travel due south from the
Tong-tso right across the large blank space. The continual storms which
had done us so much harm, were so far advantageous to us that they
enabled us to cross the great wastes without being much noticed. This
day all was hazy from the dust, and our neighbours' sheep, which passed
my tent in long columns with shepherds and dogs, made a very curious
spectacle in the dense mist.
March 5. Abdul Kerim obtained two more sheep, and now we had seventeen
to help the mules and horses. Our intention was to increase our sheep
caravan by degrees, and make ourselves independent of the other animals.
We must also have a spare horse for Abdul Kerim, for he was our master,
and it was incongruous that he should go on foot while I, a simple
caravan man, rode. This day we had the storm at our back, and we
travelled 8½ miles over the same even, excellent ground which had made
progress easier since we left Lemchung-tso. We encamped at a sheepfold
and enjoyed the feeling that there were no neighbours to spy on us. A
sheep was slaughtered; only the worst were sacrificed for food, and were
to be replaced by new ones when an opportunity presented itself.
CHAPTER LXII
ADVENTURES OF OURSELVES AND PUPPY IN NAGRONG
On March 6 we made another hop towards our destination. It is difficult
to travel over the high plateaus of Tibet in winter, and we could not
march more than four hours a day. The morning was clear, but we had not
gone far beyond a small lake, with its mantle of ice covered with
driftsand and dust, before the storm increased in violence and made me
reel in the saddle. The clouds of dust became thicker, the sandspouts
were dark reddish-brown at the base, and the gusts tore up furrows in
the ground like ploughshares, while frequently spiral forms were seen
which could only be produced by cyclonic whirlwinds. On the left hand
shimmered a lake, its surface partly white with gypsum and salt, partly
streaked brown with driftsand, and with open water only in two places;
it was the ghost of a lake which was doomed to disappear.
Two built-up fireplaces served us capitally for a camping-ground on the
shore where the grazing was good. On the eastern side of the lake was a
brick-red ridge of medium height, which I wished to paint in order to
record the effective tones in the dust mist. I waited for the others
with Kutus and Gulam, and we had scarcely induced a fire to burn before
the storm rose at noon to a hurricane. Now everything vanished--lake,
ridge, all except the nearest tufts of grass. The fire was fenced in
with stones and clods lest it should be blown away, sand and minute
pebbles beat against my dry skin coat, and I had to cover all my face,
for the skin smarted as though lashed by whip-cord, if it were exposed
for a second to the wind. Fortunately the others made their way to us.
Every man had to lend a hand to raise my tent. At length Gulam came
crawling backwards and yelled into my ear that the tent was ready. With
straddling legs and all my muscles on the stretch I fought my way to it,
and was glad to catch hold of a tent rope before I was blown down. At
last I was under cover and could recover my breath. The tent cloth was
puffed out like a balloon, and threatened every moment to burst with a
report. The sand and rubbish beat upon it, producing a deafening noise.
It was as dark as at twilight, and the wind roared and whined through
the grass. The men tried to set up their own tent, but when the wind had
overturned it twice they let it lie, weighting it with the baggage that
it might not fly away. Five Ladakis lay in the lee of my tent rolled up
like hedgehogs, and I let them come in, where they sat silent and
motionless for a couple of hours. The others had crept under the ruins
of their unfortunate tent. Puppy and Little Puppy lay in a corner and
kept each other warm. However, the temperature was 35.8°, and we had not
had such warmth for three months. A long and dismal evening! It was with
difficulty I got a piece of bread, a cup of tea, and a piece of dried
meat. We were deaf and dizzy when at length we sought repose under our
rugs, while the storm continued to rage outside.
I awoke to hear the same old music, and to go out to my horse was like
plunging into icy-cold water. Neither the sky nor the horizon was
visible, and the mountains were dim shadows. With Kutus and Gulam I led
the way, following a path trodden by men. Dark, chill, and doleful was
the land of eternal twilight, frost, and the wicked demons of the air.
After a march of 8 miles we halted at the edge of a belt of ice, a
frozen stream in several branches, which ran to the south-west. The gale
flew over the clear sheet of ice, and the red dust was swept over it
like flames. With the assistance of Kutus I slid over to the other side,
and in the shelter of the opening of a small valley we made the usual
fire.
The caravan came to the edge of the ice. It was impossible to sand a
path, for the grains would have been swept away. The animals were led
across singly, each helped over by several men. For all that a mule fell
and gave a fearful wrench to one of its hind legs, and with great
difficulty it was helped up to the camp. All of us had grey distorted
faces, our eyes ran, full of sand and dust. My lips bled and my teeth
were black. March is the worst month, but we had never experienced such
bad weather before. What is the use of looking forward to spring when
the days are darker as time goes on?
The injured mule had evidently dislocated its leg. It was thrown down
and a rope was fastened round its hoof and the end was pulled by the
men. When it was at full stretch Lobsang hit the rope hard with a
tent-pole in order to set the dislocated joint in place again, but I
could not perceive that the operation had any effect. No; the mule was
lost to us just when we could ill afford to lose one of our best
animals.
And it was lost indeed, for on the morning of March 8 it could not take
a step. It was sad to pass the death sentence, and a pitiful sight when
the fresh warm blood spurted out in powerful jets and moistened the
barren soil. It lay quiet and patiently, and after a few convulsions
expired, and was left in solitude when we moved on over the dreary
waste.
But before starting I had ascended a hill and looked around. Which was
more expedient--to travel north-east or south-west? Both directions lay
out of our course. I decided for the south-west, and hastened down to my
tent, where Gulam served up breakfast. Brown Puppy and Little Puppy gave
me their company to get their share. Little Puppy had grown so much that
he could do what he liked with his mother. When I gave her a piece of
meat the young one flew upon her and took it away. I had to hold Little
Puppy that his mother might eat in peace. When we set out, Puppy and the
yellow dog remained behind with the slaughtered mule, finding a
convenient point of departure in an open wound in the soft muscles of
the neck. There they stood gorging when we started along the ice-belt of
the stream towards the south-west.
With my usual followers I rode in advance. The suffocating, blinding,
deafening storm was right in our faces. Gulam walked in front, stopped,
looked through the field-glass, and gave me the sign to dismount. The
stream swept round the foot of a cliff in front of us.
"What is it?" I asked Gulam when we came up to him.
"A large stone house with a wall and a couple of smaller huts. They are
not visible at this moment because of the mist, but they lie close to
the foot of the mountain."
"Yes; now they can be seen. It is strange that no dogs rush at us."
"What is to be done? Shall we turn back? Surely a chieftain lives here,
and he will come and search us down to the skin."
"No; it is too late, for we must have been seen already."
How I regretted that we had not travelled to the north-east! But we must
put on a good face in our unlucky situation. We passed the village at a
distance of 100 yards, and halted in the shelter of the dark porphyry
crag crowned by two _chhortens_ and a _mani_. At least it was pleasant
to get shelter for a moment. It was like taking refuge in a gateway when
it pours. All around was dead and dreary; no one was seen; only a couple
of jackdaws croaked, and a hare sped out of its form so near us that we
could have caught it with the hand if we had been alert. Kutus and Gulam
went out to gather fuel. I searched the suspicious neighbourhood with
the field-glass, where treachery seemed to lurk behind every projection.
It cleared a little towards the south-east, enough for me to detect a
black tent of unusual size about 200 yards off. Four strings with
prayer-streamers were stretched out from a high pole. I had been in
hopes that we should get past the first dwellings, as no dogs had shown
themselves, but I had never heard of an uninhabited tent. And the
outward appearance of this tent indicated the presence of an important
chief. Thanks to the mist, we had stumbled right on to his camp, and he
would not be caught napping by poor strolling Ladakis.
Gulam had been to the large house, the yard door of which stood open,
and had found in a shed a large quantity of fuel of a kind of shrub the
Tibetans call _ombo_. So we waited and waited, expecting to see the
caravan emerge from the mist, but when nothing was heard of it Kutus
went out to search. It had wandered quite out of its course, and had
made a long circuit round the house and tent, for the leaders were
convinced that I wished to slip by unnoticed. A horse had fallen, and
now we had only two left, and 5 mules out of 40 animals.
The three tents were set up in a line close together, and Abdul Kerim
went with Kunchuk to the large tent. We saw through the mist that a man
came out to meet them, and that all three went into the tent, and then
we waited with our hearts in our mouths. The men returned at dusk with
good news. The tent was inhabited by a lonely old Amchi-lama, _i.e._ a
monk-doctor, who at the same time looked after the souls of the Nagrong
nomads, determined from astrological books the lucky and unlucky days
for baptisms and other affairs, and assisted people with the same
remedies when they were sick, died, and finally were buried. He was from
Sera in Lhasa, and had lived three years in Nagrong. The tent was a
movable temple, furnished inside with altars, burning butter lamps, and
votive bowls, where the hermit performed service--we heard him beating a
temple drum at midnight. It belonged, as well as the large house, to the
Gertse Pun Bombo, or the chief of the Gertse district, who a few days
before had gone off a day's journey to the east, with his flocks,
children, and all, but was soon expected back in consequence of a
dispute between two of his subjects. Perhaps, after all, it was well we
travelled south-west instead of north-east, for we might have fallen
into the jaws of the Gertse Pun himself. This potentate comes to Nagrong
in late summer and takes up his abode in the stone house, while a
hundred nomad tents are set up around and a fair is held.
The old lama had no servants, but every third day a man came to bring
him wood. He must find it dull in the long winter evenings, when he
hears the storm roaring outside, and silence reigns within around the
gods who answer his prayers and the rolls of his drum with a smile of
reconciliation. But probably he is a philosopher and has no fear of the
dangers of the night. In his tent lay several sacks full of _tsamba_,
barley, rice, and butter, but he had no authority to sell anything
without the permission of the Gertse Pun. Instead, he pointed out where
the tent of the Pun's brother-in-law stood, where all kinds of prime
goods could be bought.
We therefore decided to remain where we were over March 9, and Abdul
Kerim with three attendants sought out the brother-in-law, met with a
friendly reception, and bought five sheep and two goats, besides two
sheep-loads of rice and as much barley, and also a bag of tobacco, which
the men had long wanted. All day long I was a prisoner in my tent; my
period of freedom was over. And when the evening came and enveloped the
dreary Nagrong valley in its shadows, I could think of nothing else but
my old trusty comrade, the oldest of all that had been with me in Tibet,
Brown Puppy. In the company of the yellow dog she had remained in the
morning with the mule which had dislocated its leg, and I had seen
nothing of her since. We had hoped, however, that she would find us
again, as she had so often done before, but now we were convinced that
she had lost our trail, and, desperate and crazy with anxiety, was
seeking for us over hill and dale, only to wander farther and farther
from the right direction. It was useless to send men after her, and it
was not advisable to divide our small party at such a critical time. The
dogs had remained a long time tearing at the mule's neck, and when at
last they were satiated they had started to follow us and had lost our
track in the terrible wind and sand clouds. If they once crossed over
ice they would never find our track again. Now thoughts of my old tent
companion worried me more than anything else. Only that very morning she
had lain on her felt rug in the usual corner, and we had breakfasted
together. Where was she? what was she doing at this moment? Day and
night she would run barking and whining over desolate Chang-tang with
her nose to the ground, searching for our track till her paws were torn
and painful. What would she do when night came down with its dreadful
darkness and its prowling wolves? Were the dogs keeping together, or
were they seeking us along different paths, having lost each other?
Would Puppy some time find a home with friendly nomads and lead a
comfortable life again, or would she come to want and be tied outside a
poor tent, and, pining in hopeless sorrow, remember her past life,
which, from when she lapped milk in my room at Srinagar, had been spent
in my caravan? I was never to receive an answer to these questions, for
the parts she and the yellow dog played in our romance were ended. For
the future her life would shape itself differently, but I was never to
gain any knowledge of the remaining chapters of her existence. I lay
awake at night thinking of her misfortune, and looked every morning to
see if perchance she had come back in the night and was lying in her
usual corner, and I fancied I heard her trotting outside my tent in the
dusk, or thought I could distinguish the profile of a lonely
half-starved dog on a mound or crag with its nose up and howling at the
storm. For some time I suffered from a delusion, imagining that a shade,
the restless soul, the invisible ghost of a dog followed me wherever I
went. I felt the presence of an invisible dog which followed me into my
tent, and among the Tibetans, and always whined and pleaded for help,
and I was worried that I could give no help or consolation to my lost,
wandering friend. But soon we had other things to think of, other dogs
became my friends, and we were daily entangled in a skein of troubles
which must lead to a crisis, and the cares of the past paled before the
gravity of the moment.
[Illustration: 318. THE AUTHOR AS A SHEPHERD.]
March 10. Such a day as this is interesting to look back on, but it was
hard and cruel as long as it lasted. Before six o'clock I was awakened
with the disquieting information that two Tibetans were approaching our
tents. I made haste to dress myself and paint my face and hands black
with a thin coating. Meanwhile the strangers arrived and were invited
into Abdul Kerim's tent, where I heard them talking pleasantly about
sheep and money--so they were not spies; our time had not yet come.
One of the guests was the brother-in-law, the other a neighbour of his,
who, when he heard what a good price we paid for sheep, said he was
ready to sell us four he had brought with him, as well as a lively goat.
Abdul Kerim had received a general order to buy all the sheep he could
procure, so he took them. The goat was, as has been said, a lively
beast, and he ran off at once and could not be caught again.
The two Tibetans went off to the lama's tent to drink tea, but the
critical time was not yet over, for probably they would return to see us
start. Therefore, while the tents were still standing, I set out with
Tubges, Little Kunchuk, and "Snoring Kunchuk," as we called Sonam
Kunchuk on account of his terrible timber-sawing propensities, when they
drove our thirty-one sheep down the valley. As we went off the Tibetans
came out and watched us, but did not suspect anything wrong. To escape
detection I had hurriedly turned to sheep-driving (Illust. 318), but I
soon found that I had no natural aptitude for this occupation, so
invigorating, but so trying to the patience. I fancied I imitated my
Ladakis as closely as possible, whistled and shouted in the same way,
and threw out my arms when a sheep left the crowd, but the animals
showed me not the least obedience, but went where they liked when I was
near. After an hour's walk in the teeth of the wind I had had enough,
and while the other shepherds went on with the sheep, Kunchuk and I
stayed in a cranny out of sight of the lama's tent, while I could look
over all the valley.
At length the other men came with Abdul Kerim riding at their head. Our
coats and turbans were of the same colour, so that any Tibetans who
happened to be watching could not tell if it were Abdul Kerim or I that
was riding. I now took my horse and went on in front with my usual
companions. At eleven o'clock the storm rose to a furious pitch and
dashed in our faces. Driftsand swept over the ground in dense masses; we
were nearly suffocated, and we seemed to stand still while the country
moved past us at a giddy pace. We crossed the valley in order to follow
its western flank. The clouds of dust obscured the sun; nothing could be
seen beyond a distance of 20 yards; chaos surrounded us. We stopped to
get our breath, and lest we should miss the others, but as soon as they
appeared like phantoms in the mist we set off again. I have experienced
many sandstorms in Takla-makan and the Lob-nor desert, but hardly any so
bad as this was. In Turkestan one simply encamps when a storm comes on,
but what is the use of encamping to await the end of a storm which lasts
thirty days? We strayed among small dunes, and, though the valley fell
in the direction we were travelling, we seemed as though we were
mounting to a lofty pass in consequence of the pressure of the storm.
The driftsand rattled against my dry, hard coat, which, from the
constant friction, became heavily charged with electricity. About every
other minute there was a discharge, and I felt uncomfortable and often
painful prickings, especially in the soles of the feet, the hands, and
knees. At every such discharge the horse also pulled up and became
nervous. At last, when my grey Tikze horse refused to go further, and we
had quite lost sight of the others, and could not see where we were
going, we came to a halt and huddled together with our backs to the
wind. The electrical discharges continued even now, but were weaker. If
I placed the tip of a finger near Gulam's or Kutus' hand a small
electric spark was felt and seen, and both of us felt the shock. The men
were exceedingly astonished, and hoped it was not witchcraft.
We sat waiting for three hours, and were prepared for an uncomfortable
night. But Kutus came upon the other men just when they were giving up
all attempt to find us before night. We encamped among the dunes, and
before long all articles which were set out in my tent vanished under a
thick layer of sand.
On the morning of the 11th the storm had somewhat abated; and, wearied
and stiff after our experiences of the previous night, we continued our
journey southwards and encamped at a deserted sheepfold. By nine o'clock
compact sandspouts twisted slowly over the plain like spectres, so the
storm was again at its usual height. We had _tsamba_ for only one day,
but it did not count for much as long as we had such a good supply of
meat. We were glad to get out of reach of the Gertse Pun; in this
drifting sand it was impossible to find our trail--yes, even for our own
dogs. Little Puppy did not miss his mother, but felt very important at
being sole master on the ground, and barked at our sober sheep. It was,
however, a serious matter for us that we were deprived of our
night-watch in districts where we had most need of them. We must try to
procure fresh dogs as soon as possible.
On March the 12th we marched the usual weary 6½ miles to the
east-south-east through a fine, broad, longitudinal valley, and pitched
our camp in a hollow full of rubbish. Our three tents were now always
placed close together, so that, if any stranger came unexpectedly to my
tent, I could crawl into Abdul Kerim's without being seen from outside.
My Ladak _chapkan_ began to assume a more satisfactory colour, but we
still did all we could to defile it and make it sooty and greasy. Little
Puppy lent me his assistance by biting and tearing the sleeves so that
they hung in rags. It would not be long before I had the appearance of a
regular ruffian.
It snowed heavily all night, and in the morning the snow lay so deep,
and the country was so thickly covered, that we thought it best to
remain stationary. We were still farther removed from Brown Puppy, and
it was vain for her to seek our trail. Perhaps it was providential that
both she and the white horse were lost before they could betray us.
Tibetans have wonderfully sharp eyes for animals, and recognize them
again when they have seen them only once. Now the danger was over, for
all the veterans had gone. Perhaps Puppy sacrificed herself that I might
be successful! All the same, I seemed to see her wandering disconsolate
and distressed about the desolate wastes in the north.
CHAPTER LXIII
THROUGH THE HIGHLANDS OF BONGBA
When I awake to another day of uncertain fortune and adventures life
seems gloomy and solitary, and the longer the time the more I long for
an end of my difficulties. When Gulam awoke me on the 14th, he
complained that Abdul Kerim did not keep the watch I had given him in
order; either the watch or the caravan leader was at fault, but he
believed it was the latter, for the watch could not be blamed if it were
wound up only every other day. Gulam affirmed that when Abdul Kerim was
asked what o'clock it was, he always answered seven, whatever time it
might be in the twenty-four hours.
The thermometer fell to -11° in the night, but the day was fine. The
wind blew as usual, but the sun came out and we thought of spring again.
Three shepherds were taking some hundreds of sheep to the west, which
had been driven off from their pasturage by the recent snow and were
looking for uncovered land. We were only a day's journey from the
Tong-tso (14,800 feet), they said, and the Tong-tso was the point from
which we were to start southwards to traverse unknown country. If I
succeeded in crossing it only by a single route, all the troubles of the
past winter would not have been in vain. The shepherds' information was
correct, for the next day we bivouacked on the western shore of the
Tong-tso, which we found exactly at the place where the immortal pundit,
Nain Sing, inserted it on his map. To the south-east towered the huge
massive Sha-kangsham, along the northern foot of which I had ridden in
1901.
Now we had to find a convenient pass over the mountain which barred our
way to the south. A gap was seen to the south-east, and we directed our
steps towards it. On our right, two tents stood at the foot of a hill,
and Abdul Kerim was sent to them while we encamped in a deep narrow
ravine, at the bottom of which we found a large quantity of wind-driven
kiang dung and dry tufts of grass. On his return, our good leader
reported that he was rudely received by two men, named Nakchu Tundup and
Nakchu Hlundup, who came from the district Nakchu, three days' journey
distant to the south, and had a wife in common. They first asked how
many we were and how many guns we had, just as though they wished to
know whether they and their neighbours might venture to attack us. They
then said that they had seen a man riding at the head of our party,
while all the rest, Abdul Kerim included, went on foot, and that it was
not hard to guess that the mounted man was a European. When Abdul Kerim
replied that no Europeans travel in winter, for they are too much afraid
of the cold, and that we were only wool-buyers from Ladak, the Tibetans
shook their heads and answered that they had never heard of Ladakis
travelling in this country in winter. But, nevertheless, Abdul succeeded
in gaining their confidence, and when he had paid double the market
price for two yaks and six sheep, the Tibetans forgot their suspicions,
all for the sake of filthy lucre. The purchase was to be completed the
following morning. Then the new animals were fetched, and their carrying
power was a welcome assistance to our animals. Fortunately, the nomads
had in general the greatest respect for our tents. It was important for
us to make liberal bargains with men who at first had been hostile to
us. On the other hand, they often abstained from betraying us, even if
they had suspicions, for if it were known that they had been well paid,
the nearest chief would confiscate their receipts and would also punish
the unfortunate men who had dared to traffic with suspected individuals.
During the day's march I rode in front as usual, with my two companions
on foot. A tent lay concealed behind a cliff, and we did not notice it
until we were some way past it, and then it was too late to dismount.
Two fellows were outside and looked after us, and if they compared notes
with their neighbours they would have good cause for suspicion. At our
camp that day we had a visit from an old man and two young people, who
had their tent near and came to see what kind of men we were. They said
that they were very poor, and begged for some coppers. We were on the
border of the district Bongba-changma, which contains 300 tents, and,
like the whole province of Bongba, is subject to the governor Karma
Puntso, whose tent stood at a distance of six days' journey to the
south. He was a man of twenty-five years of age, lived in a large tent,
and had been in office only a year, since his father died. It was
assuring to know that he could have no experience of Europeans and their
crafty ways. After the strangers had received a couple of _tengas_ from
Abdul Kerim, they went home again in the rays of the evening sun,
delighted to find that we were not robbers.
Then the temperature fell to -16°; the winter was remarkably trying, but
the day, March 18, was still fine, and I travelled all the way on foot,
driving the sheep while we were passing several tents. Among them was
that of our old man of the day before, and he proved to be a man of
property, who sold us various much-needed articles of food. On the way
Tubges shot seven partridges, whereupon two Tibetans came forward and
protested, saying that only Europeans shot partridges. Abdul Kerim
assured them that he preferred partridges to mutton. Again there was
talk of Karma Puntso. Perhaps it would be better to choose another way.
No; then the governor would be still more suspicious. We encamped on the
northern side of a small pass, where we had no troublesome neighbours.
March 19. Breakfast, a delicate partridge and a cup of tea, was just
over when it was announced that three Tibetans were coming up to our
tents. But they stopped at a respectful distance, and Abdul Kerim went
up to them. My tent was opened in this direction, but was closed again
just in time. The Tibetans' errand was to ask if we had any medicine
suitable for a man who had a pain in the foot. In reality, their object
was to spy upon us when we set out, for they stayed all the time and
looked about. After my hands and face had been coloured black, I stole
by the secret passage into Abdul Kerim's tent, while Kutus and Gulam
crawled by the same way into mine to pack up. Then I went with Lobsang
and Kutus, and drove the sheep up the track leading to the pass (16,135
feet). We had not gone far when Abdul Kerim came riding on my horse and
made frantic gestures to us to stop. A Tibetan horseman, followed by a
big dog, would meet us in a few moments on the path. We therefore took a
roundabout way among hillocks, while the caravan encountered the
Tibetan. In this way we escaped the danger. Soon came Kunchuk and Sedik,
leading the dog with a rope on either side--a savage brute, which barked
till he foamed at the mouth, and tried to bite those who were taking him
away from his master. He was of the species called _takkar_, and Takkar
was his name. He reminded me of a St. Bernard; he was coal black, with a
white patch on the chest and neck, and was as savage as a wolf. They had
bought him for 2 rupees.
Moreover, Abdul Kerim had also bought the rider's horse for 86 rupees,
and he came jogging cheerfully after us as we rode down from the summit
of the pass to a longitudinal valley abounding in tents and herds of
sheep and yaks, and at two spots were seen mounted men, who looked
uncomfortably like a levy. The new horse was eleven years old, the owner
said, and if he passed well over his fifteenth year, he would live to
thirty--but we did not want him so long. He was a new member of our
troop and excited general interest, and Takkar became quieter when he
saw an old friend and comrade in misfortune.
At the camp we had to be careful, for nomads dwelt near and shepherds
wandered with their flocks on the slopes around. To prevent Takkar from
running away he was tied by the neck to a tent pole, an operation by no
means easy. He was tied fast with ropes, his legs were fettered, and a
felt mat was thrown over him, on which four men sat while the others
made him fast to the pole. Immediately he was let loose he rushed at
those nearest him, but was held back by the pole. It was a sin to drag
him from home against his will; he was another Uncle Tom who suffered
for our sake, but I hoped that we should soon understand each other. To
console him in his captivity he was given the blood and entrails of the
slaughtered sheep.
We crossed another small pass (19,537 feet) on the 20th, and the
insignificant lake Shar-tso, where a fine spring bubbles up out of the
ground by the shore. From a couple of tents to the west we bought tea,
butter, and _tsamba_ sufficient for several days, and heard again about
Karma Puntso. This time it was said that he lived three days to the
west, and we hoped to slip past without any disturbance. The country
about camp 359 is called Luma-shar, and we stayed on the northern bank
of the large river Kangsham-tsangpo, which comes from the northern flank
of Sha-kangsham, the huge massive which I left to the south of my route
in 1901, and which showed us a magnificent view of its western side. The
mountain lay about a couple of days' journey to the south-east.
The next day we were to cross the river, an exceedingly unpleasant
business; for though there had been 32 degrees of frost in the night the
ice, except close to the bank, would not bear. Abdul made an attempt
with his horse, but the animal came down on his nose in the middle of
the river. Then Lobsang took off his boots and went across the river
barefooted, and came back again to help in conducting our pack animals
gently and firmly across. To get the sheep over was the worst
difficulty; they had to be pushed and pulled by the horns, one at a
time. Almost all the men of the caravan got a refreshing bath in the
stream (Illust. 363).
On the other side we ascended to a small pass where there was a splendid
view over the ridge, which seemed to run west-south-west from
Sha-kangsham and which barred our way to the south. Abdul Kerim,
Kunchuk, and Sedik went with an exhausted mule to a few tents standing
to the right of our route, with the object of bartering the worn-out
beast for a couple of sheep, but the nomads said they would not take it
as a gift. Instead, our men bought rice, sour milk, butter, salt, and a
sheep, so that we were provided for some days. From the camp also Abdul
Kerim took a long walk to some tents in the neighbourhood. Now poor
Abdul Kerim had to do penance for his sins, and if he had erred in
taking too little barley from Ladak, he made up for it by his conduct on
this adventurous journey.
From camp 360 the highest peak of Sha-kangsham lay south, 73° E.
(Illust. 317).
Takkar is still irreconcilable, and heartily detests Kunchuk who bought
him. But he also barks at us as soon as we show ourselves outside the
tents. On the march he is resigned as long as he is near our new horse,
but at other times he is savage. The only one that dares go near him is
Little Puppy, who teases and sports with him and bites his ears. Takkar
treats Little Puppy with supreme contempt, and only when the young one
presumes to snatch his new uncle's food he growls angrily, but then
Little Puppy pricks up his ears, puts his head on one side, and looks at
him. He little thought that the new dog could have bitten off his head
like a chicken's if he had wished. In reality, Takkar was glad to have a
playfellow in his captivity, though at first he held himself aloof to
maintain his dignity.
The next morning Lobsang and Tubges went back to the nomads' tent and
returned with three more sheep, a lump of butter, and a bag of tobacco.
Their appetites were wonderful to behold. The others had left for them
half a pot of tea mixed with butter, thick and red. One cup disappeared
after another, and they emptied the pot to the last drop. Then they took
some meat out, which they ate up like wild beasts. What was left they
stuffed into their waistbelts, to have it handy in case they were hungry
before we reached the next camp.
We continued on our way to the south, passing on our left hand an open
plain which extended up to the foot of the skirts of Sha-kangsham. We
passed tents and flocks at one or two places, and encamped on a hill of
loose material beside a spring. The nomads around had nothing to sell,
but gave Abdul Kerim much valuable information. On such occasions
Kunchuk used to sit and secretly note down all the geographical names.
Among other details we now heard that if we held on our journey to the
south for seven days we should fall in with a rich merchant from Lhasa,
named Tsongpun Tashi, who was wont to take up his quarters in winter in
the heart of the Bongba province to sell tea to the nomads. We might be
certain that if we came into the neighbourhood of his camp we should
again be in a critical situation.
Now Lobsang and two weather-beaten Ladakis complained that they slept
badly, because it was too warm in the tent. The former wore a set of
underclothes, and above only a garment of thin woollen material. In this
costume he had travelled all the way from Drugub, and slept in 72
degrees of frost with only a couple of sacks over him, for he had sold
his skin coat to one of his comrades at the commencement of the journey.
Only a Tibetan can survive such an experience.
On March 23 we struggled up to the Chaklam-la, which we also heard
called Amchen-la. The path up to it is steep, and we moved exceedingly
slowly up the ascent. The sheep and the two yaks beat us hollow. From
the last tent the path was visible all the way up to the pass, so I was
obliged to travel on foot, and I might have collapsed from palpitation
of the heart and loss of breath if Lobsang had not gone behind and
pushed me. The lives of two mules had been ebbing away during the
previous days, so the animals were left where nomads could take
possession of them. A black horse was also giving in, and the newly
bought one had to take over his load. My grey horse was no longer worth
much. Chaklam-la, with its 17,339 feet, was a heavy trial to us, and I
was not delighted with the view which unrolled itself to the south--a
labyrinth of mountains, where it was plain to see that the ranges all
stretched from east to west. From the pass there is a steep descent to
the river Sangchen-chu, which flows westwards. We encamped on its bank.
Now Takkar was becoming resigned to his fate. He was certainly annoyed
at being tied to the pole, but he found that he got good and plentiful
food and that we were kind to him. He barked only at Kunchuk, whom he
could never forgive.
When we broke up our camp on March 24, we hesitated whether we should
make for the south-west or south-east, for high mountains rose to the
south. If we went south-westwards we should come too near to Karma
Puntso, and so we chose the south-easterly route. We had first to cross
the ice of the river, 130 yards broad, where a path was sanded. The
sheep had to be dragged over one by one by the horns, and the yaks would
not venture on the ice till they saw that it bore the horses and mules.
Gulam went first on foot, and had the usual order to give a sign if he
saw a tent or shepherds. We had not gone far when he stretched out his
left hand, which meant that I must dismount and go on foot while Abdul
Kerim rode my horse. It was only a shepherd with his flock. As soon as
the danger was past I exchanged places with the caravan leader.
A little farther on I found that I had lost my cigarette case, which
also contained some unmounted family portraits and one or two pieces of
sticking-plaster. It would be terrible if a Tibetan found it. Only a
European could own such a thing. Lobsang and Kutus went back and
searched along the track while I lay and waited on a bank. They found
the case, and each received a cigarette as a reward, and we sat and
smoked while Abdul Kerim with Kunchuk and Tubges went down to a tent,
where there were only women, and bought some provisions. At the camp in
the evening snow fell, and at night the thermometer sank to zero. Now we
had only 21 sheep left, and we must try to increase our flock, or, still
better, buy a dozen horses. In this region, and in Bongba generally, it
was difficult to buy sheep. Everywhere the nomads complained that their
flocks had been decimated by the cold, wind, and snow, and the pasturage
was unusually poor, because the rains had failed at the end of the
preceding summer. Sheep-breeding is their means of subsistence, and if
they lose their flocks they are impoverished and can do nothing but
wander about begging from more fortunate people. They have therefore a
decided objection to diminish their flocks by artificial means, as we
may say; the flocks must fluctuate, increasing in good times and
diminishing in bad, but they must not be reduced by sale. Therefore they
often refuse to sell even at double the proper price. Still harder was
it to buy horses in Bongba.
In the night our animals wandered back to the former camp. While Lobsang
and Kutus went after them most of the day slipped by, and therefore we
remained at camp 363. Kunchuk and Tubges spied a tent in a valley to the
south, where they bought rice, barley, _tsamba_, milk, and _chura_--a
kind of cheese, so that we had food for several days. Thus we got our
livelihood in small portions, bit by bit and from tent to tent. Our own
flock had now shrunk to 21 head, all carrying burdens.
A solitary wild-goose flew screaming over our camp. Had he got lost, or
was he a scout sent out to see if the ice were broken up on the lakes to
the north? Doubtless he would soon return to his tribe and make his
report. It seemed to me that he had been despatched too soon.
From February 24 to March 24 we had traversed only 190 miles, owing to
the cutting storm, loss of animals, and now at length the difficult
country. We now seldom made a day's march of as much as 7 miles.
It is most irritating that a tent, like a sentinel-box or a spying eye,
always stands at the northern foot of a pass, so that I have to walk all
the way. This day also, when we crept up to the Sanchen-la, a small
shelter stood on the saddle, 17,572 feet high. Southwards there were
still more mountains. At a distance of 20 to 25 miles north, 60° E.,
rose the highest peak of Sha-kangsham, a fine sight in the beautiful
weather, when not a cloud obstructed the view. Five Ovis Ammons careered
in nimble and elastic springs over the heights, and small agile Goa
antelopes leaped along the southern slope, where we scrambled down among
detritus. The Pantholops antelope is not seen in this region.
Close to where we encamped at Nema-tok was a tent, and the inmates sold
us a sheep's load of rice. An old man, whom my fellows called familiarly
_ava_ or father, came to look at our black horse which we wished to
sell, as it could evidently not travel much farther. But the old man
said he would not give a rap for the horse. He informed us that in nine
days nomads from all quarters would repair to the place where Karma
Puntso dwelt, to buy tea and pay their taxes to the Government. Tsongpun
Tashi was a powerful and influential man, he said. We drew near to this
potentate with a feeling of uneasiness and growing respect. He enjoys
peculiar privileges from the Devashung. He sells tea to the nomads on
credit. When they sell their sheep's wool in summer at the _tasam_ they
pay their debts to him in _tengas_ or in goods. Tsongpun Tashi makes a
good profit on these transactions, and therefore it is to his interest
to stand well with the Devashung. If he, who must have the reputation of
being more intelligent and sensible than the simple nomads, were to let
us pass by with impunity, he would have to answer for it to the
Devashung and would lose his privileges. We were therefore evidently
coming to a most critical moment.
Nothing venture, nothing have! If I would explore the blank space in the
heart of which I now found myself, I must expose myself to various
annoyances and run great risks. For a moderately intelligent man it
could be no particular pleasure to go on foot through desolate wastes
like a vagabond, and drive a flock of refractory sheep. I was already
thoroughly weary of this work, for I had no talent or training to
perform it properly. I had to paint myself black every morning like a
negro, and I sat with a brush before the looking-glass, smearing my face
three times over to produce an evenly dark complexion. My eyes were
concealed with a pair of large round Tibetan spectacles with my own
polished glasses fixed inside. This time I was much more carefully
disguised than in 1901, when I tried to get through to Lhasa as a
Mongol, but was held fast in the strong claws of Kamba Bombo. My turban
was too white, so it was dipped in a dye of boiled butter and ashes, and
became at once quite shabby. My soft leather boots were in holes, so
that the toes came out. It was well that I ran no risk of meeting
acquaintances from Stockholm or London.
This journey was painful and trying to the nerves. Day and night I lived
in the greatest anxiety lest I should be discovered and ignominiously
unmasked. The farther we advanced southwards the more I was troubled by
this apprehension. Should we succeed, or should we be forced back when
we had traversed only half the distance across the blank space? Should I
never cross the Trans-Himalaya again? At every stage our watchfulness
and cautiousness increased, and also the tension of our nerves. I must
always be on my guard and never hold a cigarette in my hand when we were
on the march. My map sheets and compass I thrust into my bosom to be
near at hand. When I collected a rock specimen, took a bearing with the
compass, or made a drawing near a tent, Lobsang had to screen me, and he
became astonishingly adept at this game. The sun I could observe only
when we were quite sure that no Tibetan could see the instrument.
Sometimes I sat and drew a panorama through a peephole in the tent
cloth. The sheep were my refuge, and with them I set out first, and had
not to take part in the packing and loading, and I was spared from
watching the animals at night, as in 1901. In both cases I was
practically a prisoner in my tent, where the evening hours seemed very
long. Nothing is so trying and irritating to the mind as this anxiety in
which I lived, travelling in disguise, and expecting any moment to come
to a crisis in my fate.
CHAPTER LXIV
TSONGPUN TASHI
March 27. Nearly -4° in the night--still winter. But at one o'clock the
temperature rose to 46½°--spring was coming.
An old man sold us four sheep in the morning, and then prowled about our
tents. He could not at all understand why we had come hither, especially
at this season, but Abdul Kerim told him that when we left Tok-jalung
the most severe cold was over. This was a new story we had invented,
because it was more probable than the former, and would pass better in
the southern parts of the country.
Here, also, stood the usual tent with a view up to the pass, and I was
obliged to go on foot up to the summit of the Ladung-la with its 17,395
feet. But here the view was encouraging; we had level or declining
ground before us for four days. The descent from the pass to the south
was precipitous, and we stumbled and slid through the rubbish, which
rattled down behind us, and I had the satisfaction of ruining my boots
and clothes more than ever. The valley turned off to the right,
south-west, and in the Janglung district, where we encamped, a young
shepherd informed us that we should come to Tsongpun Tashi's tent next
day.
Numerous springs bubbled up from the valley bottom and formed a little
clear brook full of fish between grassy swards. Here some of us halted
and used Kutus's girdle as a net. At the first haul we caught 18 fish,
and we did not cease till we had 160--not large ones, but quite
sufficient to feed all thirteen of us. It was amusing to see Little
Puppy as he stood watching attentively and regarding the sprawling
fishes, barking and shaking his head. He had never in his life seen
running water before, and must have supposed that he could walk upon it
as safely as on clear ice. Quite unsuspiciously he jumped down from the
grass, where the brook was 2 feet deep, and entirely disappeared under
the water. When he had, with much difficulty, struggled up again, he was
much amazed and disconcerted, and prowled about growling with
displeasure at the cold bath. After that he kept far away from the
deceitful brook.
March 28. Now we saw that we could trust Takkar, so we let him loose. He
did not run away, but was in the best of tempers, and flew like an arrow
over the slopes, enjoying his freedom, and played with Little Puppy, who
became furious when the huge brute came racing down on him with playful
leaps, so that he rolled over and over on the ground.
Abdul Kerim was to go on the new horse with the Ladaki saddle,
accompanied by two men, to look out for Tsongpun Tashi. He had plenty of
money to buy anything he might find, and in reply to searching questions
he was to say that we had orders from Gulam Razul to meet one of his
caravans in Raga-tasam, which in about ten days was to leave Lhasa, and
then accompany it to Ladak.
I had to ride my grey horse barebacked, but I had not got far before we
passed two tents, where four Tibetans came out to look at us. Two of our
men went and talked to them while the rest of us followed the brook
through the valley. A little further and we had to be careful again, for
there were three more tents and two large flocks, the owner of which
possessed 3000 sheep. Sheepfolds, old camping-places, and _manis_ were
all around, for we were on a great highway, and therefore I kept close
to the sheep, and whistled and shouted at them. At the mouth of a side
valley, on the left, stood a large white tent with blue borders, which
was said to belong to the chief of the district, the Gova Chykying. A
man came out of the tent, hurried after us, and asked whence we came and
whither we were going. Two women came out of a tent inhabited by
beggars, and put the same questions. A mile or so farther we were out of
sight of tents, and I jumped on my grey horse, but I could not ride far,
for more tents appeared farther down the valley. We encamped by the side
of the brook in the Kung-sherya country, where the valley is very broad
and open, and tents are seen in many directions. From one of these,
which stood below ours, a man came and made inquiries. He said that one
of the tents, which looked large and important, belonged to Takyung
Lama, abbot of Mendong-gompa, a monastery three days' journey to the
south-east. Now we were in a warm corner, with the district chief, a
high lama, and Tsongpun Tashi as near neighbours, and the Governor of
the great province of Bongba not far off. It would be a marvel if we
succeeded in making our way out of this wasps' nest. One thing was
certain, that we must make off next morning, before news of our arrival
had spread about.
After we had waited several hours Abdul Kerim came. We could see at a
long distance that he had bought a horse, which was laden with sacks and
bags containing rice, barley, butter, and _tsamba_. Tsongpun Tashi
proved to be an old man of a poverty-stricken and mean appearance, but
his large tent was full of goods, sacks, and packets of tea, and his
movable shop was very well stocked. Naturally he was much surprised at
the visit, but he swallowed the story that Abdul Kerim dished up for
him. He had even given him the names of all the places where we ought to
camp on the way to Saka-dzong and Raga-tasam, and advised us to be well
on our guard in a district he called Bupgo-lathit, where there were
always robbers. He related that a band of robbers had, a few weeks
before, attacked and plundered Targyaling-gompa, the monastery where we
had met with such a hostile reception in June of the preceding year.
Forty men with horses and guns had been levied to chase the band, but
Tsongpun Tashi said that these forty men were little better than robbers
themselves, and that we ought to inquire about them, so as to avoid them
as they returned. Abdul Kerim promised Tsongpun Tashi to barter our sick
black horse for some provisions, but Abdul Kerim did not know that
Abdullah had already exchanged the horse at the beggars' tent for two
sheep and a goat. There the faithful horse would see happy days again
when the grass grew up.
After Abdul Kerim had drunk tea he went on to visit the Gova Chykying,
who came out of his tent and said that Takyung Lama had that very day
imposed on him eight days' _yangguk_--that means that he must not
transact any kind of business, but must devote himself entirely, on
account of his sins, to contemplation in his own house. That was fine
for us; the Gova was reduced to a negligible quantity.
March 29. Temperature 13° in the night, and 55° at seven o'clock--this
is spring. Welcome mild salubrious breezes, come to thaw our frozen
joints!
Early in the morning came a couple of our men tramping along with
another dog, light yellow, dirty, and loathsome. He was inhospitably
received by Takkar, who immediately gave him a sharp pinch in the neck,
and seemed to think that the new member of the caravan was quite
superfluous as long as he kept watch himself.
Far in the north a solitary Tibetan appeared, and approached our camp. I
was sitting at breakfast, and was hoping that we should soon leave this
dangerous place. I went out and looked through the field-glass; the
stranger was making straight for our tents. Soon Abdul Kerim came and
said that it was Tsongpun Tashi himself. He stopped at some distance and
called to us to tie up our dogs, for Takkar had rushed at the old man,
who defended himself with stones. The men were purposely slow in
fastening up the dogs, in order to give me time to put the interior of
my tent in order. On such occasions my note-books and instruments were
crammed into a rice sack, which always stood ready. There was no other
furniture, for we had burned all European articles and boxes long
before.
Meanwhile, Abdul Kerim conducted Tsongpun Tashi into his tent, which
stood close against mine, and I listened to their conversation at a
distance of little more than a yard. By degrees the talk became, to say
the least of it, lively. Tsongpun Tashi raised his voice more and more,
and Abdul Kerim was evidently in a serious dilemma.
"Did you not promise to give me the black horse in exchange for butter?
Bring the horse immediately. If you do not keep your word, I will detain
the whole pack of you here. We do not let men that break their word
escape in Bongba. I thought yesterday that you were honest men, but now
I see what you are up to. Now I shall begin by searching your tents."
With that he got up as angry as a wasp and went out. But Gulam, who was
always alert and never lost a word of a conversation, had let Takkar
loose again. As soon as Tsongpun Tashi showed himself at the tent door
the dog flew at him again. He backed, and Abdul seized the opportunity
to call out in a gruff voice: "Kutus, take Hajji Baba with you and go
and look for the lost horse."
"What horse is that?" asked Tsongpun.
"It is one of our horses which has run away up the mountain, and we
cannot set out till we have found him."
"What colour is he?" asked Tsongpun with uncomfortable inquisitiveness.
"Grey," replied Abdul Kerim, who had difficulty in concealing his
uneasiness, for it was he who had pledged the black steed without
knowing whether it was still in our possession.
"Very well, I shall stay here till you have found the grey horse."
During the minute this conversation lasted Tsongpun Tashi had walked
towards the opening of my tent, when Kutus came running up from the
other side, seized me by the collar, and whispered "Come." We hurried
off to a crag on the north-east, and so just escaped the clutches of
Tsongpun.
"What man is that?" the old man asked, pointing at me, as I was making
off with clumsy waddling steps.
"Hajji Baba, one of my servants," answered Abdul Kerim, without moving a
muscle.
We did not look round as we went off to the point, and were glad when at
length we were hidden by a projecting rock. Then we scrambled up a
fissure whence we could see all around. Here we lay a weary time with
our hearts in our mouths, while Tsongpun Tashi waited for the runaway
horse, which had not run away at all, for all our animals stood ready
laden before our tents. But he must have lost patience. After Gaffar had
gone to the tent to try and get back the black horse, but met with a
refusal, for the horse had been fed with barley and was getting on
splendidly, Tsongpun Tashi seemed to make in that direction himself,
accompanied by Gaffar. But he changed his mind, for he turned back
half-way, and soon we saw him going to the fine tent of the soul-doctor,
which stood about 300 yards farther down the valley. He was attended by
one of our men, who helped him to carry the sacks in which the goods
acquired the previous day were packed.
We remained quiet in our hiding-place of much-weathered green schist,
full of quartz veins, from which we could peep out without being seen.
We were supposed to be looking for the lost horse. But now the caravan
was ready, and began to move down the valley past the abbot's tent.
Tsongpun Tashi's errand had been to take farewell of the prelate, who
was setting out this day for Mendong-gompa, absolutely unknown in all
the maps in the world, and his yaks stood tethered and surrounded by a
troop of servants. Abdul Kerim was shrewd enough to send no messenger
after us, but leave us to take care of ourselves. And so we did when we
had had enough of the green schist--we could not lie still till
doomsday. But we had to pass the abbot's tent, and there sat Tsongpun
Tashi, unless he were among the men outside. We sneaked on. Kutus walked
next the tent to screen me. My disguise was perfect, and I had a black
face. We passed with some trepidation quite close to the tent; two
savage dogs rushed at us and we threw stones at them, thereby deranging
our order of march and making a change of front. Confounded dogs! We had
passed the tent, and, so far, had done well. But if Tsongpun Tashi
noticed us--and he could scarcely fail to do so, for the dogs barked so
furiously--he would certainly wonder in which direction the grey horse
had made off. If he had no suspicion of us he must be, beyond
comparison, the greatest ass that I had ever fallen in with.
We made haste and soon overtook the others, and were lost among them.
The valley sloped down--a fortunate thing for me, as I had to travel on
foot where so many pitfalls surrounded me on all sides. Abdul Kerim rode
grandly on my horse at the head of the party. On the left were a
white-and-blue and a black tent with twenty yaks. Two men hurried up to
us, and Abdul Kerim met and spoke to them. We marched along the ice belt
of the brook, and passed five more tents, and, at all, the men came out
to look at us. I walked with the sheep farther from the tents than the
caravan. We passed twenty tents that day; it was a dangerous stretch of
country, and it was strange that we came through safely.
A woman, carrying a load of wool on her back, overtook us. She was so
bold as to join herself to the caravan and ask to be allowed to put her
wool on one of the yaks. Never have I so heartily wished a woman at the
devil. Abdul Rasak took the woman in hand and offered to carry half her
load to her tent, and so they jogged along the road far ahead, and freed
us from her suspicious company.
We took it for granted that she was a spy. When we encamped below a
sheepfold, there she was again, established herself inside the fold,
lighted a fire and fetched water. She must drink tea before she went on
homewards, she said; but fortunately she toddled off before dusk.
I sat in the setting sun and noted down the varied incidents of the day.
I sat in the opening of my tent enjoying the soothing rustle of the
spring, when what should I see but Takkar himself, who came up to me
anxiously and humbly, made the most expressive gestures, put his head on
one side and began to paw my arm. I looked at him and he looked at me,
and at last we understood each other.
"I could not know," he said, "that you were nice men when you tied me by
the neck to this horrible tent pole. I thought that you would tease and
torment and starve me, and throw stones and dirt at me, as the Tibetans
have done ever since I can remember. But I see that you are well
disposed towards me, and give me two good meals of mutton every day. I
know that you, in spite of your rags, are a bombo-chimbo, and that Abdul
Kerim is only a servant. Be at ease, I will not let any one come near
your tent; I will watch over you at night, I will never betray you, I
will follow you everywhere; you may trust in me. But now come and play
with me a little; take away this useless tent pole, and let us be no
longer strangers."
His shrewd brown eyes showed plainly that this was what he meant to say,
word for word. I took his shaggy head in my arms and squeezed it. Then
he jumped up on me and began to dance and yelp with joy, and enticed me
out of my tent. Then I took hold of him again, untied the knots, and
released him from his pole, to the great astonishment of my men, who
were sitting in the open around a fire. No one had ever ventured so near
to Takkar, except Little Puppy, and without the slightest jealousy the
little cub joined in the game, which henceforth whiled away daily a
couple of hours of my weary captivity.
CHAPTER LXV
BUPTSANG-TSANGPO, ONE OF THE LARGEST RIVERS OF THE HEART OF TIBET
It was with a feeling of relief that we broke up our camp on March 30,
after we had succeeded in extricating ourselves from the net which had
so nearly held us fast in its meshes. Through here runs the so-called
Serpun-lam, or gold-inspectors' road, which extends through the interior
of Tibet from Lhasa to Tok-jalung, and is one of the greatest high-roads
of the country. We did not yet feel quite safe, but we had heard some
assuring news: Karma Puntso had taken a journey of several days
northwards to a place in Chang-tang where he owned large flocks of
sheep. Most of the nomads in Bongba had sent their sheep to the north,
where the grazing was much better. This was of great advantage to us,
for now only women, old men, and children remained in the tents of
Bongba, while most of the men were following the sheep. It was part of
the trial of my patience that I could not have the slightest dealings
with Tibetans, for I should have betrayed myself at once by my defective
utterance of the language. I never talked with them, but pulled the
strings of my marionettes from my place of concealment.
The wild-geese had now commenced their migrations, and we constantly
heard their cries above our tents. On March 30 we found an excellent
path along the river in which we had caught fish just below Ladung-la.
The country was very open and flat, and we passed at some distance from
twelve tents. Near the last we pitched camp 368, and bought a black
horse. We had now four horses, of which one was a veteran from Ladak;
now I rode the first horse we had bought--a brown one. The last three
mules and the two yaks from the Tsong-tso were in good condition. When
we encamped near natives, Takkar was tied up outside the entrance to my
tent to keep off inquisitive visitors. He had been bred and reared among
Tibetans, and had never seen any other people in his life till lately,
and yet now he became mad with rage if he saw a Tibetan only at a
distance. I had often to pay various sums in rupees to those of his
two-legged fellow-countrymen whose unprotected legs he had bitten, and
he was never contented without a slight effusion of blood.
We followed the river south-south-westwards for another day's journey to
camp 369, where some poor nomads were encamping by a sheet of snow.
Sha-kangsham's summit came into sight again, this time to the north, 30°
E., rising like a gigantic beacon above the mountains. Five days'
journey to the west-north-west was pointed out the salt lake,
Tabie-tsaka, the position of which I had sought in vain to ascertain
from the _tasam_. In the afternoon when I sat outside to draw a
panorama, nomads were strolling and peering about, so that I had to post
watchmen. In the evening all around was pitch-dark: there was no moon,
only dense clouds. Our animals had disappeared, and as there was good
reason to fear wolves and horse-stealers, eight men were sent out to
look for them. They had revolvers, and fired a few shots to let any
possible disturbers of the peace know that we were armed. The animals
would not freeze, for the temperature fell in the night only to 18°, and
in the morning they had come back again all right. The only one missing
was the greyish-yellow dog; thinking, perhaps, that he had fallen into
bad company, he had gnawed through his rope and run home in the night to
his miserable tent.
Now the path runs south-south-west up to the little easy pass Satsot-la
(15,932 feet), in red porphyry and with a way-mark. In the wide valley
in front of us lies the lake Chunit-tso, and on its farther side rises a
red mountain of regular form. We pass several _manis_, and on the right
hand a miniature lake called Chabuk-tso, where Tubges shot two
wild-geese. The honorary huntsman often supplied me with game; he was
called by his comrades simply Shyok, after his home, just as we call one
of our acquaintances Jönköping or Falsterbo.
We crossed a great road running to the north-west; hundreds of yaks had
recently passed--no doubt a salt caravan on the way to Tabie-tsaka. Then
we passed a circular wall, where a solitary man came out and looked at
us, but retired behind the wall when he found that we would have nothing
to do with him. A fine _mani_ decorated with horns stood on a terrace,
and just below it we halted for the night by a sheet of ice produced by
springs. We had scarcely set up the tents when a caravan of several
hundred sheep, laden with salt, came along from the north-west. Only two
armed guides were with it; they had been to Tabie-tsaka, and were now
going home to Yangchut-tanga, twenty days' journey to the south-east. In
the same direction 400 yaks were grazing, which were said to belong to
the Gova of the district. In the evening we had a visit from a traveller
who was going home to his tent farther south. He promised to sell us
three sheep in the morning. Would he keep his word?
Yes, certainly; he met us with the sheep next day as we were passing
along the western shore of the Chunit-tso (15,574 feet) southwards. At
the northern extremity of the lake a warm sulphurous spring burst forth.
We were told that if a man drinks of it he becomes ill, but if he mixes
the water with some from an adjacent cold spring he is cured of any
complaint he may suffer from. Sick sheep and goats are dipped in the
warm water and become well again at once. The spring is holy, and a
_mani_ heap is set up near it. The lake is slightly salt and frozen. Two
small brooks enter it from the mountains on the west; a third brook,
Lungnak-bupchu, formed a large sheet of ice, and in the mouth of its
valley stood a couple of tents, and their dogs came down on us like a
whirlwind, but received such a thrashing from Takkar that they showed
themselves no more that evening.
April 3. We left the southern end of the lake behind us and ascended a
small valley leading up to the low pass Nima-lung-la, near which we
encamped in a barren spot between granite crags. An eagle-owl sat in a
cleft and at twilight uttered its shrill piercing cry. Lobsang said that
this bird was thought much of in Tibet, because it warns honest men of
thieves and robbers. When the eagle-owls sit and scream, robbers are
certain to be in the neighbourhood.
On April 4 we had only half an hour's march to the threshold of the
Nima-lung-la (16,017 feet), from which there is a magnificent view over
the Trans-Himalaya--a series of dark rocks with black, snow-crowned
peaks. Between us and the range extended a wide, perfectly level plain,
full of pools, marshes, and rivulets. At one of them sat two Tibetans
cutting up a yak which had died. They confirmed the information we had
received before, that we were now in the district Bongba-kemar, a day's
journey from Bongba-kebyang, and that we must follow the river
Buptsang-tsangpo for several days upwards to reach Saka-dzong by the
pass Samye-la. I had still a very dim and indistinct notion of the
geographical configuration of this region. Was the range in front of us
to the south a continuation of Nien-chen-tang-la, which I had crossed at
the Sela-la, Chang-la-Pod-la, and Angden-la; or was it another range
disconnected from the former? During the following days we should obtain
an answer to this question. Should we be successful, and be able to
complete this exceedingly important meridional traverse through an
unknown part of Tibet? It would be more than provoking to be stopped
just at the northern foot of the Trans-Himalaya.
Camp 374 was pitched below the opening of a valley where there were two
tents. The nomads warned us against the water in the pools of the plain:
our horses would lose their hair if they drank of it. "Snoring" Kunchuk
complained of toothache, but was cured at once by two resolute comrades.
The operation was performed with pincers properly intended for
horse-shoe nails. To get at the tooth better, they put a stone in the
patient's mouth. "Do not kill me," he shrieked when the tooth jumped
out.
On April 5 we travelled altogether 10¼ miles to the south. The country
was perfectly barren, and the ground was entirely covered with red
porphyry detritus. A small spring surrounded by grass seemed to us quite
an oasis, and there we encamped near a sheepfold and a _mani_ heap.
Another day's march and we came to the Buptsang-tsangpo, "the deeply
excavated river," and followed it to the south. The river is divided
into several arms, and already contained a deal of water, though for the
most part it was frozen. This valley is about 3 miles broad and has a
very gentle slope. The locality where we encamped after passing fourteen
tents was called Monlam-gongma (15,820 feet). Hence the river was said
to flow five days' journey to the north-north-west and pour into a large
lake, called the Tarok-tso. We might have attempted to make an excursion
in that direction, but it was more important to complete the meridional
line while the country was still open to us. Two huge snowy peaks which
the nomads here, as on the _tasam_, called Lunpo-gangri, or "the great
ice mountain," were said to lie to the right of the route we ought to
follow to Saka-dzong. This information was exceedingly puzzling, and I
saw that Lunpo-gangri with the summits triangulated by Ryder and Wood
could not be a prolongation of the mighty range I had crossed by three
passes, and which, farther east, bears the name Nien-chen-tang-la.
After a vain attempt to get rid of our enfeebled yaks, we continued up
the great river along its right or eastern bank terrace. A south-westerly
storm which commenced some days before still continued. In the Amchung
country (camp 376) we had a neighbour called Kamba Dramdul, who could not
give much information, but what he said was of deep interest. We had
still some days' journey to the Samye-la--all up the Buptsang-tsangpo
valley, with _gangris_ or snowy heights on both the right and left sides.
On the pass we should be quite close to the peaks of Lunpo-gangri. I
already suspected that the great range we had on our left--that is,
towards the east--was a continuation of Nien-chen-tang-la, while
Lunpo-gangri was a quite independent chain without the least connection
with the former.
The eastern range increased in magnitude on the following day's march,
and among its dark ramifications rose some rather flat summits capped
with eternal snow. We kept for the most part to the top of the terrace
on the right bank, which was 50 to 65 feet above the river, and fell
steeply to the even valley bottom where the stream meandered. Here the
valley was about 2 miles broad. The ice mantle of the river became wider
and thicker the higher we mounted, but the rise was very gradual. From
camp 377 the culminating peak of Lunpo-gangri lay south, 23° E. Every
day's journey we accomplished without adventures strengthened our
position. The nomads must think: If these men travel right through the
whole of Bongba without being stopped, they cannot be impostors.
On April 10 we travelled 8½ miles up the Buptsang-tsangpo, and we were
astonished to find so voluminous a river up on the isolated plateau
country. On its banks ducks and geese cackled in large numbers. Tubges
shot several of them; it was a sin to disturb their dreams of spring and
love. No human being was seen this day. I had a feeling of repose when
we could see no black tents, and for the sake of peace I would readily
abstain from sour milk. The view to the south-south-east was
magnificent; the peaks of Lunpo-gangri stood out against the pure blue
sky in dazzling white, with shades of light blue indicating ice. On the
east also of our route appeared a whole world of mountains. Most
unexpectedly the summits of Lunpo-gangri have a much grander and more
imposing appearance from the northern side, towards the plateau country,
than from the south side, the valley of the Brahmaputra, most probably
because on the southern side they are too near. Up in the north we saw
them at all distances, and for several days we had them right in front
of us.
[Illustration: 319, 320, 321. THE SUMMITS OF LUNPO-GANGRI FROM CAMPS
379, 381, AND 383.
From Water-Colours by the Author.]
In the night of April 11 the temperature sank to -1.7°, and on the
preceding nights to 3.7°, 13.5°, and 17.2°. The cold increased as we
mounted higher. We came to an expansion in the valley where three
glacier streams unite to form the Buptsang-tsangpo, just as in the case
of the Brahmaputra, and also on the northern flank of one of the
world's mightiest mountain systems. Our camp 379 (16,112 feet) was
pitched close to the river in Bupyung-ring. The eastern headwater comes
partly from the Samye-la, partly from mountains adjoining on the
south-west. The middle one descends from a massive called Yallak-mallak,
and the western from Chomo-gangri; south-east of this mountain is
Lunpo-gangri, which is drained to the sea, both from its northern and
its southern flank (Illusts. 319, 320, 321).
Bupyung-ring is one of the finest and most beautiful regions I have seen
in Tibet. The flat wide valley, surrounded by mountains with ice and
snow, is clothed with abundant grass and traversed by numerous
water-courses. Everywhere are seen traces of camping-places. At the time
we passed through only a few tent villages remained, but the valley is
full of life in summer when the nomads come down from the north. When
the melting of the snows properly sets in during summer, and afterwards
in the rainy season, the Buptsang-tsangpo swells up so tremendously that
the river cannot be crossed for three months, and communication between
the banks is interrupted. From its source to its outlet in the Tarok-tso
the river is probably nearly 100 miles long, and is possibly the largest
river in Tibet which does not flow to the sea. The only rivers that can
vie with it are the Sachu-tsangpo, which flows into the Zilling-tso, and
the Soma-tsangpo, which falls into the Teri-nam-tso. The Sachu-tsangpo
was far larger than the Buptsang when I crossed it in the rainy season
in 1901. But the Buptsang is also a large river in spring, and in the
rainy season must swell as much as the Sachu. The Buptsang-tsangpo has
hitherto been unknown to Europeans, but we find the Tarok-tso on
D'Anville's map, and a river entering the lake from the south, which no
doubt is identical with the Buptsang-tsangpo. The Jesuits who resided in
Pekin two hundred years ago, and were ordered by the Emperor Kang Hi to
compile a map of the whole Chinese Empire, procured information even
about this remote region from Chinese and Tibetan sources.
During the past days our two yaks had become so wearied and footsore
that we had to get rid of them at any price. We therefore stayed a day
in Bupyung and bartered them for nine sheep, which took over the loads
of the yaks. Now we had again thirty-one sheep and some goats.
On the 13th we came to the foot of the mountain where commenced the
actual steep ascent to the pass itself. Here were four tents inhabited
exclusively by women and children. The men had gone a couple of days
before to Gova Tsepten's tent. It is incumbent on this chief to collect
a certain number of men and yaks, which for about three months are
posted on the _tasam_ ready to transport goods on behalf of the
Devashung without compensation. This is a kind of _corvée_ which is
exacted not only all along the road between Lhasa and Ladak, but on all
other great high-roads in Tibet. Naturally this injudicious system is a
great annoyance to the nomads, who have to leave their flocks in the
meantime to the care of women and children. If any one wishes to escape
this compulsory service he must supply a substitute, pay him, and
furnish him with yaks and provisions. The year before, when we travelled
with hired horses from Shigatse, the poor nomads served us, but we
always paid them honourably and gave them handsome gratuities as well.
After a night temperature of -0.8° we rode up to the pass on the 14th,
over and between hills and across the brook which brings its tribute
from the Samye-la to the Buptsang-tsangpo. Solid rock could not be
found, but all the detritus and boulders were of grey granite; seldom
was a piece of porphyry noticed. The usual observations were made on the
pass, and the boiling-point thermometer was read off. The view of
Lunpo-gangri was grander than ever, now that its peaks were quite near.
The distinctly marked valley of the Buptsang-tsangpo disappeared in the
distance to the north-north-west, while to the south-east nothing could
be seen but a flat saddle, whence I concluded that we were not yet on
the actual water-parting pass. We had not followed the track of the
caravan far, before we saw a brook coming from the south-east, which
also belonged to the Buptsang-tsangpo. On its bank, where we also
halted, was encamped a caravan of 8 men and 350 yaks, which was carrying
salt to Saka-dzong, six days' march farther. These men could not
understand why we, merchants from Ladak, chose such a way, and asked how
we found it out. They were treated to the usual story about the
wool-trade in summer, and they regretted that they could not serve us
with their yaks, as they were called out for Government transport on the
great high-roads. Now we wondered whether they would let the Governor of
Saka-dzong know that they had met with a party of Ladakis on byways, and
if this news would injure us. Perhaps, after all, it would be best to
avoid Saka-dzong altogether.
On April 15 it was our chief desire to get in advance of the yak
caravan. Before they had begun to load up their animals I started off
with the sheep, and came in good time to the summit of the Samye-la with
its streamer-decked poles. Though we were all the way in sight of the
yak-men's camp, I must, at any cost, determine the height of the pass,
and the distance was so great that they could not see what we were
doing. After boiling the thermometer, whence we obtained a height of
18,133 feet, I also drew a panorama. To the south and south-east was a
world of mountains belonging to the Lunpo-gangri range, which lay to the
south, and to Nien-chen-tang-la on the north. We were therefore standing
on the actual watershed between two gigantic ranges, which are both
members of the Trans-Himalayan family. And this pass, the Samye-la,
occupies the highest and most important rank from a hydrographic and
orographical point of view that any pass in Asia can lay claim to, for
it is a divide between the isolated drainage area of the plateau on the
north and the boundless ocean, on the south. It ranks, then, with the
Sela-la, Chang-la-Pod-la, and Angden-la, and is much more important than
the Tseti-lachen-la, which is only a watershed between the Sutlej and
the Indus, and than the Jukti-la, which parts the waters between the two
arms of the Indus. At the Samye-la I attained my chief desire, to cross
the Trans-Himalaya between the Tseti-lachen-la and the Ang-den-la, and
gain another point on the immense boundary line on the north of the
basins of the great Indian rivers, and I succeeded in proving the
unbroken continuance of the Trans-Himalaya for 118 miles west of
Angden-la. A most extraordinarily interesting discovery also was that
the Angden-la and the Samye-la, though of exactly the same value as
watersheds, do not lie on the same chain. The Angden-la is situated on
the western prolongation of the chain which stands on the southern shore
of Tengri-nor and is known by the name of Nien-chen-tang-la, but the
Samye-la lies in a longitudinal valley between this chain and
Lunpo-gangri. Accordingly, I could strike out once and for all the
continuous mountain range which Hodgson and Saunders constructed at
their writing-table, and represented as running north of the upper
Brahmaputra. Here also I considered what name I should give to the
colossal mountain system which runs in the north parallel to the
Himalayas. The name Lunpo-gangri had at least as much claim as
Nien-chen-tang-la, but both were unsuitable, as they only denoted
certain ranges in a whole system, and therefore had only local
significance. Then it came to me like a flash--Trans-Himalaya is the
name which I will attach to this gigantic mountain system.
While I sat and pondered over the great idea which had come to me this
day without any merit of my own, I was recalled to the business of the
moment by Lobsang, who informed me that the yaks were moving in a black
line up to the pass. Then we got up and went on foot down the slopes
bestrewn with troublesome rubbish and granite boulders. Soon trickling
rivulets collected into a small brook. I regarded with pleasure this
little stream leaping among the stones, and listened to its purling
song. It was the old melody, and we had recently heard it from the
brooks of the Buptsang-tsangpo. And yet I seemed to hear an undertone of
another kind, a sound in the water which suggested a new aim. The
Buptsang-tsangpo is doomed to final annihilation in the Tarok-tso and
Tabie-tsaka, where the water is evaporated and dispersed to the four
winds of heaven. But the brook we now followed debouches into the
Chaktak-tsangpo and Brahmaputra, and its destiny is the Indian Ocean,
over which runs the way to my home.
We had just set up our tents before the yaks came tramping up in close
order, followed by their whistling and singing drivers. They went round,
not to come too near us. Were they afraid of us or were they suspicious?
Were they a cloud, no larger than a man's hand, from which, in due time,
a destructive tornado was to burst over our little band, which now for
the second time crossed the forbidden land without leave?
CHAPTER LXVI
IN THE ROBBERS' PARADISE
In former times the glacier tongues of Lunpo-gangri ran down into the
valley, and traces of them were very conspicuous as we descended to
lower country on April 16. The valley is quite full of old moraines,
consisting exclusively of granite, and some of them are superficially
concealed under fine matter and moss. We passed the large yak caravan
again, which was encamping after a very short march. Evidently the men
intended to stay over the next day, for the loads were taken off the
yaks and piled up. When they mean to set out again the next day they
leave the loads on the yaks, for they think it too much trouble to load
and unload 350 yaks for a single night. They might stay for us as long
as they liked; we should get in advance and pass by Saka-dzong before we
were denounced. But no, it would be wiser to avoid Saka-dzong
altogether; not to escape the sight of Muhamed Isa's grave, but not to
needlessly expose ourselves to suspicion. It was perfectly evident that
the authorities would wonder why a small party of Ladakis went along
byways instead of following the great _tasam_, and they would hold an
inquiry over us.
[Illustration: 322. WRESTLING. 323. TWO GUIDES. 324. BOY WITH HAT. 325.
SHEPHERD BOY.
(INHABITANTS OF THE PROVINCE OF BONGBA.)
Sketches by the Author.]
After the moraines came to an end we traversed a more open expansion of
the valley, with luxuriant grass and millions of detestable mouse-holes.
We were right glad when Takkar pinched the necks of one or two of these
obnoxious rodents. Tubges supplied me with partridges, and one of our
goats yielded me a drop of milk. From camp 383 Lunpo-gangri's summits
are seen foreshortened, and one of them is as small as an umbrella.
Several peaks are seen to the east-south-east, the continuation of the
range, and it is not difficult to infer that Chomo-uchong, the isolated
mountain beside the _tasam_, lies in the eastern prolongation of
Lunpo-gangri. I took bearings of the higher summits in the neighbourhood
from every camp, and shall hereafter make known the results.
The other men make the "Snorer's" life miserable. At eight o'clock he
crawls into his lair beside the sheep, and immediately begins his
wood-sawing. Some one yells at him, and he wakes up and makes some witty
remark, which makes the men laugh, and he never loses his temper. In two
minutes he is asleep again and sawing as hard as ever, and is roused by
another shout. Only when the others have fallen asleep is he left in
peace, and can saw as hard as he likes.
Little Puppy behaves splendidly, is lively, playful, and affectionate.
At night he sleeps on the rugs at my feet and helps Takkar to keep
watch. They are my companions, and it will be hard to part from them.
April 17. 0.7°. How long this winter has been! Now Lobsang has come to
the conclusion that the yak drivers will not denounce us, for fear lest
they should be called to account for not spying upon us better. We
continue our way down the valley. How delightful only to go for some
days to lower country. In some places we see summer camping-grounds; now
the country is desolate and deserted.
The river carries down about 70 cubic feet of clear water per second; it
has open water only in the middle, and elsewhere is covered with margins
of ice 2 feet thick, and icicles hang from their edges. On the banks,
field-mice dart about between their holes. The valley contracts and the
river often skirts steep cliffs of schist. Most of the tributaries, and
the largest of them, come from the chain which is the immediate
continuation of Nien-chen-tang-la. The ice becomes thicker the more the
valley contracts and the longer it is in shadow. We often cross it from
one bank to the other, where it forms a bridge. Stags' horns are set up
on a _mani_ heap; where do they come from? This valley runs between the
two ranges like the Buptsang-tsangpo. On this day we never see a man or
a tent.
In the evening a night owl again sat screeching above the camp, and the
Ladakis were convinced that it meant to warn us against robbers. If
these knew that a European with European weapons was in the caravan they
would not attack it; but we were only Ladakis, and the Tibetans despise
Ladakis and look upon them as cowards.
On the 18th we travelled southwards to the place (15,407 feet) where our
valley enters the Rukyok valley, running down from the west-north-west,
at the bottom of which some of the Lunpo-gangri summits were again
visible. Still no men were to be seen, only numerous summer
camping-places. Two horsemen rode past our camp on the other, right,
side of the valley. What did they want? Were they spies? We had every
reason to suspect a spy in every human being. No; they were kiang
hunters from Gertse, who had left their home and were seeking new
dwellings in another province, because of some unpleasantness with the
Gertse Pun, the potentate whom we were carefully making away from. They
informed us that we were a day's journey from Pasa-guk, where I had
encamped the year before, and three short marches from Saka-dzong. It
was hazardous to pass so near a governor's residence. Abdul Kerim bought
one of the riders' horses for 100 rupees.
This day I put on for the first time a new Ladaki costume. The other was
too warm, and, being red, was conspicuous among the others. The new coat
was made of worn, tattered sackcloth, and was stained with ashes and
soot. In this I looked just like the other men. Now I painted my face
regularly every day, and he must be a very smart fellow who could find
out that I was not a genuine Ladaki. We had hitherto got on remarkably
well, and had only a day's journey to a place where I had been the year
before. But the nervous tension increased more and more, and I wondered
every morning what surprises the new day had in store for us.
[Illustration: 326. SONAM NGURBU, CHIEF OF THE CHOKCHU PROVINCE. 327.
DORCHE TSUEN, GOVERNOR OF THE SAKA PROVINCE. 328. MAN WITH A SINGULAR
CAP, IN SONAM NGURBU'S ESCORT. 329. TAGLA TSERING, THE CHIEF WHO REFUSED
TO LET ME GO TO THE DANGRA-YUM-TSO.
Sketches by the Author.]
April 19. As we were starting, two men passed on foot, driving before
them 200 sheep laden with salt. Our way was the same as theirs and we
had to pass them. While I drove our own sheep down the road, Abdul Kerim
stopped and talked with the men, to draw off their attention; but we
could see that they were interested in our strange party, and looked
closely at us. I limped, thinking that the Tibetans had never seen a
lame European, if they had seen any European at all. But the people had
seen me in Pasa-guk and Saka-dzong the year before, and then I did not
halt. I had come off well from our troublesome neighbours and also past
the large yak caravan, which a couple of days ago had turned off another
way but had now come into ours again. We met a large sheep caravan with
a mounted party; a woman was said to be the wife of the Gova of Rukyok.
The people we had just met were not so dangerous as those that followed.
We left the Rukyok river farther and farther to the right, and directly
to the south appeared quite close the lofty summit which rises above
Pasa-guk. We had left the salt-laden sheep and the yaks behind us, and
we came at length to the bank of our old friend the Chaktak-tsangpo,
which was considerably smaller than at the end of May and beginning of
June the year before. Here we left the high-road to the south, and
marched northwards along the Chaktak-tsangpo's right, or western bank,
where we soon encamped on a meadow (15,203 feet).
When Abdul Kerim came back he was very solemn. He had had great
difficulty in answering questions why we followed a byway along the
Chaktak-tsangpo instead of taking the highway to Saka-dzong as all other
travellers did. He had replied that we were sent to find out how much
sheep's wool would be for sale in the country next summer. Then the men
of the salt caravan had said: "You cannot be afraid of robbers; they
frequent the mountains up here. Are you well armed?"
"Yes, we have two guns and some revolvers."
"You will want them. We see that you are peaceful people, so we warn
you. Six days ago a robber band, eighteen men strong, each with his
horse and gun, attacked a tent village here in the neighbourhood. They
pillaged 3 tents, took 400 sheep and about 200 yaks, and made off by
the road you intend to follow. Men were collected and sent after them,
but two were killed and the others ran away. No one knows where the band
is now. If you value your lives, keep a sharp watch at night. If they
attack you, let them plunder you; you are only thirteen, and cannot
defend yourselves."
This was why Abdul Kerim looked so anxious, and it was not to be
wondered at. Now we also ran the risk of a night attack, as if it were
not trying enough to travel in disguise by byways through the forbidden
land. As long as there was daylight the animals were allowed to wander
about and graze, but at dusk they were driven up near to the tents. In
the evening the men could talk of nothing but robbers. Lobsang, who was
a Tibetan himself, took the matter quietly. He said that there were
organized bands of as many as a hundred men with a chief at their head,
who ordered where raids should be made. But at this season of the year
they sat round their fires and tried to look innocent. In his opinion
the air must be warmer before they would move. If a robber was caught in
the neighbourhood of Gartok, his head and one arm must be sent as a
proof to Lhasa, he added. In the principal towns punishment is very
severe. For theft an eye is taken out and a hand cut off. A Gova or
other magistrate who catches a robber receives a reward or promotion,
but one who neglects his duty is punished. We heard that the district
near Geddo by the upper Raga-tsangpo is notorious as a regular nest of
robbers, and is visited by professional freebooters from Nakchu.
In the twilight the Mohammedans among my Ladakis sang the same melodious
hymn I had first heard at Kizil-unkur. "Allahu ekber" echoed among the
rocky cliffs; "and it is very effective in protecting true believers
against the wiles of the heathen." They had all at once become deeply
religious again in the robbers' paradise. "Allahu ekber," God is great.
The night passed peacefully, and early the next morning it was reported
that five horsemen were approaching our tents from the north. The
field-glass reduced them to two men, a woman, and some yaks. They made a
circuit as though they were afraid of us, but Abdul Kerim hailed them
to get information about the road. Then we marched on directly eastwards
along the northern bank of the Chaktak-tsangpo. The ascent was very
gradual, the valley fairly broad and with abundant pasture. No tent was
seen, but summer camps were numerous. A cairn marks the place where the
Chaktak-tsangpo, coming from the north, 10° W., unites with its
tributary the Gebuk-chu from the east. To the north-north-east rise two
snowy peaks of medium height with small glaciers. It was evident that
the Chaktak-tsangpo flows from the country to the north of them, for the
deeply excavated transverse valley of the river could be clearly traced.
The main river may carry down about 250 cubic feet in a second, and the
affluent about 70. In this district the river is called Kamchung-chu;
the name Chaktak-tsangpo (Charta-tsangpo, as it is incorrectly called by
Nain Sing) is not applied to it above Pasa-guk. We encamped in the angle
between the two rivers near a meadow where three horses were feeding.
Their owners, who were bivouacking behind a projection near at hand,
were from Rukyok and had lost many of their sheep in winter from
disease, and had been to a warm spring to dip and save the remainder. We
were here about due north of Saka-dzong and about two days' journey from
it. But between us and the Governor's residence rose a ridge which is a
link in the chain of Lunpo-gangri. In the evening and at night our
watchmen fired, as usual, some revolver shots, to inform any chance
robbers that we were on our guard.
April 21. As the tents were being taken down, our neighbours went by
with 200 sheep. I turned my back to them and busied myself with loading
a mule. Then I travelled with the sheep, for there were several more
tents farther up, and I could not ride till we came to an uninhabited
part of the valley. Several side valleys opened on the left, and at
their ends could sometimes be seen a part of the main crest. We know
absolutely nothing of the country to the north of it, but that it cannot
be the watershed between the plateau and the sea is evident, and was
shown by the Kamchung transverse valley.
After crossing the river twice over bridges of porous ice we encamped
near a sheepfold where dry dung was plentiful. The last nomads had told
us that next day we should come to a large tent, the property of an
influential old man named Kamba Tsenam, who owned 1000 yaks and 5000
sheep. He would evidently be our next difficulty, and if we slipped past
him the country would be open to us as far as Raga-tasam. We are
satisfied when, as on this day, we have again gained nearly 9 miles
without being interfered with; but how shall we fare to-morrow?--this is
the standing question we ask ourselves every evening. It is certainly an
advantage to travel along out-of-the-way paths where we escape notice,
but if any sharp gova or governor hears us spoken of, he cannot help
being suspicious of our strange proceedings, and institute a close
inquiry. Now the salt caravan which we passed has already arrived at
Saka-dzong; we are, indeed, to the east of that place, but we travel so
slowly that we can never escape pursuit. Our excitement grows daily. I
am tired and weary of this self-imposed confinement, and long for it to
come to an end. What shall we do then? That I know not. We have
penetrated so far that a crisis must come. I have managed to travel
through Bongba, but my plans for the immediate future are very
indefinite and depend on circumstances. We will get on as far as we can.
April 22 was a day when we knew that the definite crisis was coming very
much nearer. Abdul Kerim, Kunchuk, and Gaffar set out first to pay a
visit to Kamba Tsenam and keep his attention riveted on the sale of food
and horses. We followed after, and crossed the river twice on cracking
bridges of ice, kept along the northern bank, and passed a side valley,
at the mouth of which stood three tents, where our men were in the midst
of a group of Tibetans who were showing their horses. Gulam had warned
me in time, so I dismounted and went and looked after our last mules. As
soon as we were concealed by a bank terrace I could ride again. The
pleasure did not last long, for at the next side valley on the north I
had to dismount again before another tent, where a pack of savage dogs
were encountered by Takkar and Little Puppy, who, save the mark, would
help to defend us, but received a nip in the neck and had to be rescued.
Here we lost Kutus and Tubges, who remained at the tent, while our
diminished party continued on its way eastwards.
At a spur on the northern side of the valley a couple of elegant _mani_
heaps were erected, and by one of them a streamer pole was set up. It
had snowed thickly ever since eight o'clock, but the valley was so
narrow that we could not pass all the tents unseen. Just at the
projecting point a large valley ran in from the north: we only guessed
at it, for everything was hidden in the snowstorm. Gulam went a little
way ahead and gave me the sign to dismount. Immediately in front of the
point stood four tents and a small stone cabin, where a man stood
watching us, and also a chief's tent of such huge dimensions that I
never saw its like; it was as large as a house. Here we left Lobsang and
Abdul Rasak, and went on eastwards with a much diminished party. The
chief volume of the Gebuk-chu comes from the northern valley; in our
valley, which we knew led to the Gebuk-la, only a brook was left. We set
up our tents on the terrace at the mouth of a northern side valley. All
the country was white, and not a shadow could be seen of the
surroundings.
Our three tents stood as usual close together, mine with its opening up
the valley, that is, eastwards. After a while the men left behind came
up and gave their reports in turn. They had bought provisions for two
days, and had learned that the district was called Gebuk-yung. The next
day we should go over the Gebuk-la and encamp at the foot of the
Kinchen-la, from the top of which we should see Raga-tasam the following
day. Of course it was risky for three parties of our men to visit three
tents near together, for the Tibetans always asked about the routes we
had followed and our plans, and our men might in their haste give
discordant answers. In the large tent Lobsang had been cross-examined,
and had answered that we came from the Gertse Pun, who had advised us to
take this byroad because we should reach Raga-tasam two days sooner
than if we went through Saka-dzong. "Quite true," the Tibetans answered,
but also warned us against robbers, for thirteen Ladakis would be but a
mouthful for an ordinary robber band, and the country was very unsafe.
"It is well for you that you have good weapons," they said.
Lastly, Abdul Kerim turned up with his purchases. He had learned that
all the tents we had seen in the day belonged to Kamba Tsenam, who lived
himself in the largest, but he happened to be in Saka-dzong, where an
assembly had been convened in anticipation of an impending visit from a
high Chinese official, and the question what present should be made to
him had to be decided. Kamba Tsenam owned thirty-five horses, which were
grazing beyond Gebuk-la, and if the rich nomad returned in the evening
we should certainly be able to buy some from him.
"You say," declared an elderly man in Kamba Tsenam's service, "that you
are a _tsongpun_ (merchant) from Ladak. Why then do you travel by this
dangerous side route? Here you can drive no trade. How have you found
the way? Why have you travelled in winter? Why do you ask the names of
the valleys?"
"I have to write down all the names," he answered, "that we may find the
way again in summer, for I am commissioned to make large purchases of
wool."
"That is well, you shall have several hundred bales of sheep's wool from
us. I will give you a guide in the morning; you will pay him a rupee for
two days. Without him you cannot find your way over the Gebuk-la,
especially when the ground is covered with snow."
[Illustration: 330. TRAVELLING LADAKI MERCHANT IN WEST TIBET. 331. OANG
GYE, SON OF THE GOVERNOR OF SAKA. 332. PANCHOR, THE YAK-SLAYER, MY GUIDE
ON THE JOURNEY TO THE TERI-NAM-TSO. 333. WOMAN OF YUMBA-MATSEN.
Sketches by the Author.]
Abdul Kerim had thanked him for his kindness and then had come to look
for us. We were sitting and deliberating when two riders armed with guns
came up to our tents. They were close upon us when they appeared out of
the snowstorm. We just managed to close my tent and fasten up Takkar
before the entrance. The elder man was Abdul Kerim's friend from the
large tent, the other the youth who was offered to us as a guide. They
tied up their horses and went nonchalantly into Abdul Kerim's tent. Here
they sat and gossiped for an hour, and offered a large handsome white
horse for sale at the price of 127 rupees. Abdul Kerim bought it,
whereupon they asked how much money he had with him, and whether he was
not afraid of being attacked. Afterwards they went about the tents and
looked around, and I drew a breath of relief when they at last vanished
in the snow with the other horse.
Now we considered the situation. To refuse the guide would seem
extremely suspicious, for the snow already lay a foot deep, and the
path--all we had to depend on--was covered up. But to have a stranger, a
spy, in the caravan for two days and a night was still more dangerous.
When Kutus and Sedik went back a little later to the large tent to fetch
a bowl of sour milk, they were told to say that our _tsongpun_ did not
want a guide, for we should remain quiet a day, either here or at the
next camp. "Your _tsongpun_ speaks with two tongues, he does not know
what he wants," the men answered.
We left this dangerous place on April 23 before the sun was up, and I
went first with the sheep in case our neighbours paid a morning visit.
The weather cleared and the sun came out, and then the snow quickly
evaporated. Farther up all the valley floor was covered with a
continuous sheet of ice. In front of us was seen the pass Gebuk-la. Here
a little old man was following ten mares. He pretended not to see us,
but he was soon overtaken by Abdul Kerim and Kunchuk, who kept him
company most of the day. With Lobsang I rested half an hour on the pass,
at a height of 16,978 feet. To the east and south-east of us lay an
entanglement of mountains and valleys, and without the horse-tender we
had so fortunately found it would have been quite impossible to find our
way over the succession of small saddles which followed. To the
south-south-east the snowy massive of Chomo-uchong rose in radiant
sunshine; to the north was a huge crest, which I, like Ryder, took for
the main range of the Trans-Himalaya and the watershed, but this turned
out afterwards to be a mistake.
The horse-driver took us up a secondary saddle, at the eastern foot of
which runs a deeply eroded valley, which, coming from the north, 10° E.,
is the upper section of the valley we followed last year, and which
runs down to Basang, where I saw Muhamed Isa for the last time among the
number of the living. Here was the driver's tent, and to escape his
company during the night we continued our march after the stranger had
given us instructions about the way. Our camp 390 was situated in the
mouth of a small valley on the ascent to the Kinchen-la, where we were
overwhelmed in a terribly dense and violent snowstorm.
The guide, who had so fortunately appeared at the right moment, had said
in the presence of our men that he was Kamba Tsenam's brother and a
great yak-slayer. The year before he had seen in Saka-dzong a European
whose caravan leader, a big strong fellow, had inspired respect wherever
he showed himself. But he had died suddenly in Saka, and his comrades
had digged a long hole in the ground where they had laid him. He thought
it strange that Ladakis, who were of the same faith as the Tibetans,
would travel with and serve the hated Europeans.
For the future we determined to observe yet greater caution. Two or
three Ladakis should always wear dark eye-glasses, so that mine might
not seem so peculiar. As soon as we could buy woollen material all the
men should have new clothes, so that I in my rags would seem the poorest
and meanest of the party.
CHAPTER LXVII
APRIL 24
In these days our life was dismal and lonesome, and our future
uncertain. We went as in the dark, feeling with our hands lest we should
fall. Every day which passed without any untoward event came upon me as
a complete surprise. We had now only two days' journey to Raga-tasam on
the great highway, where caravans and travellers fare to and fro, and
Government officials are responsible that no unauthorized person slips
past. I was thoroughly sick of my disguise and the constant uncertainty,
and longed for a crisis to free me from my embarrassment. But to deliver
ourselves, of our own free will, into the hands of the Tibetans was out
of the question. They must detect us themselves, and till then the
strain on our nerves must continue.
April 24--the anniversary of the _Vega's_ return to Stockholm in 1880!
At sunrise the whole country lay under a bright wintry shroud of white
snow. The thermometer had fallen to 2½°, but when the sun mounted up the
horses steamed, and light clouds of vapour rose up from the snow, so
that we might have been riding through a land of sol-fataras and
fumaroles. Our caravan animals struggled bravely up the tough ascent. Of
sheep we had only twenty left, and two of them were veterans from
Lumbur-ringmo-tso. Twice we thought that the pass, Kinchen-la, was just
before us, but new heights rose farther back, and we worked our way up
hills, among which brooks run down towards Basang and Saka-dzong, where
Muhamed Isa sleeps in his mound. To the south-west Chomo-uchong's
summits presented a grand sight. At length we made the last ascent up
to the top of the pass, where the height is 17,851 feet above sea-level.
At the other side a river runs north-east, one of the headwaters of the
Raga-tsangpo. To the west there is a brilliant spectacle, the summits of
Lunpo-gangri rising in sharp and savage beauty from a maze of mountains
and ridges, which shine in lighter bluer shades the more remote they
are. To the north-east we catch a glimpse of an outlying ridge covered
from foot to crest with new-fallen snow. The broad flat valley of the
Raga-tsangpo stretches eastwards as far as the eye can see. In the far
distance to the east-south-east a grand snowy crest shines forth, the
northernmost of the Himalayan system (Illust. 199).
We stayed a long time at the top, and I sketched a panorama. Then we
followed the track of the caravan over the lower shoulders of two
mountains, and found our camp pitched in a valley with good grass and a
brook partially frozen. My tent looked towards its bank, and all three
stood as usual in a line. This day also had passed satisfactorily, but
all would be different next day, for then we should come to Raga-tasam,
where we encamped last year and stayed a week. Camp 391 was, then, the
last where we could still feel at ease, for we had seen no living being
all day long, and had no neighbours. Here, then, we must arrange some
fresh safeguards.
We must sort out from our already scanty baggage all articles that might
excite suspicion, as, for example, the small padded leather box in which
the theodolite was packed; for the future it would be rolled with its
inner wooden case in my bed. Further, the hypsometer's leather case and
the actinometer, which probably would never be used again. Whatever was
combustible was to be thrown into the fire and the rest buried. A couple
of rugs of camel's wool were also to be discarded.
[Illustration: 334. TIBETANS WITH YAKS.]
[Illustration: 335. DORCHE TSUEN ON THE MARCH.]
To begin with, we must make a change in our housing arrangements. I was
to sleep for the last time in my old weather-beaten tent, where our
chief, Abdul Kerim, was henceforth to set up his quarters and receive
guests. For me a compartment of about 2 square yards, not larger than
my bed, was partitioned off in Abdul Kerim's tent. This crib, which,
when the camp was set up, was enclosed on all sides, was henceforth to
be my prison cell. It was like a secret drawer in a bureau, and when it
was ready I inspected it and found it somewhat narrow but comfortable.
Suen was my hairdresser, and he had just completed his business when
Abdul Kerim looked in at the tent opening and whispered that four men
with yaks were coming up the valley on the road we had to go down from
the Kinchen-la. I hurriedly set my disguise in order and wound the
turban round my head, while the flap was fastened, and Takkar was tied
up before my tent. Then I looked through the peephole in the tent canvas
on the side towards the upper end of the valley, and saw eight men on
foot in dark-blue and red dresses, with red scarves round their heads,
all armed with guns and swords, and leading nine horses; one man led two
laden horses. What in the world did this mean? They were not robbers,
for they came suddenly and at night. They seemed rather men in
Government service; the two in front were certainly officials. My men
occupied themselves at their fire; I could see that they were a prey to
the greatest uneasiness.
The strangers came straight to our camp-fire as if it were the end of
their journey. They formed a circle round Abdul Kerim, Lobsang, Kutus,
and Gulam, and began an animated but subdued conversation. Three of
them, evidently servants, led the horses to a spot barely thirty paces
from my tent and right in front of it. There they took off all the
saddles and loads, sent off the horses to graze, brought out pots and
cans, arranged three stones in order, collected fuel, made a fire,
fetched water in a large pot and cooked tea. It was plain that they
intended to camp here for the night, and that they had intruded on us
for the purpose of watching us.
The other five entered Abdul Kerim's tent, threw themselves down, and
continued the conversation in the same low quiet voice and in thoroughly
polite and measured tones. I could not catch what they said, but that
the affair was serious I could only too plainly perceive, for I heard my
name mentioned--Hedin Sahib. After a good hour's conversation they went
out again and made a tour round my tent, but the furious Takkar would
not let them approach the door. But they discovered the peephole in the
side of the tent, and a man put his finger in and looked through the
hole, but I was lying against the folds of the tent on the same side, so
he could not see me. Then they went and threw themselves down in a
circle round the fire, brought out their wooden cups and drank tea. They
sat right in front of the entrance to my tent, and I could not get out
without being seen.
Then Abdul Kerim whispered from the back of my tent and inside his own,
and told me what the men had said. The leader, a stoutish young man of
good appearance, had put the usual questions and received the usual
answers. Then he had uttered the following words in a serious and
decided tone:
"News of your arrival has come to the Governor of Saka-dzong through two
salt caravans which passed your party above Pasa-guk. As it has never
occurred that a merchant from Ladak has come from the north and has
travelled on the byway through Gebuk, the Governor and the other
authorities in Saka suspected that Hedin Sahib might be concealed among
you, and the more so because he himself expressed his wish last year to
come back again and travel through the mountainous regions in the north.
Therefore my comrades and I received orders to follow your trail,
overtake you, and subject you to the most searching examination. We are
in no hurry, and in the morning we shall get several yak-loads of
provisions. You protest that Hedin Sahib is not among you disguised as a
Ladaki. Well, it may be that you are telling the truth. But remember,
_tsongpun_, that we shall carry out our orders to the letter. You are
thirteen men from Ladak, you say, and I can see only ten. Where are the
others?"
"They are out collecting fuel."
"Good. When you are all assembled here we intend to search you down to
the skin. Then we shall turn out all your baggage and empty every sack
we find in your tents. And if in this examination we find nothing
belonging to a European, it will remain for you to give a written
declaration that no European is among your party concealed or disguised,
and under this declaration you must set your name-stamp. Then you can
travel early in the morning where you like, and we shall return to
Saka."
When I heard this report the situation became quite clear to me, and I
at once decided what I would do. But first I crept by the secret way
into the caravan leader's tent, where I found myself surrounded by my
retainers, except three, who were to warn us if the Tibetans came back
again.
"What is to be done?" I asked Abdul Kerim.
"The Sahib knows best himself. As far as I can see, our condition is
hopeless," answered the honest man, who had got us out of many a scrape
before.
"What does Lobsang think?"
"It would not be wise to give them such a declaration," he answered with
a very troubled face.
"Sahib," suggested Kutus, "if they give us breathing-time till night,
the Sahib and I can hide among the mountains as at the time when we were
close to Tsongpun Tashi. When the search is over we can rejoin the
caravan farther down. I can carry the Sahib's papers, and other European
articles can be buried in the ground under the tent."
"They know that we are thirteen," remarked Gulam.
Under the force of circumstances we had made our way right across Tibet
with a trumped-up story, but to let Abdul Kerim confirm a false document
with his name-stamp on my account was a little too strong even for my
geographical conscience. I could not consent to that. Whatever might
happen, our position was still a strong one. We were in the heart of
Tibet. The next move would be that we should be sent out of the country,
and by whatever way we were obliged to go, I should certainly gain
something more. I would absolutely refuse to go to Ladak, but I would be
content to go to India through Nepal, or, better still, through
Gyangtse.
"No," I said to my men as I rose up, "I shall give myself up to the
Tibetans."
Then they were all amazed, and began to cry and sob like children.
"Why do you weep?" I asked.
"We shall part here for good, and the Sahib will be killed," they
answered.
"Oh no, it is not so bad as that," I said, for it was not the first time
I had been caught by Tibetans.
When I walked out of the tent I heard behind me the murmur of Mohammedan
prayers: "Allahu ekber--Bismillah rahman errahim."
In my usual disguise from top to toe, and with my face painted black, I
walked with slow, deliberate steps straight to the circle of Tibetans.
When I was close to them they all rose up, as if they knew that I was no
ordinary Ladaki.
"Sit down," I said, with a dignified gesture of invitation, and sat down
myself between the two principal men. In the one on my right hand I
recognized at once the Pemba Tsering of the year before. I clapped him
on the shoulder, saying, "Do you know me again, Pemba Tsering?" He
answered not a word, but looked with wide-opened eyes at his comrades,
and nodded towards me, as much as to say "It is he." They were mightily
dumbfoundered and disconcerted: no one spoke, some looked at one
another, others gazed into the fire, one threw a couple of sticks among
the stones, and another took small sips of tea.
Then I spoke again: "Yes, truly, Pemba Tsering, you are quite right; I
am Hedin Sahib, who visited Saka-dzong last year. Here you have me
again; what do you mean to do with me?"
Abdul Kerim, Lobsang, and Kutus stood behind, trembling like aspen
leaves, and expecting that preparations for an execution would be the
next move.
[Illustration: 336. FAREWELL ENTERTAINMENT FOR THE TIBETANS ON MAY 5,
1908.]
Still they made no answer, but began to whisper together in groups. The
younger official, who was evidently the cock of the walk, for the others
looked at him and waited for him to speak, began to look through his
papers, and picked out one which he read in silence. As they were so
long in recovering from their consternation--for they had not expected
to get hold of me so easily--I sent Kutus for a box of Egyptian
cigarettes, and offered them all round. Each took one with thanks, and
lighted it after I had set an example and showed them that the
cigarettes were not filled with gunpowder. Then the ice was broken, and
the leader began to speak very softly and without looking at me.
"Yesterday strict orders came from the Devashung that the Governor of
Saka would be held responsible for Europeans who might sneak into the
country from the west, and if any European showed himself he must be
immediately forced to return by the way he came. When the report reached
Saka of a caravan two days' journey off, the Governor suspected that it
might be you, Hedin Sahib, and we have now accomplished our task. In the
Governor's name we forbid you to take another step eastwards. We beg you
to conform in all things to our directions; our heads and your personal
safety are at stake. To-morrow you will follow us over the Kinchen-la to
Saka-dzong."
"I said last year that I must and would see the mountain region north of
Saka. Now I have seen it, and you have not been able to prevent me. You
see then that I can do more in your country than yourselves. Now I
intend to travel back to India, but by which way only Lien Darin, Amban
of Lhasa, shall decide. It is therefore my intention to write to him,
and I shall not go anywhere before his answer comes."
"We do not wish you to travel by any other way than the one you choose,
but we have no authority to forward a letter to Lhasa; the Governor will
decide the question himself. It is with him you must treat; you must
meet him personally. Therefore we will accompany you to-morrow to
Saka-dzong."
"No, sir, anywhere else you please, but not to Saka-dzong. You know that
my caravan leader died and lies buried there. It is against my
principles to visit a place where I have buried a faithful servant. You
shall never get me to Saka-dzong even if you raise all Tibet."
"If it would trouble you to see Saka-dzong again, we will certainly not
urge you to go thither. Will you instead have the kindness to follow us
to Semoku by the Tsango, on the _tasam_, which is only two days' journey
to the south-west? I will then write to the Governor and ask him to meet
you there."
"Good; I will follow you to Semoku to-morrow."
"Thanks; I will at once send an express messenger to inform the
Governor, so that you may not have to wait at Semoku. But tell me why
you have come back again? You travel and travel in Tibet and you are
always sent away, but always come back again. Had you not enough last
year, when you were obliged to leave the country by the road to Ladak?
And now you turn up again among us. How is that possible, and why are
you come?"
"Because I love your country and your friendly people to such a degree
that I cannot live without them."
"H'm! It is very kind of you to say so, but would it not be better if
you were to love your own country a little more? As long as we do not
travel in your country, you should not travel in ours; we remain at
home, and the best thing you can do is to remain in your country."
"As long as I can sit in a saddle I shall come back. You can inform the
Devashung at your leisure that their Excellencies may look for more
visits."
[Illustration: 337, 338, 339, 340. THE DANCERS AT THE CAMP-FIRE: TUBGES,
KUNCHUK, SUEN.]
They laughed pleasantly and looked at one another, as much as to say:
"If he likes to come back, he is welcome as far as we are concerned."
And my Ladakis laughed and were extremely astonished that our last day
of freedom had come to so peaceful and merry an ending. The Tibetans
were exceedingly agreeable, polite, and gentle, and never uttered a hard
or peevish word about the trouble that I had again brought upon them.
And when the old wool story, which Abdul Kerim a little while before had
tried to cram down their throats, was referred to, they laughed heartily
and thought that it was a grand device. They are so accustomed to lie
themselves that they have a great admiration for any one else who
succeeds in deceiving them. They thought it very wonderful that we had
been able to cross the whole country without detection, and believed
that I must possess some mysterious powers of which they knew
nothing, and that they must be very cautious in dealing with me.
The young official, who was named Rinche Dorche, but was called Rindor,
a contraction of the two names, wrote a long letter to the Governor of
Saka, saying that I was the same Hedin Sahib who had been here the year
before, that we had come to a friendly agreement to proceed to Semoku,
that I did not wish to travel to Ladak but straight to India, and that
Lien Darin alone was to decide on the route. The letter was sealed, and
despatched by a mounted courier over the Kinchen-la.
Then we talked and jested again, and before sunset we were as intimate
as though we had been friends from childhood. We might have made an
appointment to meet in this barren valley and been glad to have found
one another. It was easy to understand that the Tibetans were pleased.
They little thought when the sun rose that they would make such a good
catch before evening. The successful issue of their mission would be of
great advantage; they would be commended by the Governor and gain
promotion. For my part I had a feeling of unmixed satisfaction. Our
freedom was at an end, but for me it had been nothing but an exceedingly
enervating captivity. Now, for the first time, I felt perfectly free,
and was no longer a prisoner in my own tent; I should have no need of
that wretched hiding-hole in Abdul Kerim's tent. The Tibetans laughed
loudly at my ragged, smutty, greasy dress of coarse grey sackcloth, in
which I looked like a convict, or, at best, like a begging monk of the
Grey Friars' confraternity. Then they understood how I had succeeded in
crossing Bongba unseen and unknown. How delightful it would be to throw
my rags into the fire and clothe myself in a clean neat Tibetan costume,
to be no longer obliged to hide my papers and instruments in rice sacks,
and not to have to paint my face black as a Moor's instead of washing
myself. As soon as we had parted from our new friends in the evening,
Gulam took a hand-basin of warm water into my tent, and then I had a
good scrubbing from top to toe, and the water showed that I wanted it.
He had to change the water four times before I was tolerably clean. Then
I clipped my Mohammedan beard to the skin, and sadly missed the razors
I had thrown away. But I was glad that we had not burned the things we
had condemned some hours earlier.
Rindor begged the loan of one of our tents, as their own transport train
was not expected till the morning. Besides Pemba Tsering, there were two
other men I had known the year before. They were all very friendly, and
said that we had tipped them very generously. There was also a wrinkled
old man in the party, who was always smoking a Chinese pipe. His name
was Kamba Tsenam, and it was his tent near which we had so nearly been
detained two days before.
Thus ended April 24, 1908. Strange, melancholy thoughts took possession
of me when I went to bed. The Tibetans had again thwarted my plans--I
know not how many times they had done so. Our future was dark as ever,
but it had arrived at a new stage, and on the 25th we should wake up to
begin a new chapter. The deep silence in the valley was only disturbed
occasionally by Takkar, when the faithful dog barked at the Tibetans.
His bark was re-echoed from both flanks as though three dogs kept guard
over us. And the everlasting stars glittered as before over our lonely
tents.
CHAPTER LXVIII
HIS EXCELLENCY THE GOVERNOR OF SAKA
On April 25 we rode in a compact body to the mouth of a valley east of
Chomo-uchong, called Radak. Six Tibetans guarded me on both sides, and
our journey had some resemblance to a convict train. Now I was not
obliged to dismount before we passed a tent. On the left hand was a
large open plain where Raga-tasam is situated. A shot was heard in the
deserted country, and Rindor sent two men to see what it was. An
antelope hunter! He was arrested and beaten; for the Government, at
ecclesiastical instigation, had forbidden the extinction of life for
three years, except in the case of sheep and yaks. I was reminded of the
agreement to forbid Europeans to travel in Tibet for three years.
Now I drew my map of the route, took compass bearings, and sketched a
panorama quite at my ease. The Tibetans wondered at me and questioned
me, but did not trouble themselves much about my work. And I had plenty
of time to think of the line of policy I should adopt during the
following negotiations. I knew that they would urge me to return by the
way I had come, through Bongba, or by the road I had taken to Ladak the
year before. For my part, I had now had enough of Tibet and I longed to
get home, and wished to avoid routes that involved loss of time and that
I knew already. Now I only wished to travel to India _viâ_ Shigatse and
Gyangtse, and I would try to obtain permission to travel to these towns
by roads where no one had been before. After the excitement in which we
had lived so long came a reaction. I was worn-out, weary, and
indifferent to everything except the nearest way home. Therefore I sat
down and wrote a letter of fifteen pages to Lien Darin, referred to his
friendly letter sent to Gartok, gave an account of our last journey,
pointed out to him that no Great Power could take it amiss if I
travelled out of the country through Gyangtse, promised that in return I
would give him information about the occurrences of gold and salt I had
seen, and about the measures which should be taken for the promotion of
sheep-breeding,--all natural resources, which would contribute to the
advancement of China's newest province, Tibet. And I concluded my letter
with wishes for the happiness and prosperity of Lien Darin himself and
peace to his forefathers' graves.
I did not doubt a moment that he would give his consent to such a modest
request, and I saw in my mind's eye the dramatic scene when I should
make my first call on Major O'Connor in Tibetan dress, and have a little
fun with him before I made myself known. But I may as well say at once
that this long epistle to Lien Darin was never sent. My opponent's
tactics lured me to a contest in which he was checkmated in two moves.
My merit was as little now as formerly; I was always a marionette, and
the hands which held the strings hung over the paths where the clouds
and stars move.
In the evening I had a visit from Pemba Tsering and Kamba Tsenam. The
former was much more gentle and friendly than the year before; the
latter was a great humorist, who did not seem at all annoyed that he had
omitted to close the bag when he had us in it, and had let a valuable
booty fall into the hands of another. They had heard of my adventurous
voyages on Tso-mavang, and were astonished that I had escaped with my
life.
[Illustration: 341. INNER COURT OF SELIPUK.]
[Illustration: 342. DORCHE TSUEN AND NGAVANG ON HORSEBACK.]
Two short days' marches took us over the pass Kule-la and down to the
valley where Semoku stands on the great high-road. Here stood some
scattered tents, and the Governor and his colleagues had established
themselves in the small stone house of the station. All the more
important posts in Tibet are entrusted to two gentlemen: thus, for
example, there are always two garpuns or viceroys in Gartok, a system
adopted with the intention that one shall control the other or shall
inform of the other if he is guilty of any roguery. In Saka-dzong,
however, the one governor seemed to be of higher rank than the other; at
any rate, he conducted all the negotiations as though he possessed
greater authority.
As soon as we were ready Rindor and two other men came into my tent and
brought a message from the Governor that he awaited me in the
station-house. I answered, that if he wanted anything of me he might
come to my tent. It was not long before a party of men crossed the
hundred yards between our dwellings. I went out to meet them, invited
them to come in and sit down as far as the space allowed, took up my
position on my bed, and had before me three gentlemen, namely, Dorche
Tsuen, _pun_ or Governor of Saka-dzong (Illust. 327), Ngavang, his
colleague, and Oang Gye, his eighteen-year-old son (Illust. 331). A
crowd of servants, nomads, and soldiers massed together at the tent
door.
Pun Dorche Tsuen is an unusually tall Tibetan, forty-three years old, of
sympathetic and refined appearance, dressed in a Chinese costume of
silk, with a small silk cap on his head, a pigtail behind, and velvet
boots. He is a man of wealth, owning large flocks in the province over
which he rules and a stone house in Lhasa, his home, for he is an _upa_
or domiciled inhabitant of the province U, the capital of which is
Lhasa. There dwell three of his four sons, and one of them is a young
lama. His wife has been dead some years.
Ngavang, his coadjutor, is a little, fat, kindly man in Tibetan costume,
but with a Chinese cap and pigtail. Oang Gye wears his hair in Tibetan
fashion, wears no head-covering, and, like his father, is exceedingly
sympathetic and good-natured.
"I hope that you have had a successful journey and have not suffered
much from cold," said Dorche Tsuen.
"Oh, it was cold, and we have lost our caravan, our clothes are in rags,
and our provisions are at an end, but, as you see, that is of no
consequence to us."
"At the time of your visit to Saka-dzong last year I was in Tsonka, but
I received an account of your movements. You were sent away. Why have
you come back again?"
"To visit the districts I was then prevented from seeing. I am ashamed
to have given you the trouble of coming here from Saka-dzong. I hope
that we shall soon come to an agreement about the route I am to take in
order to leave the country."
Now I should have to play my cards well. I had changed my mind during
the last few days. I had rested, the reaction after the excitement of
travelling in disguise had passed away, and I was exceedingly eager to
attempt some new discoveries before I gave up the game. I had, it is
true, succeeded in making a very valuable traverse across Bongba. I had
travelled straight across the word "Unexplored" on the latest English
map of Tibet--yea, I had passed between the _p_ and _l_, so that "unexp"
lay on the west side of my route and "lored" on the east (see Map 1,
Vol. I.). But I had left quite untouched two extensive stretches of the
large blank patch, and I dreamed of nothing else than to cross Bongba
again by two fresh routes. It would certainly take four or five months
to return to India after a northerly zigzag course, instead of a couple
of weeks if I made for British territory through Gyangtse, as I intended
at first. But if I succeeded in making the northerly detour I should
carry home material of perhaps greater value than the discoveries
already made. Dorche Tsuen answered with firm decision:
"As to your way back, I will tell you at once: not a step further east;
my head depends on it. Here you see the order I received a couple of
days ago from the Devashung. I will read it to you. Last year you
travelled without leave to Nepal, to Kubi-gangri, across the holy lake,
round Kang-rinpoche, and to Yumba-matsen. I know exactly where you went.
You cannot do the same this year. It is probably in consequence of your
journey in all sorts of forbidden directions that the Devashung has
distributed through the country instructions regarding Europeans. Two
officials have recently been sent from Lhasa to Shansa-dzong to see
that no European approaches the holy city from Naktsang. Some time ago a
Chinese officer with 200 soldiers was moved to Tingri to guard the
country from intrusion from the south. Not even a Gurkha or a Hindu can
now travel in Tibet without especial permission. The other day I
received a letter from the Chinese frontier official in Tingri which I
will read to you. As you see, he orders me to force any European who may
come to Saka from the north to return in his own footsteps. If he
refuses, I have to send off a messenger to Tingri, and shall receive
assistance in a few days from the soldiers stationed there. Times are
changed in Tibet. If you will not listen to me and travel back by the
way you came, I will send a messenger to Tingri. But, like you, I hope
that we shall come to an agreement without unpleasantness and outside
interference."
My next move was a feint, namely, to try for the Gyangtse route; I would
in the end conform to his wishes and give up the Gyangtse route under
the condition that I should not be compelled to travel along roads I
knew already. I pointed out how near we were to Gyangtse, and how easily
he would get rid of me if I went thither, but nothing made any
impression on him. He only answered, "All that is true, but the road is
closed to you."
"Well, I will give it up for your sake, but only on condition that you
forward a letter from me to the British Trade Agent in Gyangtse. You can
understand that my family are disturbed at my long absence and are
looking for news of me."
"Yes, I can understand that, but I regret to say that I cannot forward
your correspondence. All the authorities in Tibet are strictly forbidden
to assist a European in any way, as he has no right to travel in the
country."
"You will perhaps allow two of my own servants to carry a letter from me
to Gyangtse?"
"No, never!"
"Well, at least, you can inform the Devashung of my arrival, and ask the
Government to send notice of it to Gyangtse."
"I sent a messenger to the Devashung as soon as I received the letter
from Rindor. They will know in Lhasa in a few days that you are come
here again."
I had never induced any Tibetan magistrate to forward my letters. That
Dorche Tsuen refused to do me such a trifling service had the deplorable
consequence that my family did not receive any reliable report of me
till September, and therefore supposed that some misfortune had befallen
me. Instead of reaching the frontier in a couple of weeks, I was sent
back again into the silence of Tibet, and the waves washed again over
our track. But I took it for granted that news of our arrival on the
_tasam_ would penetrate to Gyangtse both officially and through reports,
and would then be made known everywhere. Such, however, was not the
case, and after we left the _tasam_ our fate was buried in the same
complete silence as before.
"No, Hedin Sahib," Dorche Tsuen cried out, "the only way open to you is
the one by which you came from the north."
"I will never travel by that road. It is no use talking about it."
"You must."
"You cannot force me to do so. To begin with, I will not let you know
which way I came, and I travelled in disguise."
"It does not matter. It is very well known that you came from the
Samye-la and the Kinchen-la. Beyond that the escort I shall send with
you will ask the way from tent to tent."
"The nomads will answer that they have seen no Ladakis, for fear of
being punished."
"I shall find means of making them confess more than you think."
"You can kill me if you like, but you shall never force me to travel
over the Samye-la. Remember that I am a European and a friend of the
Tashi Lama. You may lose your button."
Much disturbed, Dorche Tsuen conferred in whispers with Ngavang.
[Illustration: 343. THE AUTHOR IN TIBETAN DRESS.
From a photograph by the Rev. Mr. Marx, in Poo.]
"I will give way so far for your sake that I will allow you to return to
Ladak by the same road you followed last year, through Tradum,
Tuksum, Shamsang, Parka, and Gartok."
That was the very solution I most feared. If there were any road in all
Tibet that I wished to avoid at any cost it was the road to Ladak. I
answered:
"Never! Not a step on the great high-road to Ladak!"
"But why? You ought to be thankful for so great a concession."
"It is forbidden by the laws of my country for a man to return in his
own footsteps. You can cut my throat, but you will not force me to do
anything of the sort."
"You must have strange laws in your country. May I hear which way you
really wish to take?"
"I have already said through Gyangtse. You refused and I understand your
motive. You have urged me to go back to the north. Even in this respect
I will conform to your wishes, but only on the condition that I am not
obliged to retrace my steps. I will go over another pass east of the
Samye-la and northwards to the Teri-nam-tso and then westwards by the
shortest way out of Tibet."
"That is not to be thought of. But let us take the matter quietly. Will
you agree to accompany me to Kamba Tsenam's tent, four days' journey
from here? You have been there already, and before we reach it we shall
have come to some understanding."
"Yes, willingly."
Opposition spurred me on. It now became a point of honour to win a new
game of chess. My position was very strong. The _tasam_ was eliminated.
If I could only cross the Trans-Himalaya by a more easterly pass, I
should by some ruse or other gain the Teri-nam-tso, Mendong-gompa, the
lower Buptsang-tsangpo, the Tarok-tso, Selipuk, and an eighth
Trans-Himalayan pass. Yes, now I must, if ever, play my cards well. I
still felt young and strong. The political entanglement which
encompassed me on all sides in Tibet rendered it difficult for me to
make geographical discoveries, but it stimulated my ambition. Therefore
I remember with particular warmth and sympathy all those who, in virtue
of their temporary power in the world, sought to raise obstacles in my
way.
We then talked on various subjects. He wished to see our weapons, and
asked if he could buy a revolver. "No; you shall have it as a present,
cartridges and all, if you will let me go the way I have proposed."
"H'm!"
"You must procure us all the provisions we need for two months, besides
new shoes, clothing, tobacco, horses, mules, yaks."
"With pleasure; make out a list of all you want."
It was done at once. Meal, _tsamba_, tea, sugar, Japanese cigarettes,
which were said to be procurable--all was to be brought from Tsongka,
whither mounted men were sent the same day across the Tsangpo and over
the Nevu-la. Everything was to be in our tents in a week. The rest could
be obtained from Saka-dzong. In the evening I paid an equally long
return visit to my valiant friend Pun Dorche Tsuen, and at night I
consigned my letter to Lien Darin to the flames. Ah no! no Chinese
interference in Tibeto-Swedish affairs.
On the 28th we remained quiet and visited one another by the hour
together. The two governors sat on benches fastened to the wall, Rindor
and Oang Gye on mats on the floor, and all four played at dice. The two
dice were shaken in a wooden bowl, and turned out on to a round piece of
skin. The markers were small Indian snailshells. Then they played with
Chinese dominoes. Meanwhile they drank tea, smoked pipes, sang, joked,
laughed, and moved the bricks with wonderful and graceful dexterity.
Ngavang won ten _tengas_ and was greatly elated. In this way they pass
the time when the day's work is done. Rindor is the Governor's private
secretary, and on a bench and a table lay piles of documents and
letters, written on coarse Chinese paper, and folded up one on another.
The Governor's correspondence now comes to Semoku, and his daily work
must run its course. His province, Saka, is very extensive, and he
states with some pride that his power stretches to Sangsang in the east,
to the Nevu-la in the south, to the Marium-la in the west, and
northwards some days' journey beyond Kamba Tsenam's tent.
[Illustration: 344, 345. SOLDIERS OF THE GARRISON OF SAKA-DZONG,
BELONGING TO OUR ESCORT.]
[Illustration: 346. ARMED TIBETAN FROM THE COUNTRY BETWEEN THE
TERI-NAM-TSO AND THE DANGRA-YUM-TSO.]
[Illustration: 347. BOY WITH SMALL GUN ON THE SOUTHERN SHORE OF THE
TERI-NAM-TSO.]
The illustrious gentlemen were much amused with my costume. "You are
a Sahib," they said; "you were for six weeks the guest of the Tashi
Lama; you employ one caravan after another, and leave a quantity of
money behind you, and yet are dressed more shabbily than any of your
servants."
At night their horses and mules were driven to the station-house by
soldiers, and we ought to have taken the same precaution, for our horses
were attacked by wolves. The brown horse we had bought two weeks before
for 100 rupees had his two right feet tied together lest he should run
away, and the wolves directed their attack on him, as he could not
escape, ate him up, and took the head off with them. At any rate it was
missing in the morning from the skeleton, which was pretty closely
stripped.
On April 29 we rode together on the road down the Semoku valley, which
runs to the upper Brahmaputra (Illust. 335). This we left on the left
hand, as well as the _tasam_, and ascended a valley where the little
village of Ushy with its stone huts and barley fields is situated. The
150 inhabitants are at home only at seedtime and harvest; the rest of
the year they are away, tending their sheep. Thence we proceeded the
following day to the pass Ushy-la. The way is marked by a succession of
_mani_ heaps and _chhortens_, and the pass by rods so thin as to be
invisible at a distance, and the streamers they carry look like a flock
of tied birds. A little farther to the north-west we crossed the pass
Gye-la, where Chomo-uchong makes a fine display, and soon after we were
on the main pass of the same name (16,135 feet). From a hill near, the
eye can sweep over all the horizon, the peaks and glaciers of the
Himalayas, Chomo-uchong, and close at hand to the south-south-east the
Brahmaputra valley with the river meandering in several arms. We
encamped on the bank of the Sachu-tsangpo, which flows into the
Chaktak-tsangpo west of Saka-dzong. Here also lies a votive block of a
hard green rock, covered with offerings, bits of butter, and streamers.
The 1st of May was celebrated by a march over the Lamlung-la, a
difficult pass, on the saddle of which, 16,791 feet high, the traveller
is again rewarded by a magnificent view over this complicated sea of
mountains. From here Chomo-uchong's seven summits appear in a compact
group; the central one is of a regular conical shape and is pure white
all over; the others consist chiefly of black cliffs and projections,
from among which issue small blue-tinged glaciers. The length of the
massive corresponds to that of Lunpo-gangri, of which it is a
continuation.
In the Namchen valley our united camp formed quite a little village, for
all the chiefs of the country were convened to a consultation. And here
it was that Rindor and Pemba Tsering joined us with all the goods we had
ordered from Saka-dzong. We stayed here two days. The weather was raw
and chilly, and the temperature constantly fell to 8.2°. There was no
spring as yet. But the wild-geese were on their migration, and when
Tubges once shot a gander at a neighbouring brook, Oang Gye came to
complain to me. He was quite overcome at this brutal murder, and could
not conceive how my servant could be so heartless and cruel.
"You are right," I answered; "I am myself sorry for the wild-geese. But
you must remember that we are travellers, and dependent for our
livelihood on what the country yields. Often the chase and fishing are
our only resources."
"In this district you have plenty of sheep."
"Is it not just as wrong to kill sheep and eat their flesh?"
"No!" he exclaimed, with passionate decision; "that is quite another
matter. You surely will not compare sheep to wild-geese. There is as
much difference between them as between sheep and human beings. For,
like human beings, the wild-geese marry and have families. And if you
sever such a union by a thoughtless shot, you cause sorrow and misery.
The goose which has just been bereaved of her mate will seek him
fruitlessly by day and night, and will never leave the place where he
has been murdered. Her life will be empty and forlorn, and she will
never enter upon a new union, but will remain a widow, and will soon
die of grief. A woman cannot mourn more deeply than she will, and the
man who has caused such sorrow draws down a punishment on himself."
The excellent Oang Gye was quite inconsolable. We might shoot antelopes,
wild sheep, and partridges as much as ever, if only we left the
wild-geese in peace. I had heard in the Lob country similar tales of the
sorrow of the swans when their union was dissolved by death. It was
moving to witness Oang Gye's tenderness and great sympathy for the
wild-geese, and I felt the deepest respect for him. Many a noble and
sensitive heart beats in the cold and desolate valleys of Tibet.
CHAPTER LXIX
KAMBA TSENAM, FATHER OF THE ROBBERS
At the Namchen camp we bought a large supply of rice, meal, barley and
_tsamba_, sugar, stearin candles, soap, and five hundred
cigarettes,--all procured from Tsongka. A rich merchant, Ngutu, who
owned fifty horses and mules and two hundred yaks, sold us two mules and
a horse, besides cloth for new garments, boots, and caps. Abdul Kerim
hastened to make me a Tibetan costume of fine Lhasa cloth; on my head I
wore a Chinese silk cap swathed with a red turban; I stalked about in
silk Chinese boots, and had an elegant sword in my girdle. In my Ladaki
saddle with its variegated fittings, and riding a milk-white stallion, I
looked in this makeshift outfit quite like a Tibetan of rank (Illust.
343).
[Illustration: 348. TROOPER OF THE ESCORT. 349. TIBETAN OF TERI-NAM-TSO.
350. YOUNG SHEPHERD OF BONGBA.
Sketches by the Author.]
Here a large meeting was held in Dorche Tsuen's tent, where the question
of my return route was discussed. Dorche Tsuen insisted on the necessity
of my crossing the Samye-la again, and I answered, as before, that I
intended to take no other way than over a pass east of the Samye-la.
Then he appealed to the nomads at hand, who no doubt had received their
instructions beforehand, and they all affirmed that the Chang-tang could
be reached by no other pass than the Samye-la. However, we had heard
from the horse-driver on the Gebuk-la that a way led over the mountains
directly north of Kamba Tsenam's tent. But then the nomads, who would
have to let us yaks on hire, replied that the road was so bad that we
could not reach the Tarok-tso in three months, and that, for their part,
they would not let their yaks go, and come to grief on the detritus
of the pass. Then we offered to buy yaks, but found no one who would
sell his animals. After Dorche Tsuen had informed me that those who
travelled from Saka into Bongba with hired yaks had to change both men
and pack animals at Buptö on the upper Buptsang-tsangpo, I proposed to
divide my caravan into two sections, one of which, under Abdul Kerim,
would cross the Samye-la, while I with the other half marched over the
eastern pass; we would meet on the lower course of the Buptsang-tsangpo.
Ngutu, a genial old man of Mongolian origin, supported me, giving it as
his opinion that it was of no consequence which pass I crossed myself,
provided that the main part of the caravan went over the Samye-la; but
Dorche Tsuen was still obstinate, and tried to frighten me with a tale
of ten well-armed robbers whose haunts were in the country north of the
mountain I wished to pass over.
"If the country is unsafe," I returned, "it is your duty to provide me
with an escort of ten soldiers."
"The soldiers belong to the garrison of Saka-dzong, and cannot be
employed elsewhere."
"Listen to me, Dorche Tsuen, and do not be so short-sighted. If you give
me ten soldiers, you will be able to control my movements. I will pay
them 2 rupees a man per day for their services, that is, 20 rupees a day
altogether. You can well believe that I cannot afford such a great
expense for a long time, and therefore you will have a guarantee that I
shall not take a long roundabout way. When I have rejoined Abdul Kerim's
party I shall be beyond the limits of your province, and the escort can
return."
"That is true," exclaimed two voices in the crowd; "if he pays 20 rupees
a day, he cannot go far."
Dorche Tsuen rose and called some of the other men to a consultation
outside the tent, and when he came back again he said that I might have
my wish, if I would sign a written declaration that I took upon myself
all responsibility for the consequences, for he wished to be free from
blame if any misfortune befell me. Of course I promised to sign such a
document with pleasure.
Thus the matter was arranged. Nima Tashi (Illust. 353), a powerful man
of pleasant aspect, and dressed in a loose sheepskin, was to be chief of
the bodyguard, and as he said he did not know the road to the north,
Panchor (Illust. 332), a man fifty-five years of age, was ordered to act
as guide. He was called into the tent. I had not seen him before, but
Abdul Kerim said that he was the same man who on April 23 had shown us
the way to the foot of the Kinchen-la, and that he had seen me and
Muhamed Isa last year in Saka-dzong. He was a little, thin, wiry man who
had killed eighty yaks with the gun he always carried. To everything
that was said to him he agreed submissively with "La lasso, la lasso."
We could see that he was sly and knavish--just the stuff we wanted.
With him and all the other company we rode on May 4 over the pass
Gara-la, and from its rather flat threshold saw Kamba Tsenam's tent
still in the same place. Here we crossed, then, our route of April 22,
and had made a loop round the snowy massive Chomo-uchong.
Panchor was the elder brother of Kamba Tsenam, and it struck me as
curious that when the Governor of Saka pitched his tent beside that of
the wealthy nomad, the latter did not come out to welcome him. Now a
collection of tents had sprung up in the valley larger than at any of
the foregoing camps. Couriers and messengers came and went, small yak
caravans came up to the tents with provisions for the officials, and
nomads had come in from the neighbourhood to have a look at the
eccentric European who had come down like a bomb into the country and
had been caught at last.
[Illustration: 351. GUESTS AT THE OPENING OF MY TENT ON THE BANK OF THE
TERI-NAM-TSO.
(Over the opening a plaid is stretched as a protection against the
sun.)]
[Illustration: 352. THE YAKS FORDING THE RIVER SOMA-TSANGPO.]
Late in the evening Kamba Tsenam came sneaking into my tent. He was very
mysterious, and said that the Governor and his people had no notion that
he was paying me a visit in the darkness. He wished only to say that
Panchor could very well contrive that I should go almost anywhere I
liked. The escort had strict orders from the authorities, but only
Panchor knew the way, and could easily throw dust into the eyes of the
other men. I had only to make my wishes known to Panchor and he would
manage the rest. If also a band of fifty robbers swept down on us
like a whirlwind, they would disperse like sheep as soon as they knew
that Panchor with his never-failing gun was with us. Kamba Tsenam thus
revealed himself as a cunning rogue, who had not the slightest respect
for the authorities of Saka. The old fool promised that I should travel
by the roads I wished if, in return, I would contrive that he should be
governor of Saka. What he said was only idle talk, and he himself was a
fellow to be on our guard against. There was not a man in Bongba who had
ever heard of him, and his great power existed only in his own
imagination. In his own village he was known and flattered on account of
his great wealth, and he boasted that no robber dared to touch his
flocks, for he was their trusted friend. "I am the father of all the
robbers," he said modestly.
I willingly accepted his invitation to visit his tent next morning. When
I had passed it the first time it was in a snowstorm, and I had looked
upon it as a serious menace to my plans and my freedom. Almost like a
thief in the night, expecting to be discovered every moment, I had
stolen past the black nomad dwelling. Now I approached it as an honoured
guest, only barked at by dogs.
The huge tent, made of a number of pieces of material, is supported by
three veritable masts, firmly fixed in the ground. A stone wall runs
along the inner side, and in front of it are heaps of _tsamba_, rice,
and corn sacks. Baskets and boxes stand full of clothing. The altar, a
wooden shelf and a table are laden with _gaos_, images, votive bowls,
praying mills, and holy books. In one corner stand perhaps a dozen guns
with streamers on their rests, and in another as many swords. On the
hearth, built on the left of the entrance, always stands a large
tea-kettle boiling, ready for any guests that may come in. A battery of
wooden cups stands on a stone slab ready for use. The bluish grey smoke
rises up towards the chimney opening. Far away from the entrance, at the
right corner, the master of the house has his seat of honour, a small
divan with a stool table before it, and before this again a fireplace,
like a hollow cracked cannon-ball, filled with reeking dung embers.
Some of Kamba Tsenam's shepherds are sitting in a group drinking tea, in
another part some small black children are playing, and in a third the
women of the tent are tittering. With pure white short hair, wrinkled
like crushed parchment, stone-blind, and dressed like Monna Vanna only
in a cloak, Kamba Tsenam's eighty-three-year-old mother sits on her bed
and swings her prayer-mill with the right hand, while her left hand
keeps the beads of her rosary in constant motion. She prattles and
murmurs prayers, sometimes drops her rosary to catch a troublesome
insect, and sometimes lets the prayer-mill stop when she is plunged in
vague dreamy thought. Twice she asked if the European were still there
and if he had been offered tea and food.
May 5, the last day we enjoyed Dorche Tsuen's society, had to be
celebrated in some way. I invited the whole party to a festival in the
camp. The two Governors and Oang Gye took their places in my tent, in
the middle of which our tea-cups were filled on an improvised table. The
day had been cold and muggy and snow fell, but we warmed our hands over
the fire, and sat wrapped in skin coats like four Tibetans of rank,
while the populace formed a circle outside. A fire was lighted in the
middle and was maintained by dung from four sacks. It was pitch dark
outside, but yellow flames threw a bright gleam over the dark Tibetans,
servants, herdsmen, nomads and soldiers, women and children, youths and
old men. They stood in wondering groups in their skin coats blackened by
the smoke of fires, bare-headed, with long black tresses hanging over
their shoulders. The light from the fire made a vain attempt to gild
them. They stood out in sharp effective relief against the deep shadows
(Illust. 336).
[Illustration: 353. Nima Tashi, Commandor of the Government-Escort on
the way to the Teri-nam-tso.]
[Illustration: 354. Nuns of Mendong.]
[Illustration: 355. A high Lama of Chokchu.]
[Illustration: 356. The Prior of Selipuk.
Water-colour Sketches by the Author.]
I charged Abdul Kerim to do his very best, and he informed me that the
programme would contain fifteen items, song and dance following
alternately without a pause. The first item was a dance with sticks to
represent swords; the second, a hunting episode: a wild animal, composed
of two crouching men with a piece of felt over them and two sticks for
horns, went prancing round the fire; a hunter with his gun crept about,
took aim at the monster, killed him with a single shot, and performed
with his friends a triumphal dance around the carcase. Then followed a
Ladaki dance, little Gulam leading the troop, and after that Suen
executed his remarkable dance before a lady, represented by a stick he
held before him. All the others kept time by clapping their hands, and
invited the Tibetans to join in, and my guests in the tent were
convulsed with laughter.
The Mohammedans executed a Yarkand dance with Kutus as leader. They
danced round the fire, swinging their arms and skirts, and between the
fire and the tent they appeared only as black profiles, while on the
other side they were lighted up by the reddish-yellow flames, and their
perspiring faces shone like bronze. A song followed, waking a sonorous
echo in the mountains, and the Tibetans recognizing the air joined in,
and all the while the men clapped their hands. The smoke from the fire
took part in the dances and sometimes flew right in the faces of the
spectators, the singing became louder, the merriment more uncontrolled,
and the nomads laughed till they had to support themselves with their
hands on their knees, as Suen revolved in grotesque pirouettes over the
arena and the nomads tried to imitate him. The clumsy Abdullah performed
an indescribable dance with his back bent back, and when he bent himself
so much that he fell backwards to the edge of the fire, the delight of
the spectators was unbounded: they laughed till they were breathless,
hopped about and uttered wild yells, while the performer shook the
sparks from his coat and retired to his corner (Illusts. 337, 338, 339,
340). The Tibetans evidently enjoyed themselves; perhaps they had never
had such an amusing evening in their lives. Dorche Tsuen said something
of the sort. Ngavang gave way to his kindly laugh, and Oang Gye enjoyed
the unwonted spectacle like a child. For my part, I dreamed awhile and
thought of the unexpected and singular manner in which fate had allowed
me to choose my course. Through the clouds of smoke I seemed to see all
old Asia before me, and the adventures of past years behind me. A
carnival of old camp-scenes danced before my mind's eye, expiring like
shooting-stars in the night--merry songs which came to an end among
other mountains and the dying sound of strings and flutes. And I was
surprised that I had not had enough of these things and that I was not
tired of the light of camp-fires.
The wind rises, the snow falls thickly and hisses in the fire, and the
flakes are lighted up from below. With white hair and shoulders the
Tibetans look like mist figures, and behind them hang the dark curtains
of night, from which is heard from time to time a pony's neigh or a
dog's bark. The last sack of fuel is emptied over the leaping flames,
burns up and sinks, and only embers are left, glowing in the ceaselessly
falling snow. Then my grateful guests rise at midnight, distribute gifts
to the performers, say farewell, and vanish like ghosts in the darkness
to seek their own tents. Now night reigns alone over the valley, the
surroundings lie silent and still, and only the pelting snow makes a
swishing sound against the tent.
On the morning of May 6 the country was again white as in the depth of
winter. Quietly and lightly as cotton-wool the flakes fell, and all, the
Tibetans included, were more wrapped up than usual. The Governors and
their retinue came to pay a farewell visit, and then I went out with
them to their horses, took a last farewell, and thanked them for all the
kindness they had shown me in spite of the trouble I had given them.
Dorche Tsuen expressed a hope that we should meet again. It is much
easier to get on with men and lead them where you wish if you treat them
kindly and gently; you gain nothing by violence, harshness, and threats.
The Governor was a fine upright figure on his horse; his face was
entirely covered with dark spectacles and a red hood to protect it from
the blast (Illust. 342). His troop of mounted men was considerably
diminished after his escort had been told off to follow me. They struck
their heels into their horses and soon disappeared up the hill on the
way to the Gara-la.
[Illustration: 357. TWO LAMAS OF MENDONG.]
[Illustration: 358. MY SHEEP CROSSING THE RIVER SOMA-TSANGPO.]
My caravan was now to be divided into two parties. Only five men were to
follow me, namely, Gulam, Lobsang, Kutus, Tubges, and Kunchuk. We had
eight goats to supply milk; our old sheep had been sold for a mere
trifle. A hundred rupees for the first five days were paid in advance to
the escort under Nima Tashi. No agreement was made with Panchor, but he
was to be paid well if he took me where I wished. The other seven
Ladakis were ordered to proceed under the command of Abdul Kerim over
the Samye-la to the Buptsang-tsangpo, follow the stream slowly
downwards, and wait for us near its mouth in the Tarok-tso. Whatever
they did, they were not to leave the Buptsang-tsangpo, or we might lose
one another. Rindor and Pemba Tsering were deputed to follow them over
the Samye-la to Buptö, to bring the Kebyang people to reason if they
refused transport animals. My baggage was reduced to a minimum, and I
took with me only a thousand rupees. Abdul Kerim was responsible for the
remainder of the cash. He was an honest man, but a noodle. Some nomads
accompanied us with six yaks for the baggage (Illusts. 344, 345, 348).
Though, according to our plans, we were to be separated only a few
weeks, the parting was touching, and many childish tears trickled down
weather-beaten cheeks. We had bought more horses, and all my five
Ladakis could ride. We rode up the valley in close order; the bottom was
full of loose rotten ice, lumpy tufts of grass with mice-holes among
them, frozen springs, and detritus of hard green schist. We marched
north-eastwards, and then due west, over the small double pass
Shalung-la, and down to the Gyegong valley, where we encamped at Kamba
Tsenam's sheepfolds to buy some sheep for food. The escort had got there
first, and sat in their black tent drinking tea.
We sat talking with Kamba Tsenam and Panchor when a tall and strongly
built young fellow came and sat down at the opening of my tent.
"I have seen the Bombo before," he said, "in the neighbourhood of
Nakchu. You had a Buryat and a lama with you. That is seven years ago."
"Quite right. Have you brought me a message?"
"No; I only wish to ask if you are disposed to buy two good yaks from
me. You can have them for half their value."
"Thanks; we do not want any yaks now. What is your occupation?"
"Robber!" he answered, without blinking.
After he had gone, Kamba Tsenam informed me that some time ago the man
had killed a nomad in Rukyok, and now was come to treat about the
compensation for the murder. The authorities were looking eagerly for
the band to which he belonged, and Kamba Tsenam and Panchor knew exactly
where they were hiding, but would not betray them lest they should be
robbed of their property in revenge. Kamba Tsenam and his brother were
evidently on very confidential terms with the robbers of the country,
and I very much suspected that they were in league with some of them. In
Panchor we had certainly an actual robber chief as guide. He himself
told us that the Devashung had tried to engage him in their service as a
spy and guide, when they wished to track up an evaded robber band, but
he would not consent. He knew that we had a large quantity of money with
us, and we were not too safe in his company. He could very well arrange
a night attack and in the end play the innocent. He pretended not to
know the country beyond a couple of days' journey to the north, but when
he inspected our six horses he said: "This one you bought from an old
nomad to the west of Sha-kangsham, and this one from Tsongpun Tashi." If
he knew every horse in the country, he must also know the country very
well. I asked him to go over the names of our camping-places to the
north, but he gave only the first two, and added: "The rest you will
know as you go on, and if I cannot find them myself, there will always
be some robbers I can ask."
On May 7 we took leave of the old robber chief Kamba Tsenam, and rode in
close order up to the pass Gyegong-la, which has a height of 18,012
feet. The pass stands on a distinctly marked chain, which is called
Kanchung-gangri, and it was very interesting to find that all the water
on the northern side of the pass flowed to the upper Chaktak-tsangpo.
Kanchung-gangri is therefore not part of the main range of the
Trans-Himalaya, and the Gyegong-la is only a secondary pass. The great
watershed lay some days' journey farther to the north.
On the northern side we passed a warm spring, Memo-chutsen, which at the
orifice had a temperature of 93.6°, while in another the water boiled
and steamed. The springs are surrounded by sinter, terraces, and basins
in which sick people bathe.
Panchor had an old field-glass and diligently looked out for robbers and
wild yaks. He said that we ought always to keep together in case we were
attacked by robbers he did not know, and he bade us help with our
weapons in the defence.
The camp this day was No. 400.
CHAPTER LXX
THE SEVENTH CROSSING OF THE TRANS-HIMALAYA--TO THE HEAVENLY LAKE OF THE
THRONE MOUNTAIN
Twenty-nine degrees of frost on the night of May 8. Winter instead of
spring might be coming. A month ago it was much warmer in Bongba. But
now we are mounting up to the heights of the Trans-Himalaya, the weather
is cold, raw, and windy, the temperature seldom above freezing-point,
and to-day the whole country is again buried in snow.
[Illustration: 359. Village below Lunkar-gompa on the Tarok-tso.]
[Illustration: 360. Mendong Monastery west of the Teri-nam-tso.]
[Illustration: 361. Selipuk Monastery south-west of the Nganglaring-tso.
Water-colour Sketches by the Author.]
[Illustration: 362. Holiday Costumes and Ornaments of Tibetan Women of
Kyangrang in the Trans-Himalaya.
Water-colour Sketches by the Author.]
We ride northwards and descend from a small saddle to the
Chaktak-tsangpo, near which we have to halt a while to warm ourselves at
a fire. The river bends to the west-south-west to break through
Kanchung-gangri. On its bank is seen a tent, eight horses, and a hundred
sheep. Panchor went off to-day to stalk a herd of ninety wild yaks, and
Nima Tashi, the captain of the bodyguard, was sure that a robber band
was in the tent, for no nomads are seen in this cold country. The
escort, particularly Nima Tashi, were dreadfully afraid of robbers; and
Panchor had told us that we could make them go anywhere by frightening
the soldiers with robbers. When Panchor appeared again, he said that the
suspected tent was really inhabited by the band which had the murder in
Rukyok on its conscience, and he added that if the people in Rukyok
would not let the matter rest, the band threatened to commit new crimes
in the country. I asked why the authorities did not seize the chief now
when he was so near, but Panchor shook his head and said that if he was
taken and killed, thirty others would be down on the country, and that
would be worse. A bandit's life in Tibet is on the whole a very
pleasant one.
Following the stream upwards we came to the small lake Lapchung-tso,
entirely covered with ice, and set up camp 401 (17,037 feet) on its
eastern shore. It is enclosed among hills and surrounded on all sides by
lofty mountains. To the south Kanchung-gangri appears in all its
splendour. The snow is much more abundant on its northern than on its
southern side, and in the hollows between its summits three large and
several small glaciers, short and steep, are seen. From all the valleys
on the north, north-west, and north-east brooks descend to the
Lapchung-tso, and from the southern extremity of the lake the
Chaktak-tsangpo issues, and a little distance farther south-west breaks
through Kanchung-gangri.
May 9. -0.9° at this time of year! We move north-eastwards along the
eastern shore of Lapchung-tso, and follow a well-beaten road consisting
of quite fifty parallel paths. It is very interesting to draw another
line on the map of Tibet through a part unknown before. Here travel the
merchants whose destination is east Bongba and Chokchu, and here passes
a large part of the salt traffic from Tabie-tsaka, as well as pilgrims
on their way home from Kang-rinpoche. The last usually follow the
_tasam_ on their outward journey, but return by the northern route--this
is, that the whole pilgrimage may make a _kore_ or a loop of salvation.
Our direction becomes now more northerly and we go up the Sangmo-bertik
valley, where the bottom is filled with ice clear as glass, but there is
good pasturage on the flanks. The country is quite flat between
Kanchung-gangri and the main crest of the Trans-Himalaya. In the
longitudinal valley between the two we see to the north, 60° W., the
comparatively low saddle Dicha-la, which is, however, a watershed of the
first rank, for it parts the water flowing to the ocean from the
isolated drainage of the plateau. Over the Dicha-la runs the lately
mentioned road to the Buptsang-tsangpo and Tabie-tsaka. North,
north-west, and north-east are several _gangris_ with firn-fields and
snow, all belonging to the main range of the Trans-Himalaya. To the
east lies a pass, the Nakbo-kongdo-la, with the Nakbo-gongrong-gangri;
over this pass, which also seems to lie on the main watershed, a road
runs to Targo-gangri and Dangra-yum-tso. Between Raga-tasam and Ombo a
road crosses the Tsalam-nakta-la, mostly frequented by salt caravans.
From camp 402 we could still see Chomo-uchong to the south, 13° E.
A member of the robber band we saw the day before paid us a visit and
was evidently an old friend of Panchor. He gave us many interesting
details of the Teri-nam-tso and Mendong-gompa, which were afterwards
found to be perfectly correct. I never could make out Panchor. Either he
was in league with the devil himself, or he was a fully fledged knave at
his own risk and reckoning. He now assured me that it would be the
easiest thing in the world to take me to the Teri-nam-tso and perhaps
also to the Dangra-yum-tso. O gods of Naktsang, slumber in this cold
spring and do not warn your earthly vassals until it is too late! Yes,
if I could only contrive to cross the Trans-Himalaya twice more, I would
then willingly leave this mighty range to rest a thousand years under a
veil of clouds and glittering snowfields. It is strange that this wide
country, so near to the Indian frontier, should have remained absolutely
unknown till our late times. I am proud and delighted to know that I am
the first white man to penetrate to this wilderness.
Panchor advised us to stay a day in the valley, for we should not find
pasture as good as here for a long time. I wondered how he could know
that, seeing that he had said recently that he had never been north of
the Sangmo-bertik-la.
On the night of May 11 the thermometer fell to 3°. We found ourselves in
a great enlargement of the Trans-Himalaya called Lap, and this region is
noted for its severe climate. Even in the middle of summer, when it is
warm everywhere else, it is cold in Lap. The ice breaks up on
Lapchung-tso only in the beginning of June after all the other ice is
melted. From the map it is seen that many considerable rivers, flowing
north and south, take their rise in this lofty swell.
[Illustration: 363. CROSSING THE KANGSHAM RIVER.]
The day's march took us up to higher ground, and the way was
dreadful--not a road at all, but a track winding among granite boulders
and yak-moss. And next day it was still worse. In raw wintry weather,
with a temperature of 1.2°, we wound up the ascent extremely slowly,
where all small and loose material had been removed, so that the animals
might at any moment break their legs among the stones. Here no other
vegetation was seen but a moss, yellow as the yolk of an egg, and
another shading into red. On the left we passed three small glaciers
with a blue tinge on their fronts. By one of them some wild yaks walked
meditatively. The weather was so cold that we had to stop frequently to
warm our hands at a small dung fire. Panchor insisted strongly on these
halts "in order that the Bombo may not be tired"; but I suspect it was
chiefly because he wanted a puff from his Chinese _gansa_.
Though it was a great struggle for our horses, we came at last to the
Sangmo-bertik-la, at the giddy height of 19,094 feet, and now I stood
for the seventh time on the main crest of the Trans-Himalaya and the
watershed of the great Indian rivers. The view was closed in on all
sides and limited by adjacent heights. On a sharp ridge to the
north-west seven yaks were tramping in the snow. Panchor and one of the
soldiers went on foot in pursuit of them--to mount these steep hills on
foot and carry heavy, clumsy guns is tough work. We rode on among the
granite boulders; lower down green porphyry begins. The gradient became
more gentle, and where we encamped we could scarcely perceive in which
direction the valley sloped.
The day had been stormy, and the blast continued on May 13. Little Puppy
went out to look at the morning, but crept back again and lay on his
mat. Takkar was still irreconcilable towards his countrymen, the
Tibetans, and inspired the greatest respect in all the escort and
Panchor. We rode on through the valley northwards, past numerous summer
camping-grounds, and recognized the characteristic low relief of
Chang-tang in contrast to the more deeply excavated valleys on the
southern side of the Trans-Himalaya. At the mouth of a side-valley
running in from the west the escort came to a halt, and Nima Tashi
explained that our road to Buptö, where we had agreed to meet Abdul
Kerim's party, ran up this valley, and that they did not intend to go
farther north. They now showed their teeth for the first time, and were
not so pliant as we thought. They excused themselves on the ground that
their yaks were tired, that their provisions were at an end, and that
they had no orders to accompany us more than fourteen days. Panchor, the
scoundrel, took their part, and frightened us with the chief of
Bongba-chushar, who took tribute from all the robbers of the country,
and would certainly plunder us if we passed through his domain. After
long consideration we decided to camp where we were, to thoroughly
discuss the situation. Before the sun had set I had won them over,
though it was chiefly the chink of silver rupees which made them forget
all their scruples. It was agreed that they should receive their 20
rupees every evening, and I gave them a goat in addition, as their
supply of meat was at an end.
So on May 14 we rode farther north in blinding snow, and passed numerous
_manis_, nine standing in one row. The valley became more open, and was
more than a mile broad. We found no water at the camp, but two of our
yaks were laden with blocks of ice. Every evening we sat an hour
conversing with Panchor, and it was easy to check his statements. I told
him once and for all, that if he did not speak the truth he would
receive no extra gratuity. In the evening he declared that there were
dreadful apparitions at Muhamed Isa's grave, and that at night fearful
shrieks and groans could be heard from beneath. He was quite convinced
that spirits and demons haunted the grave, and said that no Tibetan
ventured to go near the place; this was well, for consequently the grave
would not be desecrated.
[Illustration: 364. THE VILLAGE OF LUNKAR.]
[Illustration: 365. GROUP OF TIBETANS AT THE TERI-NAM-TSO.]
He gave me also much valuable information about the country round
Nam-tso or Tengri-nor, where he was born. He had gone twice round
Nam-tso, thrice round Tso-mavang, and twelve times round Kang-rinpoche,
which he intended to visit again soon, to complete the thirteenth
circuit of salvation. He considered it superfluous to make the
circuit of Dangra-yum-tso and Targo-gangri, for he had already tramped
so far that all his sins must be forgiven, and he was sure of promotion
in the next incarnation. Panchor had not the slightest doubt that a man
or horse which had drunk of the water of Tso-mavang or Nam-tso was for
ever immune from illness, robbers, and wolves. "It is just as though a
fire blazed out of that part of the body where the wolf intends to seize
him," he affirmed. But he considerably modified his statements after I
had told him that we had a mule which had drunk for a whole month of the
water of Tso-mavang and yet had been torn in pieces by wolves at Gartok.
"Yes," he replied, "the protection is only for Tibetans and their
animals, not for Europeans and their animals. And if the wolf itself
drank of the holy water it would avail nothing; he would still seize his
prey."
On the 15th of May we set out again in a snowstorm, whereas I had been
looking forward ever since January to spring. It caused great merriment,
both among the Tibetans and the Ladakis, when one of the escort who did
not know Kunchuk's name, spoke of him as "that there calf." We had
travelled a good long way before they ceased to laugh at the newly
invented title, which stuck to Kunchuk ever after.
The valley opens out on to a plain where kiangs, Goa and Pantholops
antelopes are plentiful. From the ridge of a hill we see to the east
another still larger plain, beyond which Targo-gangri would be visible
if the mountain were not shrouded in clouds and falling snow. Buchu-tso
is a small pool which dries up in summer. There lay three black tents,
and beyond another hill in the locality Kangmar, seven. When we
encamped, sixty men, women, and children came out and watched us. They
had gathered together here to pay their taxes to a collector from Saka.
The district is called Bongba-chushar, and the elderly Gova came to
visit us. He was a discreet man and put no awkward questions. Panchor,
who was accustomed to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, had
probably given him an account of us beforehand. It seems he was
terribly frightened, for he had never in his life seen a European.
However, he gave us much valuable information about the country, among
other things, that the little twin lakes Mun-tso lay to the north of the
Barong-la and east of the Teri-nam-tso, not south of the Dangra-yum-tso
as on Nain Sing's map, which I had myself found to be incorrect. On the
way to the Teri-nam-tso we should be able in two places to steal goose
eggs; it was forbidden to the Tibetans for three years to take them, but
a European could permit himself anything without having to answer for it
to the gods of heaven and earth.
After a day's rest we marched north-north-east to the broad longitudinal
valley of Soma-tsangpo. The river descends from the east-south-east, and
probably has its source in the great mountain system we saw from the
Shuru-tso. Here it runs west-north-west, but afterwards turns north and
north-eastwards, and therefore makes a sharp curve before it enters the
Teri-nam-tso. Its bed is flat and shallow, and at the time carried down
about 280 cubic feet of water per second, but it is so full in summer
that sometimes it cannot be forded. We camped at a spring in a valley at
the farther side, and on May 18 ascended the adjacent pass, Dongchen-la,
and on its south slopes twenty-four Ovis Ammon sheep were a fine sight.
On the night of the 19th, the minimum temperature was 29.5°, and now it
felt as if spring were really come, or even summer. The way ran
north-west up a steep valley, where granite and dark schists were twice
observed _in situ_, to the small pass Teta-la (16,266 feet), where we
had at length a free view over the longed-for lake Teri-nam-tso, Nain
Sing's Tede-nam-tso, which he never visited nor saw, but only heard of,
and inserted with a broken line quite correctly on his map. The only
mistake he made was to draw the lake longer from north to south instead
of from east to west.
To obtain an uninterrupted view we climbed up a height on the north side
of the pass (16,972 feet). The scene here displayed in all directions
was one of the grandest and most memorable tableaus I have seen in
Tibet. The "heavenly lake" lay like a great flat-cut turquoise framed
in mountains and hills shaded in pink, red, yellow, and purple, which,
towards the horizon, gradually passed into a light blue veil. Only to
the south-east quadrant is the view obstructed by adjacent heights
belonging to the chain on the crest of which we stand, and which runs
along the southern shore of the lake, but elsewhere the view is open,
dizzy, boundless, and the eyes scan both Sha-kangsham's majestic peak
and Targo-gangri's many-headed ridge, and the seven-times-mounted main
range of the Trans-Himalaya, with its snow-crowned heights rising in a
row of bright white domes to the south. Many other peaks and domes with
eternal snow rise over this sea of tumbled waves, but, after all, the
finest sight is the lake itself, which charms and fascinates the
spectator by its intense ultramarine hue, a couple of shades deeper and
stronger than turquoise. When one first comes to the saddle of the pass
and this wealth of colouring strikes the retina, one can scarcely
restrain an exclamation of astonishment and admiration. We look down
straight on the lake, and its southern shore is just below us. To the
west it extends for two days' journey, and widens out enormously, while
to the east it contracts and seems to stretch a good day's journey. Due
north-east the blue surface is broken by a steep rocky islet, with a
level shore only in the east, and further east one fancies one can
detect the hollow where the basin of the Dangra-yum-tso skirts the
northern foot of the divine Targo-gangri mountain.
Beautiful weather, not a cloud on the blue vault of heaven, calm and
quiet, only the gentlest whisper over the hills sounding in the ears
like the tinkle of small bells and the vibration of strings. One feels
overwhelmed by this grand beauty, which speaks more powerfully to the
senses than the high mass of any archbishop. I stood several hours up
here and made a hopeless attempt to sketch the landscape, but succeeded
in producing only a feeble imitation of the reality. From the Teta-la
one commands a very considerable area of the heart of Tibet. How
extensive is the line of Sha-kangsham! How many are the points from
which I have viewed this wonderful mountain on different journeys! Like
a gigantic beacon, a marvellous landmark, it raises its snow-covered
dome above desolate Tibet. And we were far from its dripping glaciers
when for the last time it sank below the horizon like a dream of snow
and roses.
At last we had to drag ourselves away and follow the track of the other
men to a little dreary valley where they had encamped near a couple of
tents. Even here the view was remarkable. How I now missed my old tried
boat, and how gladly I would have glided with sail and oar over the
heavenly lake!
[Illustration: 366. THE VILLAGE OF LUNKAR FROM THE TEMPLE HILL.]
[Illustration: 367. THE SOUTHERN SHORE OF MANASAROWAR WITH GRAZING
YAKS.]
We remained four whole days at this miserable camp with its fine view
(15,646 feet). The fact was that Dangra-yum-tso now for the fourth time
began to haunt my dreams, and as the holy lake was only four days'
journey to the east, I would try to reach its shore. But Nima Tashi and
Panchor put all kinds of difficulties in the way: their yaks would
perish where there was no grazing, and it was impossible to hire yaks,
for all had lately gone to Tabie-tsaka for salt. I proposed to go on my
own horses and meet them at Mendong-gompa after the excursion, and to
this they made no objection at first. If I had not been by this time
heartily sick of Tibet, I would have played them a pretty trick, and
gone not only to Dangra-yum-tso, but further eastwards until I was
stopped. But I was weary of geography, discoveries, and adventures, and
wanted to get home. And besides, on comparing the lands east and west of
the Teri-nam-tso, I considered the latter far better worth visiting. The
former I had traversed by three routes, and two other travellers had
been there, but no one had been in the west, and we knew nothing about
it except the uncertain data which the Jesuits had gathered from the
natives two hundred years ago. In fact this land was the least known
part of Tibet, and the road to the Nganglaring-tso crosses the blank
patch in its longer direction. If the authorities had asked me which way
I would choose, I should have answered, the way to the Nganglaring-tso.
It would have been wisest to close at once with Nima Tashi's suggestion
to go straight to Mendong-gompa. But their opposition egged me on to
break another lance for Dangra-yum-tso. I ought to have remembered that
he who grasps at all loses all, for I was within an ace of losing
Mendong-gompa into the bargain.
For when Nima Tashi saw that he could not make me give way, he secretly
sent a message to Tagla Tsering, the chief of Sangge-ngamo-buk, the
district we were in and which is subject to Naktsang. And Tagla Tsering
came. Last year he had been in Lundup's train when the latter had
stopped us at the foot of Targo-gangri and prevented us from going to
the shore of the holy lake. Now he looked very grand and important. Over
a mantle of panther skin he wore a belt of six bright silver _gaos_, and
in the belt was stuck a sword with a silver scabbard inlaid with
turquoise and coral, and at his side rattled knives and other pendent
articles. Over all, he wore a long reddish-violet mantle, and on his
head a Chinese silk cap. He was accompanied by six horsemen, and, the
day after, twenty more arrived, all armed to the teeth with guns,
swords, and lances; all in picturesque bright-coloured costumes, some
with tall brimmed hats on their heads, others with bandages round their
foreheads, Tagla Tsering evidently took the matter seriously, and tried
to get over me by talking of raising the militia (Illust. 329).
The powerful chief meanwhile entered my tent, friendly and pleased, and,
like an old friend, bade me heartily welcome, and expressed his great
astonishment that I had come back again, though I had been forced the
year before to turn back. Had I not already brought about Hlaje
Tsering's fall, and would I cause the new Governor of Naktsang to meet
the same fate? Or what did I mean?
"No, Hedin Sahib, you cannot travel to Naktsang. Turn to the west. Nima
Tashi had no authority to lead you even to the Teri-nam-tso; it was on
the Buptsang-tsangpo you were to meet the caravan. You talk of
Mendong-gompa. You have no right to travel thither. There is a nearer
way to the rendezvous. Mendong-gompa does not lie in my district, but
all the same I have sent written notices to all the govas in the country
to stop you if you travel to the monastery."
Poor Nima Tashi was half dead with fright. He had thought to frighten
me, but now he saw that the chief and I sat together like old friends,
drinking tea and smoking cigarettes, while he was reprimanded for
bringing me too far. I told him afterwards that he was a noodle, and if
he now got into trouble in Saka it was his own fault. Tagla Tsering's
good humour was much enhanced when I promised to turn back and conform
to the arrangements of the chiefs on the way to Mendong, if by any
chance I was prevented from approaching the convent.
We said farewell on May 24, and continued our journey westwards along
the southern shore of the lake. The water is salt and has an extremely
unpleasant taste, and cannot be drunk in any circumstances. Lamlung-la
(16,880 feet) is a commanding pass, which must be crossed to cut off a
peninsula. The rocks are granite and green schist. Hares and wild-geese
are very plentiful. Here and there are freshwater lagoons on the shore,
which forms a very narrow belt at the foot of the mountains. The
northern shore belt seems to be much broader. We followed the southern
shore another day to the spring Tertsi at the western extremity of the
lake, which forms a large regular expansion.
I heard the name of this lovely lake variously pronounced by different
nomads. Nain Sing's Tede-nam-tso is incorrect. The Gova of Kangmar
insisted that Tsari-nam-tso was the correct pronunciation, and said that
the name was bestowed because _ri di tsa-la tso yore_, that is, "The
lake situated at the foot of the mountain." The nomads on the shore,
however, said Tiri- or Teri-nam-tso. At our camp 411 were two small
mountains on the shore, called Techen and Techung, or the Great and
Little Te, or more correctly Ti. _Ti_ is a lama's throne in a temple,
_ri_ signifies mountain, _nam_ heaven, and _tso_ lake. The whole name
therefore has the poetical meaning of the Throne-mountain's Heavenly
Lake. Its height above sea-level is 15,367 feet, or 413 feet lower than
Mont Blanc, which, if it lifted up its head from the turquoise billows
of the lake, would look like the small rocky islet in its eastern half.
CHAPTER LXXI
ANOTHER JOURNEY ACROSS THE WHITE PATCH
We left on May 26 the heavenly lake, the shore of which had never before
been trodden by European or pundit, and saw its blue surface diminish to
a sabre blade between the mountains, and finally disappear in the east,
while we rode westwards over a wide plain, which was formerly under
water. Kutus, Lobsang, and Panchor accompanied me. We must hasten to
descend on the monastery before the monks got wind of us, and the
caravan and escort could come after and encamp near Mendong-gompa.
Panchor disappeared at the first tent we passed, and was not seen again
all day. He was a coward, and did not wish to be suspected of showing us
the way to the sanctuary. We had therefore to shift for ourselves and
find our way thither.
Two men and a woman came out of a nomad encampment to the track we
followed, and asked if we had seen the European who was said to be
travelling about Bongba. In order to preserve my incognito till I came
to Mendong, I answered that he was coming behind with his caravan, and
if they kept on the look-out they would see an amusing figure. Probably
they had long given up all hope of seeing the stranger. My involuntary
disguise therefore did me good service, for the nomads took me to be,
like the other two men, servants of the expected European.
Hour after hour we rode on westwards and looked in vain for a monastery.
But at last it cropped up all of a sudden. We were on the top of a bank
terrace 30 feet high, skirting on the east the channel of the
Soma-tsangpo, and saw at the foot of the opposite terrace the
quadrangular stone house of the monastery with its white walls and red
frieze, _chhortens_, _mani_ heaps, and streamers, and on the east and
west of it two tent villages, the upper inhabited by sixty monks, the
lower by forty nuns (Illust. 360). The Soma-tsangpo, also called Nyagga,
or Soma-Nyagga-tsangpo, now carried down 350 to 420 cubic feet of water,
which, divided into four channels, glided over a treacherously deepening
bottom. We managed, however, to ford it, and rode up to the gate of the
monastery, where ten monks, good-natured but reserved, met us. I have no
space to describe the religious organization of Mendong-gompa. It is
enough to say that hitherto it was quite unknown even by name, like so
many of the convents we visited the year before. The peculiarity of this
monastery is that the brothers and sisters live in black tents, and
every tent is a cell. The tents had a very comfortable and attractive
appearance, but the sisters, of whom I took some portraits, were hideous
to behold--old unwashed harpies, barbarous and demoralized. That there
is anything idyllic and fascinating in life in a nunnery in the wilds is
a pure illusion, which vanishes at once at the sight of these old apes.
They have also a puzzling resemblance to their male colleagues, and it
is often difficult to decide whether one of them is a man or a woman
(Illust. 354).
When we left the solitary monastery on May 28 we decided to make for the
rendezvous on the Buptsang-tsangpo, where Abdul Kerim would no doubt be
uneasy at our prolonged absence. It had been arranged that we should be
separated only two weeks, but before we reached the river a whole month
would have passed away.
[Illustration: 368. LUNKAR-GOMPA.]
[Illustration: 369. SELIPUK-GOMPA.]
So we set out early, followed the right bank of the Soma-tsangpo
southwards, and crossed the range, from the top of which, at the
Teta-la, we had first seen the Teri-nam-tso. The valley is quite 2½
miles broad, the strand terraces are well developed, the fall is slight,
and the rush of water is seldom heard; here and there stands a tent with
grazing flocks. One more sunrise and we ride through the river (Illust.
358), which, with the Sachu-tsangpo, Buptsang-tsangpo, and
Bogtsang-tsangpo, shares the honour of being one of the largest in
the interior of Tibet. Through the valley Goa-lung we rode up on May 30
to the pass Goa-la (17,382 feet), flat and easy, lying amidst pink and
grey granite, and affording an instructive view over the Trans-Himalaya
to the south. To the south-west we see, close below the pass, the small
lake Karong-tso--a new discovery, like everything else in this country.
Our route ran to the west, when we, on June 1, rode, with the Karong-tso
on our left hand, and a crest of medium height on our right, through the
district Bongba-kemar, following the great route of the salt caravans
between Raga-tasam and Tabie-tsaka, which crosses the already mentioned
pass Tsalam-nakta-la. A high-road from Naktsang joins this. At camp 417
we had the Chunit-tso near us on the north-west.
Although we were at the beginning of June, the minimum sank below
freezing-point; in the night of the 1st the thermometer fell to 16.3°.
But the day was warm, nay hot, when the sun shone and the air was still.
The dreary barren valleys lay waiting for the rainy season. The grass
was more than scanty, for last summer the rains failed. Our direction
turned more to the south-west. From camp 418 we saw, to the south, 60°
E., the opening of a valley through which a highway runs through
Bongba-kyangrang over the Dicha-la to Lapchung.
Our Tibetans know excellently well how to look after themselves on the
journey. On the march they twist string, talk, sing and whistle, and
shout at their yaks. In pitching their camp they set up their black tent
in a moment, first stretching out the ropes and fastening them into the
ground with wooden pegs, and then throwing the cloth over the poles. The
animals are unloaded and sent off to feed, and the men gather fuel and
make a fire in the tent, where all assemble to drink tea and sleep.
After a couple of hours they come out again, wrestle, play and laugh. In
the dusk one may be heard singing a monotonous ballad, which must,
however, be amusing, for the others laugh heartily at every verse.
Morning and evening they gabble their prayers, all together, murmuring
like bees in a hive. An old man, whom I knew the year before, has a
riding yak of his own, and brandishes the escort's prayer-mill. He is
never seen without this ingenious instrument. The men are always
good-natured and polite, help us to collect fuel, set up the tents and
load the animals, and frequently pay us a visit. We know them all by
name and are the best of friends.
The temperature sank in the night only a few degrees below
freezing-point, and yet a snowstorm raged almost all day long on June 3.
We rode past a large marsh in the valley and up to the flat saddle
Merke-sang, with a view over the plain we crossed exactly two months
before on the way to the Buptsang-tsangpo. Camp 419 lay therefore in the
Bongba-kebyang district again. To the south-east is the pass Chiptu-la,
with the pilgrim route from Nakchu to Kang-rinpoche. To the south, 27°
W., rises a snowy summit, at the foot of which a road leads over the
Dsalung-la to Tradum. As a watershed this pass is of the first rank, and
it sends off a voluminous tributary to the Buptsang-tsangpo. The escort
sent off a messenger in advance to this river to look out for Abdul
Kerim's party.
June 4. It had snowed all night long, and we set out in the wildest
snowstorm. It was half dark, with heavy leaden clouds; not a glimpse
could be seen of the surrounding mountains; all was wet, muddy, and
evil-smelling; pools of melting snow lay on the ground, and seven
pilgrims from Kang-rinpoche were close upon us before they emerged from
the mist. We splashed through the soaked soil, but when we encamped on
the shore of the Buptsang-tsangpo the weather was much clearer.
Before I proceed further I will mention that the great province of
Bongba is divided into twelve _tso_ or districts, namely: Parryang,
Laktsang, Buptö, Tsaruk, Yeke, Tarok, Kebyang, Kemar, Parma, Changma,
Kyangrang, and Chushar. To each of these district names is usually
prefixed the name of the province, as, for instance, Bongba-parryang,
Bongba-laktsang, etc. We were now in Bongba-kebyang.
[Illustration: 370. THE TRANS-HIMALAYA FROM ABUK-LA. (The three parts in
the illustration form a continuous panorama from East to S.S.W.)]
[Illustration: 371. STORM OVER THE TRANS-HIMALAYA. (To the left the way
up to Samye-la; valley of Buptsang-tsangpo.)
Sketches by the Author.]
Some tents stood on the river bank. The nomads reported that Abdul Kerim
had gone a week before by a cross-cut over the mountain on the right,
down towards the Tarok-tso. There was no Gova here, but two natives
were ready to let us on hire the five yaks we required. They were shy
and timorous, but Panchor, the rogue, spoke well of us, and it was
agreed that they should accompany us to the boundary of Tarok-tso. On
the morning of June 5 we took farewell of Nima Tashi and his soldiers
and of Panchor, and rode between the hills on the left side of the
valley down the course of the Buptsang-tsangpo. Soon the valley
contracted to a ditch, but before long expanded again. On our left hand
we had the main range of the Trans-Himalaya, which, however, did not
present an imposing appearance, for we were always close to its foot. At
times we were enveloped in a snowstorm, and at Mabie-tangsam-angmo,
where we camped, we made haste to get a cover over our heads. When
Little Puppy heard the thunder rumble for the first time in his life, he
was very disturbed and barked with all his might, but he could not make
out whence the noise came, and he found it safest to fly into the tent
and hide himself behind my bed-head.
June 6. Hail and snow! The whole country is hidden under newly-fallen
snow, as far as we can see. Is June to be reckoned among the winter
months? We have already had nine of them. It seems as though summer were
missed out this year and we were approaching another winter. But the
precipitation is welcome to the nomads, for it promotes the growth of
fresh grass. We march sometimes on the top, sometimes at the foot of a
lofty erosion terrace 80 to 100 feet high, which is a characteristic
feature in this large valley. Geese, wild asses, Goa antelopes, and
foxes are everywhere. A sharp bend in the river forces us to the
north-north-east for a time, and the valley is again narrow and
picturesque. At Tuta, which belongs to Bongba-tsaruk, we encamp close by
the Buptsang-tsangpo, where the wild-geese swim with their yellow chicks
in the clear water.
Eighteen degrees of frost on the night of June 7. Yet the day was fine,
and flies, gnats, and other insects were more numerous than before. As
on the two preceding days we crossed several small affluents from the
Trans-Himalaya. The Buptsang valley expanded more and more, and at
length became 13 miles broad. We encamped in sight of the Tarok-tso, on
a level plain about 16 feet above the surface of the lake, and with two
nomad tents as our nearest neighbours. The height here was 15,197 feet.
Our guides were the pleasantest and most complacent we had ever had, our
movements were not controlled by chiefs and soldiers, and Karma Puntso's
camp was far away--we might have travelled wherever we liked. But the
Buptsang-tsangpo and the Tarok-tso were the most interesting
geographical features in Bongba, and now we saw the lake close in front
of us.
Our plan was to make on June 8 for Lunkar-gompa, which was seen perched
on its hill with a view over the lake. But it was not to be, for at six
o'clock Gova Pensa arrived on horseback accompanied by two servants. He
was dressed in a handsome blue cloak, looked about fifty-five years old,
and greeted us in a kind and friendly manner. After a while came half a
dozen more horsemen--evidently we were held up again. Gova Pensa asked
us to remain where we were for the day, for Gova Parvang, the district
chief of Tarok-shung, would come in the afternoon. He said it was
impossible to see Lunkar-gompa, for both the head lamas, with most of
the other twenty monks, were gone two days before to Kang-rinpoche, and
had left the temple gates locked. Only four nuns and two monks had been
left behind. Of Abdul Kerim's party he only knew that they had met Gova
Parvang, but did not know where they were now.
Gova Parvang did not put in an appearance, but sent instead his
lieutenant, old Yamba, and seventeen other unarmed men to my tent. Yamba
had orders not to let us go to Tabie-tsaka if he valued his head. But he
added that if we went there of our own accord and with our own horses he
could not stop us, but yaks and provisions would not be supplied, and
the nomads had orders to avoid us like the plague. Would we, on the
other hand, go up a valley which opened out to the south-south-west by
which we could reach Tuksum in seven days over the Lungnak-la, he would
let us hire yaks, would sell us provisions, and provide us with guides.
Or if we would go over the Lunkar-la north-westwards to Selipuk, he
would also do his best to serve us. He advised us to take the latter
route, for he had been present when Gova Parvang forced Abdul Kerim to
take the direct road to Selipuk between the Tarok-tso and Tabie-tsaka.
We had, then, three different routes to choose from, which led over the
blank space on the map of Tibet, where there are no other black lines
but the meridians and parallels and the word "Unexplored." I did not
take a minute to choose; the middle road over the Lunkar-la was
naturally the most desirable, for I knew that it would yield me most
details to complete my knowledge of the intricate orography of the
Trans-Himalaya. On the morning of June 9 we hastily concluded our
business, obtained yaks and guides, bought barley, rice, and _tsamba_,
took farewell of the chiefs of Bongba-tarok, and steered our course
direct to the temple. We passed several tent villages, for the country
is densely peopled. At the foot of the mountain, on the left, a warm
spring rises out of the ground. Below the monastery hill stand twenty
small white stone cabins, each with a red frieze under the eaves and a
small quadrangular yard. In front of the village are two _chhortens_
(Illusts. 359, 366). behind which two women with their children were
hiding. While the caravan continued up the Lunkar valley, I, with
Lobsang and Kutus, ascended the porphyry hill to the temple, which is
surrounded by a quadrangular wall. Some savage dogs rushed upon us and
snapped at Little Puppy, but there was no other sign of life. We went
into the court and found the temple door closed, and fastened with a
great iron lock. As I was sketching a panorama of the great beautiful
lake and its wreath of mountains, six men came up and told us in an
angry voice to go away. I rose up, went straight to the nearest of them,
and, pointing to the path down to the village, told them that if they
did not immediately make off they must put up with the consequences.
They turned round meekly without saying a word.
The lake stretches from north, 26° W., to north, 57° E., but extends
further eastwards hidden behind a mountain. To the north-north-east two
rocky islets are seen near the northern shore. To the north-east the
Buptsang-tsangpo enters a bay, and in the far distance in the same
direction our old Sha-kangsham appears. The water of the Tarok-tso is
said to be sweet, but I had no opportunity of confirming this statement.
If it is correct, the lake must have a subterranean outlet to the
Tabie-tsaka lying to the north, though a small mountain offshoot lies
between the two lakes.
We left the small inhospitable monastery and a couple of small white and
red houses, where the nuns have their cells, and soon rejoined our men
in the Lunkar valley.
[Illustration: 372. SONAM NGURBU AND HIS FOLLOWERS ON HORSEBACK.]
[Illustration: 373. SOME OF OUR HORSES ON THE WAY TO KAMBA TSENAM'S
TENT.]
In the night the temperature was above freezing-point for the first
time. Our path ascended steeply to the south-west and south, and in
three hours we were at the streamer-decked cairn on the Lunkar-la, where
the height was 18,274 feet. From a height to the north-east of the pass
the Tarok-tso lies below the spectator as on a map, and in the north
from 20° to 26° E. is seen the white and yellow saline depression of
Tabie-tsaka, renowned throughout Tibet. At Goang-shung we got three new
guides with four yaks, who took us to the bank of the Gyenor- or
Goang-tsangpo--a small river which, coming from the mountain Kapta in
the south-east, falls into the Poru-tso. To the west rises a chain of
mighty snowy peaks. On the morning of June 12, after 8.8 degrees of
frost, the stream was covered with a third of an inch of ice, and I
missed the pleasant rippling sound of the evening. But the ice broke up
in the sunshine and rattled down in large flakes. We were conducted
still to the south-west; on the next day when we encamped on the lake
shore the direction was nearer west. From camp 428 (17,067 feet) we had
a fine view over the small lake Poru-tso, also called Yeke-tso because
it is situated in the district Bongba-yeke, the westernmost in the large
province of Bongba, which is under the control of Karma Puntso. To the
west of it follows Rigi-hloma or Rigi-changmo, which is subject to
Ngari-karpun, as the Garpun of Gartok is called here. Puru-tso is drying
up; the highest shore-line lies 354 feet above the present level of the
lake. The water is not fit for drinking, but, curiously enough, it still
contains fish. An extremely disagreeable odour rises from the beach.
The lake stretches from north-east to south-west.
On June 14 we rode westwards and crossed the broad valley watered by the
Nyapchu-tsangpo, which, descending from the Men-la due south, falls into
the Poru-tso. The Men-la, a day's journey off, is a pass in a
longitudinal valley between two of the ranges of the Trans-Himalaya.
Over its threshold a road runs to Shamsang on the upper Tsangpo. A day
was spent on the bank of the Surle-tsangpo, which also flows to the
Poru-tso, and in the evening carried quite 210 cubic feet of water per
second.
Here I was waited on by Gova Pundar of Rigi-hloma, an elderly man, who
gave me a _kadakh_, butter, meal, and milk, and sold us all the
provisions we required for several days, and his goodwill knew no
bounds. The people in this part of Tibet were always very friendly
disposed. In the Lob country the natives called me Padishahim or "Your
Majesty," a title that more than satisfied my ambition; but in Bongba
and Rigi I was often called Rinpoche or "Your Holiness," which I thought
a little too strong. But they meant well, and I accepted their
civilities as the most natural thing in the world. Gova Pundar knew
every inch of his country, and I pumped him thoroughly. Among other
interesting details, he informed me that thirteen days' journey to the
north, near the Lakkor-tso, was a monastery Marmik-gompa, a dependency
of Sera, with twenty-five monks and four nuns. In the year 1901 I had
been at the Lakkor-tso, and had heard the blast of the shell-horn at the
other side of a ridge, but I did not enjoy the same freedom as now, and
could not visit the monastery.
We rode on the 16th in a snowstorm, with fresh men and yaks, through the
picturesque Surle valley, and on the 17th over stony moss-grown slopes
to the pass Sur-la or Sur-la-Kemi-la, 19,134 feet high, which, like the
Lunkar-la, is of the second order, for it is a divide between the
Poru-tso and the Shovo-tso. Before reaching the actual pass we had a
striking view west-south-west over a world of firn-fields, peaks clothed
with eternal snow, and glaciers, one of which, of large dimensions and
bluish green in front, with numerous moraines and rivulets, descends to
the Surle river. Here grey granite predominates; wild yaks are
everywhere; the country is barren and of a high alpine character. On the
other side of the Sur-la the ground descends rapidly among quantities of
medium-sized granite boulders.
At camp 431 we were, then, in the district Rigi-changma. When we went on
farther down the valley from the pass on June 18, we suddenly heard wild
yells from a whole choir of four large and six small wolves, which were
strolling along a slope immediately to the left of the path. They were
greyish yellow, and seemed hungry and in a very vicious humour. Takkar
rushed heedlessly at them, but they faced him, and he thought it better
to turn back. They showed no signs of fear, but held their ground even
when we threw stones at them. At that moment two horsemen with weapons
and red hats came down from the Sur-la. They were pursuivants sent out
in advance to Selipuk to make preparations for the arrival of the
_serpuns_, or gold commissioners. These gentlemen are sent annually from
Lhasa to Tok-jalung, and their journey is burdensome to the nomads, for
they exact pack animals and food without payment. They take the road
north of the Teri-nam-tso and Tabie-tsaka, which is one of Tibet's great
arteries. It is called the Ser-lam, or the "gold road."
Over a small saddle we came to the Pedang-tsangpo's valley, 6½ miles
broad, which starts from the Trans-Himalayan pass Pedang-la, and runs
almost due north. Camp 432 was pitched on the river bank in a place
quite devoid of life. Our guides wished to turn back with their yaks,
but were persuaded to accompany us to the nearest tent village. What
could the Tibetans be thinking of? They left us without the slightest
supervision, and we enjoyed more freedom than ever before. We could now
have travelled anywhere we liked, eastwards to Tabie-tsaka or southwards
over the Trans-Himalaya; but the lakes in the north had most attraction
for me, and we should have to cross the lofty mountains in the south at
some time.
CHAPTER LXXII
THE LAST DAYS IN UNKNOWN COUNTRY
On June 19 we proceeded north-north-east down the Pedang-tsangpo's
gently declining valley, sometimes near, sometimes at a distance from,
the fairly large river. On the right was the ridge of the Sur-la with
its snowy summits and small glacier tongues, and far in the north was
seen a huge crest called Ganglung-gangri, a prolongation of the Sur-la.
We found that this colossal range, like its eastern and western
neighbours, runs from north-north-west to south-south-east, and that the
orographical configuration is totally unlike the scheme set forth by
Hodgson, Atkinson, Saunders, and Burrard, for these gentlemen, quite
hypothetically, inserted a single chain parallel to the upper
Brahmaputra. In reality one wanders here in a labyrinth of mountain
ranges, one and all only parts of the gigantic system of the
Trans-Himalaya.
The road was excellent, and after a long ride we set up our two tents on
the bank of a glacier stream while snow squalls and showers of pelting
rain came down alternately. Here we had to stay a day, that the genial
nomads of the neighbourhood might send for the district chief; for we
had nothing to eat, but had to buy whatever we could get. He came, and
we bought provisions for 50 rupees, and gave him 20 for his kindness.
Our treasury was almost empty, and I looked forward with trembling to
the time when we should be obliged, like wandering Jews, to sell
watches, revolvers, and horses to gain a livelihood. For here, in
Rigi-changma, no one had heard of Abdul Kerim and his men. We could not
tell what had happened. Had he gone quite off his head? He had 2500
rupees with him; had he decamped, or had he been robbed? A letter was
despatched to Gova Parvang saying that if he did not get news of them in
a week he would have all the Devashung and the Mandarins about his ears.
At any rate we had made a splendid journey through unknown country, and
now we must make our way to the Shovo-tso we had long heard spoken of.
Properly we ought to have gone over the Pedang range on the west direct
to Selipuk, but it was not difficult to talk over the Gova, and on June
21 he had fresh yaks and guides ready. The latter were a young man and a
boy ten years old in a blue sheepskin. With these we could have gone off
anywhere, but I was tired and longed to get home. The valley of the
Pedang-tsangpo took us further to the north. It is unusual to find in
Tibet such a great longitudinal valley running north and south, for they
lie almost always east and west, and produce the peculiar parallelism so
characteristic of the country. We passed sixteen tents, and near the
last we crossed the Pedang-tsangpo, which runs to the Shovo-tso by a
more easterly course. Lobsang caused great amusement when he was
attacked by a furious dog, and, having no stones, threw his bright
sheath-knife at him; he missed, but the dog took the knife in his teeth
and ran off to his master's tent.
Then we rode up to the Abuk-la pass, with a view both magnificent and
instructive. The bluish-green Shovo-tso is, like Poru-tso, longest from
north-east to south-west, and is surrounded by huge mountains, some of
them with eternal snow. To the north, 30° E., we see the pass Ka-la,
over which the "gold road" runs. The name Ka-la occurs on a map of one
of Montgomerie's pundits by a single isolated mountain summit. In
reality the Ka-la is the very opposite of a mountain summit, namely, a
depression or saddle in a mountain range. We encamped on the southern
shore of the Shovo-tso, which lies at an absolute height of 15,696 feet.
The water is salt, and round the shore are seen old shore-lines of about
the same height as at Poru-tso.
[Illustration: 374. LAMA OF CHOKCHU TAKING LEAVE OF THE PRIOR OF
SELIPUK.]
[Illustration: 375. LAMA OF CHOKCHU ON HORSEBACK.]
June 22. When we left the western extremity of the Shovo-tso we saw a
large caravan of yaks and sheep which seemed to have the same
destination as ourselves. Lobsang found out that the people were
_nekoras_ or pilgrims on the way to Kang-rinpoche, and that the owner of
the caravan was the Governor of Chokchu, Sonam Ngurbu (Illust. 372). We
left them behind and rode up to the pass Tela-mata-la. A horseman
approached us at a gallop, and made signs to us to halt. We waited for
him, all on the tiptoe of expectation, for we made sure that he brought
us a message from Abdul Kerim. Bah! it was only one of Sonam Ngurbu's
soldiers who wanted to ask our guides if a spring on the way to Selipuk
had any water in it this year. Sonam Ngurbu's caravan had come from
Tabie-tsaka and had not heard a word of our men. It seemed as though the
earth had swallowed them up. My orders had been that, whatever else they
did, they should wait for us on the Buptsang-tsangpo. Doubtless they had
been plundered by robbers; and we had only 80 rupees left. I blessed the
hour when I decided to keep myself all the maps, notes, sketches, and
rock specimens when we parted at Kamba Tsenam's tent. We could obtain
money by selling some valuables, and from Selipuk I could send a courier
to Thakur Jai Chand in Gartok.
From Tela-mata-la we have again a striking view over almost all the
Sur-la range and over the mountainous region of Lavar-gangri to the
south of Selipuk. With every day's march the orographical configuration
becomes clearer, and soon the leading features of the blank space will
be nearly all ascertained.
The temperature again sank at the midsummer season below freezing-point,
the reading on June 23 being 25.9°. We rode through a small steep valley
up to the Tayep-parva-la (17,887 feet). The ground was so honeycombed
with mouse-holes that the horses trod on two or three at once. Little
Puppy caught a couple of field-mice by the neck, and we did not pity
them. A marmot which had ventured too far from its hole almost fell into
Takkar's clutches, but just saved himself in time. At the pass we made
the usual halt for observations, and I drew a panorama of the
surroundings. Between north and north-west the horizon is far distant
and the country level; only to the north, 5° W., appears a small
snow-capped dome, but not another _gangri_. The view over
Nganglaring-tso, just below, is grand, all the mountains in shades of
pink, and the water of a deep ultramarine. A large part of its eastern
half is occupied by a large island, a mountain mass rising out of the
water with a contour as irregular as that of the lake itself, all
promontories, bays, and capes. To the north-west lie three small
islands. No European had ever seen Nganglaring-tso before, nor any
pundit. But the pundit sent by Montgomerie in 1867 to Tok-jalung
obtained some hazy information about the district "Shellifuk" and the
great lake "Ghalaring-tso," which was afterwards inserted in maps of
Tibet. The form given by the pundit to the lake, namely, an egg-shape
with the longer axis from north to south, does not at all correspond to
the reality; for the lake stretches east and west, and its contour could
not be more irregular than it is. The pundit places a small island in
the northern half, and adds the legend "Monastery on Island." In reality
Nganglaring-tso has at least four islands, but not a single monastery.
On Midsummer Day we encamped by the roaring surf (15,577 feet), and on
the 25th we crossed the last hilly mountain spur which still separated
us from the extensive plain of Selipuk. From its height we again saw the
great chain of Sur-la, and to the south the Trans-Himalaya with
sixty-three snowy peaks, regular as the teeth of a saw. On the 26th we
rode over level country to the west-north-west. On the plain two mounted
Tibetans were pursuing a wild ass, which was wounded in the near foreleg
and had four dogs at his heels. The dogs did not bite him, but tried to
chase the animal in a certain direction. Time after time the men were
close on the game and dismounted; they did not shoot, but threw up dust
with their hands to frighten the wild ass and drive him as near as
possible to their tent, that they might not have to carry the meat far
(Illust. 356).
[Illustration: 376, 377. BOYS SITTING.]
[Illustration: 378. YOUNG LAMA.]
[Illustration: 379. OLD WOMAN.
Sketches by the Author.]
Camp 439 was pitched on the bank of the river Sumdang-tsangpo, which
flows into the Nganglaring-tso without joining the rivers
Lavar-tsangpo and Aong-tsangpo, farther west, which unite and enter the
lake's most western bounds. Here Lobsang caught a wolf cub, a small wild
rogue, which much interested Takkar. But Takkar had a great respect for
his hereditary enemy and ventured to bite only his tail. Afterwards he
became bolder, and when the little creature found himself in a desperate
situation, he threw himself into the river to swim over to the other
side. Then Takkar gave a yell, jumped in and caught the cub, thrust him
down with his paws, seized him with his teeth and brought him to land,
where he ate every bit of him.
We followed the river upwards on June 27 and encamped again on its bank
opposite the monastery Selipuk-gompa (15,696 feet), the abbot of which,
a Kanpo-lama, Jamtse Singe, was also chief of the district in secular
affairs (Illusts. 356, 374, 369, 341). Neither he nor any one else had
heard anything of Abdul Kerim, but he was so good as to search in his
holy books to find out where our men were, and he came to the conclusion
that they were somewhere to the south, and that in twenty days we should
either meet them or hear some reliable news of them.
On June 28, at half-past nine in the evening, the country was shaken by
an earthquake--the only one I ever experienced in Tibet. However, it had
no effect on the good relations between me and the monks and Sonam
Ngurbu, the Governor (Illusts. 326, 375), who was also a guest in the
monastery, and had a high lama from Chokchu (Illust. 355) in his party.
The Governor gave us as much _tsamba_, rice, and sugar as would at a
pinch last us till we came to Tokchen, and he received a watch in
exchange. Of money we had only a few rupees left. I had never been in
such straits before. If I ever meet Abdul Kerim again, I thought, he
shall get what he deserves and a little more.
When we set up our tents on the last day of June on the Rartse plain,
south of Selipuk, Lobsang announced at dusk that four men and four mules
were coming to the camp. They were Abdul Kerim, Sedik, Gaffar, and a
Tibetan. Our caravan bashi came frightened and confused to my tent, and
I thought it better that he should give an account of his stewardship
before I passed sentence on him. He reported that they had come to the
appointed rendezvous at the proper time, but there he had been hard
pressed by six Govas--Gova Parvang among them, who took the lead, and
ordered them to leave the place at once and go on to the Tarok-tso. As
they had no passport from Lhasa, they could expect no mercy, he said. So
they betook themselves to the northern shore of the Tarok-tso, where
they waited fourteen days, as the grazing was good and no one interfered
with them. They heard contradictory reports about us. At length a nomad
died on the lake shore, and a monk from Lunkar-gompa was summoned to his
tent to read the prayers for the dead. They met this man, and he said
that we had passed the monastery nine days previously. Then they packed
up all their belongings, intending to hurry after us next morning. But
horse-stealers had come in the night and stolen my grey Tikze horse and
a mule from Saka-dzong. This event cost them three days, but they never
recovered the stolen animals. While Suen, Abdullah, Abdul Rasak, and
Sonam Kunchuk followed slowly, the three others made forced marches
westwards, and now at last they were here and had all our cash with
them. Abdul Kerim escaped with a slight reprimand, but I afterwards
heard the other men badgering him. We found the others in Kyangrang, and
so the whole strength of the company, thirteen men, was complete when,
on July 8, we crossed the pass Ding-la (Illust. 213), 19,308 feet high,
the loftiest pass we had crossed in all this journey in Tibet, and on
past the small lake Argok-tso, which lies in the basin of the
Aong-tsangpo; and on July 12 we crossed the Surnge-la (17,310 feet). Two
days later we came to Tokchen, where another political entanglement
detained us nine days. But I cannot stay to give an account of it, for I
reached the limit of the space allowed me at Chapter LXIV., and my
publisher is impatient.
CHAPTER LXXIII
THE TRANS-HIMALAYA
On the map of the Jesuits, now two hundred years old (D'Anville, 1733)
(Map 2), a series of mountains runs on the north side of the upper
Brahmaputra, bearing from east to west the following names: Youc,
Larkin, Tchimouran Coïran, Tchompa, Lop, Tchour, Takra concla, Kentaisse
(Kailas) Latatsi, etc. These mountains and ranges have never been
transferred to modern maps of Tibet, probably because geographers
regarded the material collected by trained Tibetans as too unreliable
and indefinite. Yet these chains of mountains are nothing else but the
Trans-Himalaya, though the representation is confused and inexact.
When Brian Hodgson in his map of southern Tibet (_Selections from the
Records of the Government of Bengal_, No. xxvii.), here reproduced in
facsimile (Map 3), drew a huge unbroken chain north of, and parallel to,
the Tsangpo, he took a step which could only be based on the Jesuits'
map and the data he received in the year 1843 from the Maharaja of
Nepal. No doubt lofty mountains existed to the north of the
Tsangpo--that was known to the Jesuits even in the time of Kang Hi. But
Hodgson's hypothetical Nyenchhen-thangla (Trans-Himalaya), which he
looks upon as a prolongation of the Karakorum, and the natural boundary
between northern and southern Tibet, is by no means an original
conception, and is no advance on previous knowledge, or, more correctly,
theory. For already, in the year 1840, Dufour had inserted a similar
huge uninterrupted chain north of, and parallel to, the Tsangpo, on the
map which illustrates the famous description of the travels of the
Lazarist missionary, Father Huc (Illust. 381)--_Souvenirs d'un Voyage
dans la Tartarie, le Thibet et la Chine, 1844-46_. Dufour's map is even
better than Hodgson's, for he has adopted from the Jesuits' map a
northern affluent to the Tsangpo, passing through the great range,
which, like the Jesuits, he calls Mts. Koïran.
Huc and Gabet were probably the first Europeans to cross the
Trans-Himalaya, and one wonders where they made the passage. Probably by
the Shang-shung-la along the Mongolian pilgrim road from Kuku-nor and
Tsaidam to Lhasa. It is vain to seek any information on the subject in
Huc's famous book. During the two years Huc stayed in Macao he worked up
the scanty notes he had made on his journey. He mentions Burkhan Bota,
Shuga, and Tang-la, and also the large village Nakchu, where the
caravans exchange their camels for yaks, but he says not a word about
the pass by which he crossed one of the mightiest mountain systems of
the world. He says, indeed, that he went over a colossal mountain range,
and as its position agreed with that of the Mts. Koïran of Dufour and
the Jesuits, he adopts this name, which he certainly had never heard on
his journey, and which probably was changed on its way from Tibet to the
Jesuits' note-books in Pekin. All he has to say of his journey over the
Trans-Himalaya is contained in the following sentences: "La route qui
conduit de Na-Ptchu à Lha-Ssa est, en général, rocailleuse et
très-fatigante. Quand on arrive à la chaîne des monts Koïran, elle est
d'une difficulté extrême" (ii. p. 241).
Another attempt to represent the course of the Trans-Himalaya was made
by Trelawney Saunders in his map of Tibet (Map 6), which is found in
Markham's _Narratives of the Mission of George Bogle to Tibet, and of
the Journey of Thomas Manning to Lhasa_ (London, 1879), and in Edwin T.
Atkinson's _The Himalayan Districts of the North-Western Provinces of
India_ (Allahabad, 1882). Like Dufour and Hodgson, Saunders draws a huge
continuous chain all through Tibet. For the western parts, north of
Manasarowar, and for the eastern, south of Tengri-nor, he has relied on
the cartography of the pundits; the rest, between 82° and 89½° E. long.,
is partly a reproduction of the Jesuits' map, partly pure fancy, and has
not the remotest resemblance to the reality, as will be apparent from a
comparison of Saunders' map with mine. I will only point out that the
Trans-Himalaya consists not of one chain but of many, and that the
source of the Chaktak-tsangpo lies to the south, not to the north of the
principal one. All the central and largest part of the system, which I
explored, is therefore quite incorrect on Saunders' map.
In the year 1867 Colonel Montgomerie (Illust. 380) sent out three
pundits for the purpose of compiling a map of the country north of
Manasarowar. One of them was the incomparable and wonderful Nain Sing,
another was the man who was at Yiachan prevented from discovering the
source of the Indus. On their way to Tok-jalung they crossed the
Trans-Himalaya at the Jukti-la, which they called Gugti-la, assigning to
it a height of 19,500 feet: I found its height was 19,070 feet. Mr.
Calvert crossed the same pass a year before me. On their return they
crossed the Trans-Himalaya by following the eastern branch of the Indus
down to where it breaks through the range and unites with the Gartok
branch.
A pundit also went between Manasarowar and Tok-jalung, past the
Ruldap-tso--a name and lake I sought for east and west in vain, but I
will not therefore deny its existence. Moreover, of this pundit's route
I have no precise details. It seems likely that he crossed the
Trans-Himalaya by a pass called Sar-lung.
On January 8, 1872, one of Montgomerie's explorers, a young trained
Tibetan, travelled over the Trans-Himalaya by the Khalamba-la, 17,200
feet high. In Markham's account of this journey it is said that he
returned across the mountains by the Dhok-la, though the actual
water-parting pass he came to was much more probably the Dam-largen-la.
This pass was crossed the following year (1873) by Nain Sing on his
famous journey from Leh to Lhasa, which is described so conscientiously
by Colonel Sir Henry Trotter. Nain Sing assigns to Dam-langren-la a
height of 16,900 feet.
The great pundit A. K., or Krishna, who contends with Nain Sing for the
foremost place, crossed the most easterly parts of the Trans-Himalaya on
his journey in 1881, and more probably by the pass Shiar-gang-la than
the Nub-kong-la, as I have already suggested; but from his map it is
difficult to decide whether the Shiar-gang-la is a dividing pass of the
first rank or not. In any case, it is situated on the chain which forms
the watershed between the Salwin and the Brahmaputra, and is undoubtedly
an immediate continuation of the Nien-chen-tang-la, or Trans-Himalaya. A
similar assumption is also made by Colonel S. G. Burrard in his and
Hayden's admirable work, _A Sketch of the Geography and Geology of the
Himalaya Mountains and Tibet_ (Calcutta, 1907). On map xvii. in this
work Burrard has, quite rightly in my opinion, inserted the prolongation
of the range, though we have no sure data about its course.
[Illustration: 380. COLONEL T. G. MONTGOMERIE.]
[Illustration: 381. ABBÉ HUC.
For the portrait of T. G. Montgomerie my thanks are due to the
Colonel's widow, and for that of Père Huc, probably not published
before, to Mr. E. Schwartz, Paris.]
Thus we find that after Father Huc several of Montgomerie's and
Trotter's pundits, as well as Mr. Calvert in the year 1906, crossed the
Trans-Himalaya in Tibet. So far as I know, there are only two more names
to be added to these--namely, Littledale, who on his bold journey in
1894-95 passed over the system by the pass Guring-la (19,587 feet), and
Count de Lesdain, who crossed it by the Khalamba-la in 1905. Both
describe the magnificent spectacle Nien-chen-tang-la presents from
Tengri-nor, but the latter added nothing to our knowledge of the
Trans-Himalaya, for he made use of the same pass, the Khalamba-la, as
Montgomerie's pundit. In his narrative, _Voyage au Thibet, par la
Mongolie de Pékin aux Indes_, he mentions not a single pass, much less
its name. But he followed the western shore of Tengri-nor, and he says
(p. 340): "Des massifs de montagnes très durs et absolument enchevêtrés
formaient un obstacle insurmontable. En conséquence, je résolus de
suivre le premier cours d'eau, dont la direction ferait présumer qu'il
se dirigeait vers le Brahmapoutra. C'est ainsi que nous cheminâmes
plusieurs jours en suivant les bords d'une rivière sans cesse
grossissante, appelée Chang-chu...." This river is the Shang-chu, which
comes from the Khalamba-la.
Two Frenchmen and two Englishmen have, then, crossed the Trans-Himalaya
before me, besides half a dozen pundits. Farther west in English
territory innumerable Europeans have passed over the system, especially
by the Chang-la, where I surmounted it three times. Between the Indus
and the Panggong-tso I travelled over the system on November 22, 1907,
by the easy pass Tsake-la.
An extraordinarily valuable contribution to the knowledge of the
Trans-Himalaya was afforded us by Ryder and Wood on their remarkable
journey up the Brahmaputra in the year 1904. They had no opportunity of
crossing the system, or even of penetrating a day's journey into the
southern transverse valleys, but they took bearings of all the summits
visible from their route. And some of these, particularly Lunpo-gangri,
are among the very highest which, under a mantle of eternal snow, rise
up from the Trans-Himalaya. The absolutely highest is, according to
Ryder, 23,255 feet, and is therefore little inferior to
Nien-chen-tang-la with its 23,900 feet. Ryder and Burrard took it for
granted that these summits stood on a single continuous range, which
they represent on their map as the northern watershed of the
Brahmaputra. In his text (p. 95), however, Burrard rightly points out
that this chain, which he calls "the Kailas Range," is not the
watershed, for in some places it is broken through by affluents from the
north. Burrard commits the same mistake as Dufour, Hodgson, Saunders,
and Atkinson, in assuming the existence of a single continuous range to
the north of the Tsangpo. I pondered much myself over this problem, and
on a general map of the ranges of Tibet (1905) I inserted two ranges
north of the Tsangpo, a conception in accordance with F. Grenard's in
his _Carte de l'Asie Centrale_ of the year 1899.
A history of geographical exploration in a region so little known as the
Trans-Himalaya must naturally be exceeding short and meagre. With all my
researches I have not been able to discover any other predecessors than
those already mentioned--that is, in those parts of the system which lie
within the bounds of Tibet--and not a single one in the central regions
of the Trans-Himalaya. That such an extensive region as southern Tibet
has been quite unknown till now, though it lies close to the Indian
frontier, has given rise to much reasonable astonishment, and in many
circles arguments and proofs, based on more or less apocryphal records
and vague hypotheses, have been laboriously sought out to prove that my
discoveries have not the priority claimed for them. The maps I have
reproduced in facsimile, when carefully compared with my own maps,
render any discussion on my part quite superfluous.
[Illustration: 382. Altar Table with Images of Gods in Mangnang-gompa.
Water-colour Sketch by the Author.]
I cannot, however, pass over in silence an insinuation that the
discoveries I have made are to be found indicated on the famous
wall-maps in the Doge's Palace at Venice. The Chief Librarian of the
Royal Library in Stockholm, Dr. E. W. Dahlgren, writes in a letter to
me: "Only the grossest ignorance and silliness can find on these maps
traces of any discoveries previous to yours." Before my return home
Professor Mittag-Leffler, Director of the mathematical school in the
University of Stockholm, had sent for photographs of these maps with a
very detailed description, and he has kindly placed this material at my
disposal. This book is not the place in which to publish it, and,
besides, the following statement which Dr. Dahlgren has obligingly drawn
up at my request makes all further comment unnecessary:
The Wall-Maps in the Sala dello Scudo, in the Doge's Palace at Venice
These maps, four in number, were constructed by the noted cartographer
Giacomo Gastaldi in the middle of the sixteenth century, to take the
place of older maps which were destroyed by fire in the year 1483; at
least, it may be safely assumed that two of them, those of East Asia
and Africa, are the work of Gastaldi.
The maps represent:
1. Asia from the mouth of the Indus eastwards to China and Japan, as
well as the Pacific Ocean and part of America.
2. Asia from Asia Minor to India (Kashmir).
3. Africa.
4. Italy.
Only maps Nos. 1 and 2 have any interest for Sven Hedin. They
correspond completely with the photographs procured by Professor
Mittag-Leffler.
All the maps were restored by Francisco Grisellini about the middle of
the eighteenth century. In map No. 2 great alterations seem to have
been made in geographical details as well as in the text and in the
decoration. As the map extends no farther east than Kashmir it has, of
course, no connection with Sven Hedin's discoveries.
Map No. 1, on the other hand, has in many essential respects preserved
its original character. We can undoubtedly form a good notion of its
original appearance by comparing it with the maps in Ramusio's work
_Delle Navigazioni e Viaggi_ (2nd Edition, Venice, 1554) and with
Gastaldi's _Tercia Parte dell' Asia_ (Venice, 1561). The resemblance
to the former is very striking. In these maps, as in the wall-maps,
the south is to the top.
On all these maps there is very great confusion in the representation
of the river systems of the Ganges and the Brahmaputra. The mountains
are drawn in at random, and even the Himalayas cannot be identified
with complete certainty, much less the ranges of Central Asia. As the
map was chiefly designed to illustrate the travels of Marco Polo, it
naturally gives no information about countries he did not visit.
E. W. DAHLGREN.
Father Huc concludes the account of his journey with the following
remarkable words: "Mais il ne suffit pas toujours du zèle de l'écrivain
pour faire connaître des contrées où il n'a jamais mis le pied. Écrire
un Voyage en Chine après quelques promenades aux factories de Canton et
aux environs de Macao, c'est peut-être s'exposer beaucoup à parler de
chose qu'on ne connaît pas suffisamment ... il est en général assez
difficile de faire des découvertes dans un pays sans y avoir pénétré."
It was with such truths in my mind that I began the journey described in
this book, the object of which was that set forth by Sir Clements
Markham, when in connection with Littledale's last journey he made the
following statement (_Geographical Journal_, vol. vii. p. 482): "In the
whole length from Tengri-nor to the Mariam-la pass no one has crossed
them (the Trans-Himalaya), so far as we know ... and I believe nothing
in Asia is of greater geographical importance than the exploration of
this range of mountains."
It is not for me to decide how far I have achieved my aim, but when I
passed over the Trans-Himalaya for the eighth time at the Surnge-la, I
had at least the satisfaction of seeing all the old hypotheses fall down
like a house of cards, and a new ground-plan laid down on the map of
Asia, where before the blank patch yawned with its alluring
"Unexplored."
[Illustration: 383. THE AUTHOR IN TIBETAN COSTUME AT THE MISSION STATION
IN POO.
Photograph by the Rev. Mr. Marx.]
I have no space here for a complete monograph of the Trans-Himalaya, or,
indeed, the material for it, until the bearings and heights of the peaks
have been worked out, the rock specimens identified, and a detailed map
constructed from the sheets I drew. It will take a couple of years to
work up the material. I will here only communicate some general facts,
and will begin by citing the passes of first rank as watersheds,
appending the names of the travellers who have crossed some of them:
Shiar-gang-la Krishna, 1881
Shang-shung-la Huc, 1845
Dam-largen-la Nain Sing, 1873 16,903 feet.
Guring-la Littledale, 1895 19,587 "
Tsebo-la
Shugu-la
Khalamba-la Pundit, 1872 17,200 "
Do. de Lesdain, 1905
Sela-la Hedin, 1907 18,064 "
Chang-la-Pod-la Hedin, 1907 18,284 "
Sha-la
Angden-la Hedin, 1907 18,514 "
Tsalam-nakta-la
Dombe-la
Nakbo-kongdo-la
Sangmo-bertik-la Hedin, 1908 19,095 "
Saggo-la
Dicha-la
Samye-la Hedin, 1908 18,133 "
Dsalung-la
Lungmar-la
Pechen-la
Lungnak-la
Yor-la
Ganglung-la
Men-la
Pedang-la
Gebbyi-la
Yilung-la
Tarkyang-la
Surnge-la Pundit? Hedin, 1908 17,310 feet
Tseti-lachen-la Hedin, 1907 17,933 "
Jukti-la Nain Sing, 1867
Do. Calvert, 1906
Do. Hedin, 1907 19,070 "
It has, then, been my lot to cross eight Trans-Himalayan passes, while
seven have been crossed by other travellers. Seven of my passes were
unknown before. Of the others I have seen the Dicha-la and Men-la, while
of the remainder I have only gathered oral information. The Jukti-la is
the watershed between the two headwaters of the Indus, the
Tseti-lachen-la between the Sutlej and the Indus, the Surnge-la between
the Sutlej and the Nganglaring-tso. Shiar-gang-la and Shang-shung-la lie
on the watershed between the Salwin and the Brahmaputra. All the others
lie on the great continental watershed between the ocean and the
isolated drainage of the plateau. It appears from the list that all the
passes crossed before by Europeans and pundits belong to the eastern and
western parts of the system. Between the Khalamba-la and the Surnge-la
the Trans-Himalaya had not been crossed in a single line, and it was
exactly between these two passes that the great white space was
situated. All that was known of it was the peaks fixed by Ryder and
Wood, and some summits seen by Nain Sing from the north. If the Pundit's
journey between Manasarowar and Ruldap-tso be disregarded, of which I
have no information, the interval between the Khalamba-la and the
Jukti-la measures 590 miles, or about as far as from Linköping to
Haparanda, or from London to Dornoch Firth. And between these limits lie
all the passes by crossing which I was able to trace the course of the
Trans-Himalaya, and prove that its known eastern and western sections
are connected and belong to the same mountain system, and that this
system is one of the loftiest and mightiest in the world, only to be
compared with the Himalayas, the Karakorum, Arka-tag, and Kuen-lun.
Between the Shiar-gang-la and Yasin, not far from the sharp bend of the
Indus, its length amounts to 1400 miles, but if it can be shown that the
Trans-Himalaya merges into the Hindu-Kush and continues along the
Salwin, its length extends to 2500 miles. On the north and south its
boundaries are sharp and clearly defined; the northern is formed by the
central lakes discovered by Nain Sing and myself, and the southern by
the unheard-of Indus-tsangpo valley. In breadth it is inferior to the
Himalayas, and its peaks are lower, but the heights of the
Trans-Himalayan passes are considerably greater than those of the
Himalayas. The average height of the five following Himalayan
passes--Shar-khalep-la, Man-da-la, She-ru-la, No-la and Kore- or
Photu-la--is 16,736 feet, while the average height of my first five
Trans-Himalayan passes is 18,400 feet. It may be said generally that the
dividing passes in the Trans-Himalaya of the first rank are 1600 feet
higher than in the Himalayas. But the highest peak of the Himalayas,
Mount Everest, with its 29,000, is 5100 feet higher than the
Nien-chen-tang-la, the culminating point, as far as we know. Herewith
are connected the different forms of relief predominating in the two
systems; the crests of the Trans-Himalaya are flatter, its valleys
shallower and broader, while the crests of the Himalayas are sharp and
pointed, its valleys deep and much eroded. The former system is more
compact and massive than the latter, as we may expect if we remember
that the Himalayas are deluged by the precipitation of the south-west
monsoon, and that its waters have for untold thousands of years degraded
its valleys, while the Trans-Himalaya on the dry plateau country
receives a comparatively insignificant share of the monsoon rain. Were
it possible to compare the volumes of the two systems, we should no
doubt find that the northern is much more massive than the southern, for
such a comparison must proceed from sea-level, and though the
Trans-Himalaya is the narrower of the two, its ascent begins from
heights of 10,000 to 16,000 feet, from the Tsangpo valley, while the
Himalayas rise from sea-level or a few hundred feet above it. As a
watershed the Trans-Himalaya occupies a higher and more important place
than the Himalayas. In the west the Himalayas parts the waters between
the Indus and some of its tributaries, and in the east the system is a
divide between the Brahmaputra and the Ganges. But every drop of water
which falls on the Himalayas goes down to the Indian Ocean. On the other
hand, all the central Trans-Himalaya is a watershed between the Indian
Ocean on the south and the enclosed drainage area of the plateau
depression on the north. Only in its western section is the
Trans-Himalaya also a watershed between the Indus and some of its
right-hand tributaries, and in its eastern between the Salwin and
Brahmaputra. Within the boundaries of Tibet there is only one river
which takes its rise from the northern flank of the Trans-Himalaya and
breaks through the system by a transverse valley; but this river is a
lion, and is called by the Tibetans the Lion river, the Singi-kamba or
Indus. The Salwin also springs from the northern flank of the system,
but finds its way to the ocean without passing through the mountains.
All the other rivers rising on the northern slopes, of which the
Buptsang-tsangpo and the Soma-tsangpo are the largest, flow into the
undrained salt lakes on the north. Only in the central parts of the
Trans-Himalaya, stretching, however, over a distance of nearly 600
miles, does the continental watershed coincide with the main axis of the
system, for to the west the watershed runs northwards from the source of
the Indus, and then westwards, so as to leave the Panggong-tso within
the isolated drainage basin of Tibet, and in the east runs northwards
from the region between the source streams of the Salwin and Tengri-nor.
I have called this book Trans-Himalaya, because the incidents and
adventures described in these two volumes occurred in this huge mountain
system lying to the north of the Tsangpo and in the country to the north
and south of it. When I first crossed the dividing range at the Sela-la
I thought of retaining the name Hodgson had assigned to it, that is,
Nien-chen-tang-la, and I did not change my mind after crossing the
Chang-la-Pod-la and Angden-la, for these three passes lie on one and the
same range, which on the southern shore of Tengri-nor is called
Nien-chen-tang-la. After crossing the Tseti-lachen-la and the Jukti-la I
supposed that these passes lay on the western prolongation of the
Nien-chen-tang-la, and that the conception of Hodgson, Saunders,
Atkinson, Burrard, and Ryder was correct. But after the second journey
right through Tibet, and after I had crossed Bongba in several
directions and found that there was no question of a single continuous
range, but that a whole collection of ranges quite independent of one
another existed, I perceived that the name Nien-chen-tang-la, which only
denotes one of all these ranges, could not be given to the whole system.
Equally inappropriate would be the names Lunpo-gangri, Kamchung-gangri,
Targo-gangri, or any other local name. Saunders' "Gangri Mountains" I
consider still more unsuitable, for every mountain in Tibet clothed with
eternal snow is called a _gangri_, and the name in this connection would
have a meaningless sound. Neither could I accept Burrard's "The Kailas
Range." A name must be found suited to the whole of this intimately
connected association of mountain ranges, a geographical conception
which would leave no room for misunderstanding, and I decided to call
the whole system, the connection and continuity of which I had succeeded
in proving, the Trans-Himalaya.
Among English geographers many have approved of this name and an equal
number have disapproved. To the latter category belongs Colonel Burrard,
who points out that for some years back all the regions lying beyond the
Himalayas have been called Trans-Himalayan. And in a letter he has
lately written to me he says:
Pupils of Montgomerie naturally ask why an old word should be given a
new meaning when it is possible to invent any number of new names for
newly discovered mountains. I do not see that it is necessary to give
an important name to newly discovered mountains. A new name will
become important because of the mountains to which it is attached, and
your mountains would have rendered any new name important.
[Illustration: 384. THE LAST MEMBERS OF THE LAST EXPEDITION IN POO.]
I cannot share Colonel Burrard's view, for I answer that just because
of the circumstance that Montgomerie's pupils, officials of the Survey
of India and pundits, have for fifty years and more called the country
north of the Himalayas "The Trans-Himalayan regions," it was incumbent
on me not to reject this name for the mountain system which can be
nothing else but the Trans-Himalaya _par excellence_.
To give a quotation from the other side, I will here reproduce an
expression of opinion from Lord Curzon, formerly Viceroy of India, whose
knowledge of Asia is unsurpassed. In the _Geographical Journal_, April
1909, he says:
Alongside of this great discovery (Bongba and Chokchu) I would place
the tracing for hundreds of miles and the assurance of a definite
orographical existence to the mighty mountain palisade or series of
palisades to which he has, in my opinion very appropriately, given the
title of the Trans-Himalaya. This range has been surmised to exist in
its entire length for many years; it has been crossed at its
extremities by Littledale and by native surveyors. But it was reserved
for Dr. Hedin to trace it on the spot and to place it upon the map in
its long, unbroken, and massive significance.... It is no mean
addition to human knowledge that we should realize the assured
existence of one of the greatest mountain masses in the world. As
regards the name which Dr. Hedin has given to it, I will only say that
the desiderata for the title of a new and momentous geographical
discovery appear to be these: (1) that the name should if possible be
given by the principal discoverer; (2) that it should not be
unpronounceable, unwriteable, over-recondite, or obscure; (3) that it
should if possible possess some descriptive value; and (4) should not
violate any acknowledged canons of geographical nomenclature. The name
Trans-Himalaya combines all these advantages, and it has a direct
Central Asian analogy in the Trans-Alai, which is a range of mountains
standing in the same relation to the Alai that Trans-Himalaya will do
to Himalaya. I am not in the least impressed by the fact that the name
was once given to another range, where its unsuitability secured its
early extinction. Any attempts to substitute another title on the
present occasion will, in my opinion, be foredoomed to failure.
My long journey backwards and forwards over the Trans-Himalaya cannot be
regarded as more than a cursory and defective reconnaissance of a
country hitherto unknown. It is easier to go to Lhasa with a force armed
to the teeth, and shoot down the Tibetans like pheasants if they stand
in the way, than to cross Tibet in all directions for two long years
with four Governments and all the authorities of the land as opponents,
twelve poor Ladakis as companions, and not a single man as escort. It is
no merit of mine that I was long able to maintain a position which from
the first seemed untenable. The same lucky star looked down, as often
before, on my lonely course through vast Asia, and it is twenty-four
years since I first took up my pilgrim staff. I have been able to follow
and lay down only the chief geographical lines; between my routes many
blank spaces are still left, and there is sufficient detailed work for
generations of explorers and travellers more thoroughly prepared and
better equipped than myself.
Go, then, out into the world, thou ringing and sonorous name for one of
the world's mightiest mountain systems, and find thy way into
geographical text-books, and remind children in the schools of the
snow-crowned summits on the Roof of the World, among which the monsoon
storms have sung their deafening chorus since the beginning. As long as
I live, my proudest memories, like royal eagles, will soar round the
cold desolate crags of the Trans-Himalaya.
CHAPTER LXXIV
SIMLA
Like a troop of beggars and knights of the road my twelve servants and I
left Tokchen on July 24. We had stayed there nine days with nothing to
do but watch the monsoon rain, which I had incautiously promised the
natives, pelting down on the hills. The authorities of the place
insisted this time that, as we were not furnished with a passport from
Lhasa, we had no right to make use of the great high-road to Ladak, but
must turn back to the interior of Tibet whence we had come. If I had not
already had enough of the great blank, I would have agreed to their
demand with pleasure, but I was now weary and longed for home, and as
they refused the assistance and the transport facilities we required, we
set out on foot with the baggage on our last ten horses and mules. I had
still the white horse from Kamba Tsenam's tent at my disposal. We had no
escort, for the authorities wished to be quite clear of blame in case
they were called to account. By the holy lake, where we followed the
northern shore by known ways, we at length found a tramp who offered to
show us the way to the Totling monastery.
In Langbo-nan I visited hastily the young abbot, as sympathetic and
good-natured as the year before, and at Chiu-gompa we met our old friend
Tundup Lama, fretful, melancholy, and weary of his lonely cloister life.
Large streams now emptied their water into both lakes, and with a
feeling of regret I left again the scene of so many precious memories.
Before we came to the monastery of Tirtapuri we had to cross several of
the rivers which bring their tribute from the Trans-Himalaya to the
Sutlej. Three of them were enormously swollen after the continuous
rains, and rolled their volumes of greyish-brown foaming water over
treacherous blocks. It boiled and seethed between the cliffs, and it
carried along and overturned the slippery boulders. How I trembled in
mortal anxiety lest the harvest so laboriously gathered in the last long
winter should all be lost by a single false step.
We came to the temple of Tirtapuri in pouring rain. Lobsang, Gulam,
Kutus, Tubges, Suen, and Kunchuk were to accompany me hence to Simla,
but Abdul Kerim and the other five received their pay and gratuities,
and took their way home to Leh through Gartok. I did not know the road
to Simla, but on the map it seemed to be nearer than to Ladak, and
therefore I expected that my party would arrive first at its
destination. But this road is very wild and romantic, and the land is
deeply excavated by the affluents of the Sutlej, and one might imagine
that one had suddenly been transported to the cañons of the Colorado.
One day we marched rapidly up an ascent of 3000 feet, and the next we
went down as far, so that the distance was at least double as great as
it appeared on the map, and Abdul Kerim reached Leh long before I was
near Simla. Therefore the first news of us came from him, and not from
myself, and in some quarters the worst fears were entertained for my
safety. It seemed strange that my servants reached their home safe and
sound while I myself was still missing.
[Illustration: 385. MY PUPPY.]
[Illustration: 386. TAKKAR IN HIS NEW HOME WITH THE MISSIONARIES IN
POO.]
We parted with floods of tears on August 1, and my party travelled past
the three monasteries, Dongbo, Dava, and Mangnang (Illust. 382), and
came to Totling-gompa on the 13th, near which Father Andrade, three
hundred years ago, lodged in the now decayed town of Tsaparang. Here I
met the Hindu doctor Mohanlal, who gave me the first news of the outer
world. Through him I heard, with deep regret, of the death of King
Oscar, which had occurred more than eight months before. Mohanlal also
informed me of the growing unrest in India and of the anxiety my friends
felt on my account. Thakur Jai Chand had been instructed by the
Indian Government to spare no efforts to find out whether I was still
living or not. He had sent out some Tibetan freebooters in various
directions, and promised 50 rupees to any one who could furnish any
certain information of my fate--this is the price he valued me at. Abdul
Kerim had reached Gartok in the best of health, and was summoned to the
Garpun, who exclaimed: "Your Sahib is a dreadful man; he will not be
satisfied until I lose my head!" Old Hajji Nazer Shah, who had so
conscientiously equipped my last caravan, had died the preceding winter.
When we left Tokchen on July 24 we were delighted at the thought that we
should at every step be nearer to lower country and a denser and warmer
atmosphere. A month later we were at a greater height than at Tokchen,
and saw the country covered with snow, and heard the hail patter on our
dilapidated tents. But at Shipki we again set them up in a garden
dressed in the rich beauty of summer, and heard the wind murmur in the
spreading crowns of the apricot trees. Shipki is the last village in
Tibet. From this garden oasis begins the steep ascent to the Shipki-la,
which is reached after attaining a height of six Eiffel Towers one upon
another. Here we stood on the frontier between Tibet and India. I turned
and let my eyes roam once more over these awfully desolate and barren
mountains where my dreams had been realized, and my lucky star had shed
a clearer and more friendly light than ever before. Farewell, home of
wild asses and antelopes, holy land of the Tashi Lama, of Tso-mavang and
the Tsangpo, into whose mysterious valleys the stranger has found his
way only by enduring two Arctic winters and by driving a flock of
refractory sheep! I seemed to take farewell of the best of my youth and
the finest chapter in the story of my life.
On August 28 we encamped in the village of Poo (Illusts. 383, 384), and
I spent two memorable days in the hospitable house of the Moravian
missionaries. Messrs. Marx and Schnabel and their amiable families
overwhelmed me with kindness, and now I was deluged with news from the
outer world--it was like listening to the breakers on the coast of the
ocean. I had not seen a European for more than two years, and I looked
myself like a Tibetan footpad. But the missionaries rigged me out at
once in European summer clothes and set an Indian helmet on my head.
A few days later we came to Kanam-gompa, where Alexander Csoma Körösi
eighty years ago studied Lamaist learning as a monk, and more than any
one else communicated to the scholars of the West the occult mysteries
of this religion. How silent and quiet our life had been up on the
expanse of Chang-tang! Now the dizzy depths of the valley are filled
with the roar of the falling stream, and the thunder of the water is
re-echoed from the precipitous cliffs. How bare and scanty was the soil
of Tibet, and now we listen daily to the whisper of mild breezes in the
deep dark coniferous forests that clothe the slopes of the Himalayas.
Still lower runs the road, still warmer is the air. My trusty friend,
big shaggy Takkar, looks at me with questioning eyes. He loves not the
summer's perfumed garlands nor the variegated zone of meadows. He
remembers the free life on the open plains, he misses the fights with
the wolves of the wilderness, and he dreams of the land of everlasting
snowstorms. One day we saw him drink of a spring which poured its water
across the path, and then lie down in the cool shade of the forest. He
had done so many times before, but we should never see him repeat it. He
turned and galloped up towards lonely Tibet. He parted with sorrow in
his heart from his old master, I knew; but he thought he would ask the
missionaries in Poo to send me a greeting. One morning he was found
lying outside the gate to the court of the Mission-house, and, true to
his old habit, he would let no one go in or out. He was hospitably
received, and started a new life with a chain round his neck. I still
receive from time to time, through Mr. Marx, greetings from old Takkar,
who so faithfully defended my tent when I travelled in disguise through
his own country (Illust. 386).
[Illustration: 387. SIMLA.]
In the Club des Asiatiques in Paris I once dined with Madame Massieu,
who has accomplished so many wonderful journeys in Asia. Roland
Bonaparte and Henry of Orléans were present, as I vividly remembered
when on September 7 I met the far-travelled Parisian lady in the
station-house of Taranda. We had much to talk about when we contributed
to the cost of a common dinner. Untouched by years, youthful and
enthusiastic, Madame Massieu afterwards undertook a bold journey to
Khatmandu.
With growing uneasiness I approached the hour when, after nearly a
year's complete silence, I was again to receive letters from home, and I
wondered whether I should break them open and read them without any
cause for sorrow. The post met me at Gaura on September 9. I read all
the evening, all night, and all the following day, and I was able to
take the last days' journey to Simla in comfort, for I was spared any
untoward news and knew that all was well at home. Now the wind whispered
more gently than ever in the Himalayan cedars, and the roar of the
Sutlej sounded like the roll of drums in a triumphal march.
In Kotgar I was present at evensong in the missionaries' church. How
strange to hear again the soft soothing tones of the organ, and as an
unworthy Christian pilgrim in a Christian temple remember the solitude
of the past years.
The following day I marched along the road in the company of my men for
the last time, for near Narkanda a rickshaw met me, sent by Colonel
Dunlop Smith. I left them, to hurry on without delay, while they were to
follow in the usual order of march. How pleasant to lean against the
back of the little two-wheeled vehicle and roll away at a rapid pace
under the shady canopy of the deodars!
September 15 was a great day for me. I stayed at the bungalow of Fagu,
and this camp, where I was quite alone, was No. 499. Simla, therefore,
would be 500. It felt very strange to stand on the boundary between the
wilderness and the most refined civilization. At the breastwork of the
excellent carriage-road sat a gentleman in his rickshaw; it was my
friend Mr. Edward Buck, Reuter's correspondent. This is the beginning, I
thought; and on I went on this last day's journey. The fine imposing
town appears in the distance on the slopes of its hills and the white
houses peep out from among the trees (Illust. 387). A young maiden takes
a snap of us with her camera, but it is early in the morning, and
without further adventures we take refuge at a gentleman's outfitters,
for in spite of the clothes from Poo I must undergo a complete
renovation before I can present myself before the doors of the Viceregal
Lodge.
What a total contrast to the lonely life I had led for two long years!
On September 16 a State ball took place, and I heard again the crunching
sound on the sand of the court as innumerable rickshaws bore guests to
the ball. Rustling silk, glittering jewels, brilliant uniforms--in an
unbroken line the _élite_ of Simla pass between satellites with their
tall turbans and shining lances. God save the King! Followed by their
staff Their Excellencies enter, and open the dance to the notes of a
waltz of Strauss. It was just as in May 1906, and the twenty-eight
months that had intervened seemed to me like a strange fantastic dream.
The first days I stayed in the house of my noble old friend Colonel
Dunlop Smith, and had now an opportunity of thanking him and his amiable
ladies for the trouble they had taken in connection with the consignment
to Gartok the year before. Then I moved over to the Viceregal Lodge, and
again enjoyed the same boundless hospitality of Lord and Lady Minto.
From my window I saw again, sharp and clear, the crests of the
Himalayas, and beyond the mountains and valleys of Tibet stretched out
in a boundless sea. What wealth and luxury! I lived like a prince,
walked on soft rugs and meditated, lay and read Swedish journals in a
deep soft bed, by electric light, and bathed in a porcelain bath,
attended by Hindus in the viceregal livery--I who had lately gone in
rags and tended sheep.
[Illustration: 388. THE LAST MEMBERS OF THE EXPEDITION AT THE ENTRANCE
OF THE VICEREGAL LODGE IN SIMLA.]
On September 24 a hundred and fifty ladies and gentlemen in full dress
were assembled in the State room in the Viceregal Lodge. The occasion
was a lecture, and on the dais hung with gold-embroidered brocade, where
the thrones usually stand, was set up a large map of Tibet. The front
seats were occupied by the Commander-in-Chief of the Indian Army, Lord
Kitchener of Khartum, the Governor of the Panjab, the Maharajas of Alwar
and Gwalior; and among the guests might be seen generals and superior
officers, State secretaries, men of science, and members of the
diplomatic corps then present in Simla. The Military Secretary, Colonel
Victor Brooke, came forward and announced the arrival of the Viceroy and
Lady Minto. I was trembling with stage fright, but before I knew
anything about it, my opening words, "Your Excellencies, Ladies and
Gentlemen," sounded through the brilliant saloon, and then followed an
account of my last journey. It was one o'clock in the morning before I
concluded, and after a most flattering speech from Lord Minto the guests
withdrew to the late supper.
My six Ladakis and our seven remaining animals stayed in a _serai_ below
the palace. I often went and talked to them, and played a while with my
old travelling companion Little Puppy. But the time passed quickly, and
soon the last day came. I embraced and squeezed Little Puppy, stroked
his head, and found it hard to tear myself away. He was put out by his
master's elegant costume, and had a melancholy questioning expression,
as though he suspected that the bond between us was loosed, and that we
should never see each other again. We had shared everything in common
from the time he was born below the snowy Karakorum pass, and to part
from dogs is the hardest trial of all; to bid men farewell is not so
distressing.
At our arrival in Simla I had given them 60 rupees each for new
clothing, and in the bazaar they had found some old cast-off uniforms
with bright metal buttons, which they thought grand and becoming. On the
neck lappets were the words "Guard, London S.W. Railway," and how they
found their way to India I do not know. But in these uniforms and in red
fezzes my men assembled in the palace court on the last day of
September (Illust. 388). They were allowed to keep our seven horses and
mules, saddles, tents, skin coats, bed furniture, and everything. My
white horse they were to sell in Leh and divide the price. Gulam took
charge of Little Puppy, and undertook to see that he did not suffer want
in the future--it was like breaking up an old home. Besides his pay,
every man received a present of 100 rupees, and their expenses to Leh
four times over. Lord and Lady Minto were present at the last farewell,
and the Viceroy made them a short, cheery speech. It was a sad parting,
and even the calm Lobsang, who was amazed at the wealth and splendour of
Simla, wept like a child as with heavy step he followed his comrades
down to their waiting animals. "What faithfulness! what devotion!"
exclaimed Lady Minto with feeling; "their tears are more expressive than
words."
At the beginning of October the Viceroy and Lady Minto set out on an
excursion into the mountains, and after a hearty farewell and warm
thanks for all the kindness they had showered on me, I remained lonely
and forlorn in the great palace. My steamer would not leave Bombay for a
week, and I was delighted to be the guest of Lord Kitchener in his
residence, Snowdon, during the five days I was yet to stay in Simla. I
shall never forget these days. My room was decorated with flowers, and
on a table stood fourteen books on Tibet, chosen from the General's
library to supply me with entertaining reading. With the aides-de-camp
Captains Wyllie and Basset, merry fellows and good comrades, we lived
like four bachelors, took breakfast, lunch, and dinner together, and
spent the evening in the billiard-room, on the mantelpiece of which was
the appropriate motto, "Strike, and fear not."
In the afternoon the General took me out along the road leading to
Tibet. We then talked of the future of Europe in Asia and Africa, and I
gained a greater insight than I had ever done before into Lord
Kitchener's life and work in Egypt.
But the days at Snowdon also came to an end, and on October 11, when the
people were flocking to church, I was driven by the victor of Africa to
the station, where I took a last farewell of the man for whose exploits
I have always felt a boundless admiration. At Summerhill station, below
the Viceregal Lodge, I exchanged a last shake of the hand with my dear
friend Dunlop Smith, and then the white houses of Simla vanished in the
distance, and the train rolled down to the heat of India and the great
lonely sea.
[Illustration: THE SOURCES OF THE BRAHMAPUTRA, SUTLEJ, AND INDUS
By Dr. Sven Hedin.]
[Illustration: A MAP OF TRANS-HIMALAYA
By Dr. SVEN HEDIN]
[Illustration: A MAP OF TIBET SHOWING DR. SVEN HEDIN'S ROUTES 1906-1908.]
INDEX
Abbot, a twelve-year-old, ii. 163
Abdul Kerim, my caravan leader, ii. 226;
error of, as to forage, 241;
assumes rôle of master of caravan, 291, 344;
ideas as to the time of day, 302;
despatched in charge of second division of caravan to the Tarok-tso,
371;
anxiety as to whereabouts of, 396;
arrives at our camp at Ratse, 399;
bid farewell to, with other five of my followers, 416
Absi, peak of the Kubi-gangri, ii. 102
Abuk-la pass, ii. 396
Adam, Colonel, military secretary to the Viceroy, i. 16
Age, average, of caravan, i. 53
"Aid," Mohammedan festival celebrated in camp, i. 191
Aksai-chin, lake, unannexed region of, i. 93, 95, 98; ii. 258
Alchi, dangerous bridge at, i. 44
Alexander the Great, i. 3; ii. 213
Amban Lien Yü, of Lhasa, i. 393, 400
Amchen-la pass, ii. 396
Amchi-lama (monk-doctor), tent-temple of, ii. 296
Amchok-tang, plain, ii. 36
Amchok-tso, lake, ii. 36;
camp at, 37;
shallowness of, 38;
soundings on, 39
Amchok-yung, village of, ii. 36
Amchung country, interesting information acquired in, ii. 325
Amitabha, the Tashi Lama the incarnation of, i. 326
Amusements, Tibetan, i. 341
Anchar, lake, i. 32
Angden-la pass, cairn with prayer-streamers on, ii. 34;
panoramic view from, 35;
not situated on same range as the Samye-la, 330
Angsi-chu, river, ii. 104
"Antelope Plain," name given by Captain Deasy, i. 142
Antelopes, i. 92, 114, 175, 186; ii. 36, 262, 282;
method of snaring, i. 119; ii. 274
Aong-tsangpo, river, ii. 399
Archery and shooting competitions on horseback, i. 343
Argok-tso, lake, ii. 400
Arnold, _The Light of Asia_, quotation from, ii. 206
Arport-tso, lake, crossing of ice of, ii. 263
Arung-kampa, deserted village of, i. 280
Asses, wild, upright position of frozen, ii. 95;
great herds met with, 285
Atkinson, Mr. E. T., work by, cited, ii. 402
Bailey, Lieutenant, Acting Resident at Gyangtse, i. 255
Balls, State, in Simla, i. 17; ii. 420
Baltal, i. 38
Bando, camp at, ii. 83
Barley, roasted, a delicacy, ii. 14
Barong-la pass, ii. 30
Basang valley, camp in, ii. 46
Basgho-gompa, monastery, i. 44
Bed, method of making my, i. 150
Ben-la pass, storm on, ii. 34
Besant, Mrs. Annie, i. 30
Bibles, the Tibetan, in library of Tashi-lunpo, i. 333;
in Tashi-gembe, 412
Biographical details of caravan, i. 151-153
Birch bark, dream suggested by, ii. 95
Boat, our portable, i. 28;
successful trip of, 107;
description of Tibetan, 288
Bogtsang-tsangpo, the, camp at, i. 205;
interview with chief of district, 205;
geographical information obtained, 206;
erratic course of, 207
Bokar valley, ii. 212
_Bombo_, or district chief, i. 262
Bongba, province of, ii. 304;
tension of journey through the, 312;
names of the twelve districts of, 388
Bongba-changma, district of, ii. 304
Bongba-chushar, district of, ii. 379
Bongba-kebyang, district of, ii. 388
Bongba-kemar, district of, ii. 324, 389
Bongba-kyangrang, high-road to Lapchung through, ii. 387
Brahmaputra, the, valley of, i. 281;
welcome news received at, 282;
monasteries of, 282;
confluence of the Chaktak-tsangpo with, ii. 48;
measurements and ratios, 49;
junction of the Tsa-chu-tsangpo
with, and measurements, 74;
possible diversion of, 78;
varying volume of, 88;
Nain Sing on its sources, 89;
Webber's confusing statement as to the origin of, 89;
Ryder's map of valley of upper, 90;
source-streams of, 90-95;
author's determination of its source in Kubi-gangri, 96, 101;
we bid farewell to, 105
British Government, change of, i. 4;
refuse permission to enter Tibet from India, 7, 388;
cautious policy of, 10, 395
Buck, Mr. Edward, ii. 219, 419
Buddha, stone figures of, at Dras, i. 39;
posture of, in statues and pictures, ii. 10
Buddhism, introduced into Tibet, i. 312;
preservation of life a fundamental principle of, 312
Buka-magna, mountain system, i. 164
Bumnak-chu, river, ii. 22
Bup-chu-tsangpo, river, sources of, i. 276
Buptsang-tsangpo, river, ii. 325;
scenery of, 326;
its headwaters, 327;
camp by the, 389
Bupyung-ring valley, beauty of, ii. 327
Burrard, Colonel S. G., on drainage area of the Sutlej, ii. 187;
book by Hayden and, mentioned, 404;
disapproves of author's use of the name Trans-Himalaya, 412
Burroughs & Wellcome, London, medicine-chest presented by, i. 29, 172;
my offering to the Tashi Lama, 316; ii. 40
Buser-tsangpo, river, ii. 261
"Call of the wilderness," the, i. 1
Calvert, Mr., crosses Jukti-la pass, ii. 215, 403
Camp, our first, i. 33
Camp life, routine of our, i. 150;
Tibetan, ii. 387
Campbell-Bannerman, Sir Henry, i. 4;
telegrams sent by author to, 8, 390
Candles, Christmas-tree of, i. 219
Caravan, our, equipment of, i. 28, 53;
troublesome members, 38;
biographical details, 151-153;
rearrangement of, 166;
home-sickness in, ii. 62, 67;
three members dismissed, 69;
their reinstatement, 73;
reduction at Tokchen, 107;
reorganization of, 110;
preparation of new, for fresh expedition, 211, 226, 228;
heavy baggage sent back to Leh, 229;
parting with Robert and Rub Das, 229;
Mohammedan festival, 260;
losses and sickness, 265;
superfluous baggage sacrificed, 269, 279, 282;
directions to, 274;
my hiding-place in, 345;
festivities in honour of Governor of Saka, 368;
divided into two parties, 371;
combined again, 400;
parting with my caravan leader and companions, 416;
farewell to remainder of followers in Simla, 422
Cassels, Mr., present of tea from, ii. 179
Chabuk-tso, lake, ii. 322
Chak-chom-la pass, i. 191
Chakko, holy spring, miraculous powers attributed to, ii. 106
Chaklam-la pass, ii. 308
Chaktak-tsangpo, river, ii. 45;
preparations for excursion to, 47;
confluence with the Brahmaputra, 48;
measurements and ratios, 49, 65;
journey northwards along, 65;
camp again on, 335;
eastward march along north bank of, 337;
return to, 374
Chamo-lung-chen valley, ii. 193
_Chang_, or native beer, i. 68
Changa, village of, i. 63
Chang-chenmo valley, bivouac at, i. 79; ii. 233
Chang-la pass, i. 64; altar with prayer-streamers on summit of, 66
Chang-la-Pod-la pass, meaning of the term, ii. 19;
camp on, 20
Chang-lung-barma valley, i. 81
Chang-lung-yogma valley, i. 81, 84;
difficulties in, 82;
camp and rest in, 82;
sunshine and snow, 83;
magnificent landscape of, 85
Changpas, Tibetan nomads, i. 119;
friendliness of, 182, 188;
habits and tastes, 184;
skill in hunting, 185;
hard life of, 186;
disposal of their dead, 187
Chang-shung, a headwater of the Raga-tsangpo, ii. 41
Chang-tang, the, desperate situation in, i. 163;
our successful crossing of, 210
Chang Yin Tang, Chinese Commissioner in Tibet, correspondence with, i.
393, 397; ii. 42, 70
Chapka-la pass, i. 259
Charvak, camp at, ii. 234
Chega-gompa temple, i. 280
Chema-yundung, river, ii. 90, 103;
measurement of discharge, 91
Chema-yundung-pu, heights of, ii. 92
Chenmo, _kotidar_ of Tankse, i. 73, 87
Chergip-gompa monastery, its single monk, ii. 165
Cherok, district of, ii. 88
Chesang-la pass, intense cold on, i. 274
_Chhorten_, or stone monument, i. 42
Chi Chao Nan, translation of passage from his work on source of the
Sutlej, ii. 183;
accuracy of his statements, 183
Chikum, view from camp at, ii. 83
Chimre monastery, i. 64
Chinese Government, messages from, i. 389, 391;
importance of supremacy in Tibet to the, 396;
specimen of diplomatic
correspondence, 397;
courtesy of officials to author, 400
Chinese passport, efficacy of my, i. 299
Chini-chikang, nuns' temporary quarters, Tashi-lunpo, i. 357
Chiptu-la pass, pilgrim route over, ii. 388
Chiu-gompa monastery, visits to, ii. 159, 415
Chockar-shung-chu valley, ii. 75
Chokchu, caravan bound for, met with, i. 270;
the Governor of, ii. 399
Choma-taka, cave of, ii. 18
Chomo-sumdo valley, camp in, ii. 16
Chomo-uchong, "High Nun," ridge of, ii. 41, 333, 344, 362
Chong-yangal, camp at, ii. 232
Christmas, our celebration of, i. 219;
Ladaki hymn and dances at, 220;
translation of hymn sung at, 221;
comparison of different years, ii. 248
Chugge-lung valley, i. 271
Chungsang, a tributary of the Tsangpo, ii. 45
Chunit-tso, lake, ii. 322, 387;
warm sulphur spring at, 323
Church festivals, Lamaist, i. 301
Churu pool, camp at, ii. 67
Chuta district, sulphurous springs in, i. 82
Chykying, the Gova of, ii. 314, 316
Cleanliness, Ladakis' contempt for, i. 150
Cockburn's Agency, assistance in furnishing and transport, i. 28
Consul of Nepal, the, i. 304, 375
Correspondence, arrangements for forwarding, i. 72, 83, 87, 103;
welcome arrival of, at the Ngangtse-tso, 254;
and at Shigatse, 377
_Corvée_, system of, exacted on Tibetan high-roads, ii. 328
"Cripple," our faithful canine follower, i. 263
Crosby, expedition of, referred to, i. 98
Curzon, Lord, encouraging letter from, i. 3;
leaves India, 4;
on author's use of name Trans-Himalaya, ii. 413
Dagtse-tso, i. 217
Dahlgren, Dr. E. W., statement by, as to wall-maps in Venice, ii. 406
Dalai Lama (Gyalpo Rinpoche), cowardly flight of, i. 244, 306;
his sphere compared with that of the Tashi Lama, 323;
disastrous policy of, 323
Dal-dervaseh, canal journey from, i. 32
Dalgleish, Mr., monument to, in Leh, i. 59
Dambak-rong, valley junction, ii. 70;
letter from the Tang Darin received at, 70
Dam-chu, river, ii. 181
Damm valley, ii. 79
_Dandy_, or average man's load, i. 166
Dane, Sir Louis, interview with, i. 7, 11
Dangbe-chu, river, i. 276
Dangbe-la pass, i. 277
Dangra-yum-tso, lake, permission to visit, refused, i. 247, 251;
reputed salinity of, ii. 29;
shape and extent of, 29;
pilgrim routes round, 29;
Nain Sing's nomenclature of district, 30;
proposed dash for, 382
D'Anville, maps by, referred to, ii. 185, 186, 337, 401
Dapsang, on the heights of, ii. 248;
Christmas box for the animals at, 251
Daya Kishen Kaul, private secretary to Maharaja of Kashmir, assistance
rendered by, i. 24, 28
Dead, barbarous disposal of the, i. 370
Deane, Sir Harold, i. 15
Deasy, Captain, "Fever Camp" of, i. 120;
baggage and provisions left by, at Yeshil-kul, 128
"Deasy Group," mountain mass, i. 131, 138
Dena-lhakang temple, Tashi-lunpo, i. 364
Dentistry, drastic form of, ii. 324
Devashung. _See_ Tibetan Government
Devotional exercises of pilgrims, Tashi-lunpo, i. 357
Dicha-la pass, importance of watershed, ii. 375
_Dikpa-karnak_, or test-stone for sinners, ii. 195
Ding-la, the highest pass crossed in our journey, ii. 400
Dinner, State, at Simla, i. 12
Diri-pu monastery, my tent pitched on roof of, ii. 193
Disguise, assumed by author, ii. 277
Dogs: puppies taken with party, i. 34;
frolics of, 37, 62, 69, 74, 143, 154; ii. 34, 41;
from Pobrang added to caravan, i. 74;
deserted by one of our, 78;
a splendid feast, 108;
loss of two, 259;
two new followers, 263;
an interesting event, 399;
illness and deaths of, ii. 65, 67, 73, 251;
another happy event, 238;
loss of Brown Puppy, 293, 301;
purchase of Takkar, 305;
Little Puppy's first experience of running water, 314;
Takkar's avowal of affection, 319;
a sorrowful parting, 419
Dojas-chimbo, court in Tashi-lunpo, i. 308
Dokang valley, camp in, i. 279;
Tibetan politeness in, 280
Dok-chu (Raga-tsangpo), river, voyage through rapids of, i. 418;
its confluence with the Brahmaputra, 419;
rock-drawings in valley of, 422;
junction with the My-chu, 422;
head sources of, ii. 41
Dölchu-gompa monastery, mentioned, ii. 182, 187
Döle-gompa nunnery, i. 429
Dolma-la pass, pilgrim offerings on, ii. 200
Dongchen-la pass, wild sheep on the, ii. 380
Dongdong, glaciers of the, ii. 92;
peaks of the, 103
Dongmo-chu, river, ii. 39
Dopserma, island of the Langak-tso, ii. 178
Dorab-la pass, ii. 75
_Dorche_, or emblem of thunderbolt, i. 318
Dorche Tsuen, Governor of Saka-dzong, discussion of my return route
with, ii. 355-359, 364;
camp festivities in honour of, 368;
bid farewell to, 370
Do-tsengkan, mountain, ii. 33
Dras, river, i. 39;
stone figures of Buddha near, i. 39;
junction with the Wakkha, 40
Drugub, i. 67;
our new caravan at, ii. 226;
salt-caravan at, 228
Dsabo, title of official in Chagha, i. 416
Dsalung-la pass, importance of, ii. 388
Duan Suen, Chinese official in Shigatse, i. 298, 388
Duff, General Sir Beauchamp, i. 16
Dufour, map by, ii. 406
Dumbok-tso, lake, i. 219
Dunglung valley, ii. 193
Dunglung-do, valley junction, ii. 193
Dungtsa-tso, lake, our camp visited by Tibetans at, i. 192
Dung-yeilak, oasis of, ii. 233
Dunka-la pass, view of the Shuru-tso from, ii. 34
Dunlop Smith, Colonel J. R., private secretary to Viceroy, i. 11;
arranges as to my correspondence, 103;
letter to, from Tokchen, ii. 107;
consignment from, reaches Gartok, 223;
hospitality in Simla, 420;
good-bye to, 423
_Dupkang_, or hermitage, ii. 2
Dutreuil de Rhins, French explorer, i. 46, 47, 199
_Dzong_, or town with resident governor, i. 245
Dzundi village, medicinal springs at, i. 283
Eagles, i. 209
Earthquake at Selipuk, ii. 399
Eclipse of the sun, incidents of the, i. 252
Electricity, generation of, by driftsand, ii. 300
Elephant, a unique, i. 336
Emir Sing, brother of Maharaja of Kashmir, i. 26
Equipment of caravan, i. 28, 53; ii. 211
Escort, our Pathan and Rajput, i. 28;
our Tibetan, 404, 424;
inspection of, ii. 16;
fresh, from Kyangdam, 21;
route discussed with, 21;
the Governor of Saka-dzong supplies military, 365
Espionage, system of, i. 379
Europeans, Tibetan distrust of, i. 201;
iron statues of, in Tashi-gembe monastery, 413;
increased stringency of regulations regarding, ii. 356
Fagu, bungalow of, ii. 419
Family ties, looseness of Tibetan, i. 373
Field-mice, treacherous holes of, i. 92, 96, 147, 215, 223; ii. 332,
397
Fireworks, display of, at Srinagar, i. 27
Food supplies, calculations and estimates of, i. 73
Fox, surprise of a, i. 148
Francke, Pastor A. H., i. 54
_Frithiof's Saga_, quotation from, ii. 11
Fröding, quotation from, ii. 6
Frost-bite, heartless desertion of victim of, ii. 240
Funeral customs, gruesome, i. 369
Game, abundance of, i. 177, 205; ii. 50
Gandän-chöding, nunnery of, i. 410
Gandarbal, first camp at, i. 33;
departure of caravan from, 35
Gang-lung, mountain, ii. 109, 129
Gang-lung-chu, river, ii. 105, 129
Ganglung-gangri range, direction of, ii. 395
Ganjevan, i. 36
Ganju-gompa monastery, ii. 86
Ganju-la pass, ii. 86
_Gao_, or small case with figure of Buddha, i. 247
Gara-la pass, ii. 366
Gar-gunsa, arrival at, ii. 219;
misleading reports intentionally spread at, 219;
plans formed at, 222;
arrival of consignment from India, 233;
leave for Tankse, 224
Gartok, men and baggage sent to, from Tokchen, ii. 107;
main caravan sent to, from Khaleb, 208;
letters received at, 215;
visit to the Garpuns of, 215;
friendly letter from Lien Darin at, 216;
consultation with Gulam Razul at, 217;
plans considered, and return to Ladak resolved on, 218;
leave for Gar-gunsa, 219
Gaura, letters from home received at, ii. 419
Gave-ting, massive of Kubi-gangri, ii. 101, 103
Gaw Daloi, Chinese Agent at Gyangtse, i. 388;
correspondence with, 390, 392
Gazelles, Goa, i. 240
Gebuk-chu, confluence of, with the Chak-tak-tsangpo, ii. 337
Gebuk-la pass, ii. 341
Gebuk-yung, district of, ii. 339
Geese, wild, flock of, i. 166;
habits of, 167, 168;
migrations of, ii. 321;
Tibetan reverence for, 362
_Gelong_, order of priesthood, i. 351
"Gelugpa," monastic sect founded by Tsong Kapa, i. 335
Gertse, nomads from, i. 179, 184, 192; ii. 285;
their distrust of each other, i. 193;
house of chief of, ii. 296
Getsa-rung, gold placer of, ii. 276
_Getsul_, order of priesthood, i. 351
Ghe, bivouac at, and escort changed, i. 424
Goa-la pass, ii. 387
Goa-lung valley, ii. 387
Goang-shung, guides obtained at, ii. 392
Goang-tso, lake, i. 217
Goats, taken with caravan for milk, i. 74
Gobrang, ridge of, i. 206
Gogra, camp at, i. 81
Gold, traces of search for, i. 174, 188;
placers, ii. 276, 284
Gomo-selung country, i. 179
Gompa-sarpa, cemetery of Shigatse, i. 369
Gossul-gompa monastery, ii. 122, 135;
novices in, 145;
_lhakang_ of, 146;
Somchung, apartment in, 146;
view from roof, 148
_Gova_, or district chief, i. 205
Governors, dual, Tibetan system of, ii. 354
Govo, village of, ii. 14
Govo-tsangpo, river, ii. 13
Grünwedel, work on Buddhistic mythology by, i. 329 _n._
Gubuk-gompa monastery, ii. 80
Guffaru, old, i. 52, 72, 81, 215; ii. 40;
appointed caravan leader on Muhamed Isa's death, 59;
returns home with thirteen members of caravan, 107;
safe arrival at Gartok, 144
Guide, vagaries of our, i. 428
Gulam Kadir, son of Nazer Shah, assistance rendered in Shigatse by, i.
377, 384
Gulam Razul, son of Nazer Shah, valuable services of, i. 56; ii.
217-221;
honours conferred on, i. 56; ii. 221
Gunda-tammo, nunnery of, i. 423
Gunsang Ngurbu, a centenarian hermit, ii. 18
Gunt, camp at, i. 37
Gurkang-pu valley, ii. 80
Gurla Mandatta, mountain group, ii. 104, 106, 111, 112;
varying aspects of, 114 ff.;
denudation cones, 157
Gyalpo Rinpoche, "the Precious King." _See_ Dalai Lama
Gyang-chu, river, ii. 88
Gyangtse, letters despatched to, i. 260;
message from Chinese Agent at, 388;
Muhamed Isa's mission to, 391, 396
Gyebuk-la pass, important trade route, ii. 47;
view from, 48
Gyegong valley, camp in, ii. 371
Gyegong-la pass, ii. 372
Gye-la pass, ii. 361
Gyenor-tsangpo, river, ii. 392
Gyuma-chu, river, ii. 162
Hajji Baba, name assumed by author, ii. 275
Hamdung, wandering lamas' quarters in Tashi-lunpo, i. 357
Hastings, Warren, embassies to the Tashi Lama from, i. 321, 334
Hawkes, General, i. 16
Hemis, temple of, near Changa, i. 63
Hermit, cell of, near Linga-gompa, ii. 2;
his heroic vow, 3;
his prayers for the sick, 4;
ceremony of seclusion, 5;
quotation from Fröding, 6;
living death of, 7, 10;
caves of, at Nyang-tö-ki-pu, 8;
Waddell on practice of seclusion for life, 9;
last offices, 10;
a centenarian, 18
Himalayas, the, view of, from the Ta-la, i. 278;
from the Angden-la, ii. 35;
from the Serchung-la, 69
Hiraman, an old friend, i. 67, 73, 75
Hlabsen Dorche Barva, god of Tso-mavang, ii. 131
Hlaje Tsering. _See_ Naktsang, Governor of
Hle-lungpa valley, ii. 193
Hlindug-ling, i. 289
Hodgson, map by, ii. 401
Home-sickness in caravan, ii. 62, 67
"Horse years," periods in Tibetan cycle of time, ii. 190
Horses, purchase and numbering of, i. 49;
qualities of different breeds, 49;
auxiliary caravan of, hired from Tankse, 50, 67;
trouble with, on leaving Leh, 61;
first loss of, 75;
field-mice holes dangerous for, 92, 96; ii. 397;
Ladaki consideration for dying, i. 93;
stampede of, 99, 139, 178; ii. 30;
mortality among, i. 101-103, 135, 138, 149, 162, 181; ii. 265;
diet of Tibetan, i. 190;
mules compared with, 198;
death of my dapple-grey, 218;
splendid condition of our Tibetan, 265;
survivors at Shigatse, 297;
our veterans, ii. 220, 229;
my white Ladaki, 229, 265, 273;
enormous wastage of, 240;
Christmas box for our, 251;
death of brown Shigatse, 264;
and of my faithful white Ladaki, 279
Ho Tsao Hsing, secretary to the Tang Darin, ii. 70
House, description of Tibetan stone, ii. 14;
domestic utensils and possessions, 15
House-boats near Gandarbal, i. 33
Huc, Abbé, book on Tibet by, ii. 402
Hymn, Tibetan, translation of, i. 221;
wonderful chanting of, in Tashi-lunpo, 308
Ice, nomads' distrust of the, i. 224, 227;
singular formations of, on the Ngangtse-tso, 227
Idar, the Maharaja of, i. 15
Illness of author, i. 172
Images, manufacture of, in Tashi-lunpo, i. 368
Immurement, voluntary, of monks, i. 363; ii. 2, 8. _See_ Hermit
Impressions in stone, i. 337, 406
India, the Tashi Lama's visit to, i. 321
Indian Government, the, sympathy of, i. 9;
instructions of, as to author's passport, 25, 26
Indus, the, previous search for rise of, i. 3;
crossed beyond Lamayuru, 43;
start for the source, ii. 208;
guide and sheep hired, 210;
discovery of source of, 212, 213;
mental picture of its course, 213;
justifiable feelings, 214
Instruments, scientific, taken on expedition, i. 29
Jackdaws, flock of, at the Shemen-tso, ii. 272
Janglung, district of, ii. 313
Japanese Embassy, representations on my behalf at Pekin by, i. 391
Jera, camp at, i. 44
Jukti-la pass, ii. 215
Kabbalo, camp at, i. 279
_Kachen_, order of priesthood, i. 351
_Kadakh_, long narrow piece of white silk, i. 310
Kadsung valley, i. 80
Kailas, "the holy mountain," views of, ii. 106, 111, 112, 181 ff.;
set out on pilgrimage round, 189;
Nyandi-gompa, 190;
pilgrims on the way, 192, 197;
Diri-pu monastery, 193;
test-stone for sinners, 195;
universal Tibetan reverence for, 196;
the most famous mountain in the world, 198;
prostration pilgrimage described, 199;
pilgrims' performance at Dung-chapje, 200;
offerings on the Dolma-la, 201;
Tsumtul-pu monastery, 202
Ka-la pass, view of, ii. 396
Kali-Gandak, river, ii. 78
_Kalun_, or high official, i. 201
Kamba-sumdo, ii. 41
Kamba Tsenam, tent-encampment belonging to, ii. 339;
offer of guide declined, 341;
nocturnal visit to my tent, 366;
boastful talk of, 367;
"father of the robbers," 367;
enormous tent of, 367;
good-bye to, 372
Kamchung-chu, name of upper Chaktak-tsangpo, ii. 337
Kam-la pass, i. 213
_Kampo Lama_, or abbot, i. 351
Kanchung-gangri range, ii. 372, 374, 375
Kando-sanglam valley, view of Kailas through, ii. 202
Kangan, tents pitched at, i. 36
Kanglung-bupchu, river, ii. 46
Kanglung-la pass, tiresome ascent to, ii. 45
Kang-rinpoche. _See_ Kailas
Kangsham-tsangpo, river, unpleasant crossing of, ii. 306
Kanjur-lhakang, library of Tashi-lunpo, i. 333;
lectures in, 366
Kapchor, camp at, i. 261
Kaptar-khane, camp at, ii. 233
Karakash Darya, river, ii. 252
Karakorum range, appearance of, from Chang-lung-yogma, i. 86;
caravan enveloped by storm from, 91
Karbu, an old follower recognized at, i. 40
Karbu-la pass, ii. 107
Kargan-la pass, ii. 103
Kargil, trial and dismissal of Kashmiris and Pathans from caravan at,
i. 41
Karma Puntso, Governor of Bongba, ii. 304, 321
Karma Tamding, of Tang-yung, guide and yaks supplied by, i. 213
Karong-tso, lake, ii. 387
Karpun, an old acquaintance, i. 253
Karu monastery, i. 63
Karu, camp at, i. 404
Kashmir, Maharaja of (Sir Pratab Sing), reception of author by, i. 26;
fête given by, in honour of Emperor of India's birthday, 27
Kashmiris, dismissal of, i. 41
Kayi-pangbuk, camp at, i. 262
Kayi-rung valley, i. 262
Kebechungu country, configuration of the, i. 196;
dust-storm in, 196
Kelung-tsangpo, river, i. 264
Kesar-tsangpo, river, i. 262
Keva, mountain peak, i. 216
Khaleb, river, ii. 181;
camp on moor, 181, 189, 203
Kichung-la pass, ii. 45
Kien Lung, Emperor of China, visited by third Tashi Lama, i. 334
Kilung-la pass, view from, ii. 69
Kinchen-la pass, ii. 344;
armed search-party visit our camp below the, 345
Kitchen of Tashi-lunpo, gigantic tea-cauldrons in the, i. 361
Kitchener, Lord, assistance promised by, i. 8;
at Viceroy's State dinner, Simla, 12;
trophies and curios in house at Simla, 18;
photograph of, in Tashi-lunpo, 321;
hospitality to author, ii. 422;
bid good-bye to, 423
Kograng-sanspo, river, i. 79, 81;
difficulties in crossing, 80
Kokbo valley, camp in, ii. 22-24;
begging lama at, 24;
impending difficulties at, 25
Köppen, book on Lamaism by, i. 329 _n._
Kore-la pass, ii. 73, 82;
view from, 78
Köteklik, ii. 237
Kotgar, attend mission service in, ii. 419
Krishna, the Pundit, i. 272; ii. 404
Kubi-gangri, excursion to the, ii. 88, 99;
source of the Brahmaputra located in, 96;
huge moraines of, 99;
glaciers of, 100;
description and names of peaks, 102
Kubi-tsangpo, river, ii. 90;
measurement of discharge of, 91;
journey up the, 91
Kuen-lun mountain system, i. 131, 142
_Kulans_ or _kiangs_, wild asses, i. 74, 97, 154, 177; ii. 95, 161, 285
Kule-la pass, ii. 354
Kum-bum monastery, visited by third Tashi Lama, i. 334;
miraculous tree in, 335
Kungchak-kong valley, ii. 79
Kung Gushuk, Duke, brother of the Tashi Lama, i. 255, 282, 309;
his house in Shigatse, 385;
portrait drawn of his wife, 386
Kung-lung valley, false alarm at, i. 215;
a prolonged storm, 216
Kung-muga, camp at, ii. 82
Kung-sherya country, dangers of discovery in, ii. 315-319
Kung-tsangpo, river, i. 262
Kuru-chok, double lake of, ii. 104
Kyam-chu, valley of, ii. 36;
junction of river with the Amchok-tso, 39;
delta of, 39
Kyangdam plain, camp on the, ii. 20
Kyangdam-tsangpo, river, ii. 34
Kyerkye valley, ii. 48
Labrang, the, palace of the Tashi Lama, i. 317, 330
"Lac Ammoniac," Dutreuil de Rhins', i. 199
Lache-to island, Langak-tso, wild-geese eggs on, ii 175
La-chu, river, ii. 181
Ladaki pony, my white, i. 83, 170, 297; ii. 229, 265, 273, 279
Ladakis of caravan, their cheerfulness, i. 76, 230;
statements regarding the weather, 79;
attention to dying horses, 93;
prayers for successful journey, 139;
festivities in camp, 146; ii. 368;
want of cleanliness, i. 150;
marvellous memory of, 151;
biographical details of, 151;
Lamaists among, receive blessing of the Tashi Lama, 356;
home-sickness among, ii. 62, 67;
costume of, assumed by author as disguise, 277
Ladung-la pass, view from summit of, ii. 313
Laen-la pass, i. 223
_Lagbas_ (corpse-carriers), hereditary caste of, i. 370;
gruesome occupation of, 371
La-ghyanyak pass, i. 208
Lakes, frozen, Tibetan distrust of, i. 227
"Lama Rinpoche," meaning of title, ii. 2
Lama temple at Shargul, i. 42
Lamaism, a corrupt form of Buddhism, i. 312;
founder of, 312; ii. 29;
books recommended for study of, i. 329 _n._
Lamaist Church, festivals of the, i. 301
Lamas, mendicant, i. 217, 383;
various orders of, 351;
devotional pilgrimage of wandering, 357
Lamayuru, village and monastery of, i. 42, 43
Lamblung valley, camp in, i. 259
Lamlung-la pass, view from, ii. 362
Lamlung-la pass, Teri-nam-tso, ii. 384
Lanak-la pass, closed to author, i. 79
Landslip, a huge, ii. 238
Langak-tso, lake, ii. 122, 157;
levels taken of isthmus between Manasarowar and, 167;
earlier explorers' visits, 167;
channel from Manasarowar to, 168, 180, 186;
legend as to origin of channel, 169;
outline of, 169;
sandspouts at, 170;
prolonged storm at, 172;
goose-island of, 174, 180;
freezing of, 180
Langbo-nan monastery, twelve-year-old abbot of, ii. 163, 415
Langchen-kabab, spring of, ii. 182
Langchen-kamba, valley and spring of, ii. 105
Langchen-kamba (Elephant river), Tibetan name for the Sutlej, ii. 182
Langmar village, camp at, ii. 12
Langmar-tsangpo, river (upper My-chu), ii. 13
Langta-chen massive, Kubi-gangri, ii. 102
Lap, severe climate of, ii. 376
Lapchung-tso, lake, ii. 375
Lapsen-Tari, view of Targo-gangri from, ii. 20
Largep, chief of, friction with, ii. 28;
presents from, 34
La-rock pass, i. 280
Lashman Das, Pundit, i. 41
La-shung country, i. 174
La-shung-tso, lake, i. 174
Lavar-gangri, mountain region, ii. 397
Lavar-tsangpo, river, ii. 399
Ldata valley, i. 74
Leh, arrival at, and quarters in, i. 45;
our final preparations in, 48, 53;
advance caravan despatched from, 51;
Hajji Nazer Shah, a wealthy merchant of, 55;
assistance of Gulam Razul, his son, 56;
description of town, 57;
old palace of, 58;
graves of Europeans in, 58;
incidents of our send-off from, 60
Lehlung-gompa, visit to monastery of, i. 425;
stuffed yaks in, 426
Lemchung-tso, lake, camp at the, ii. 282;
beginning of a thirty-days' storm at, 283
Lenjo, valley of, i. 429
Lesdain, Count de, i. 272;
book on Tibet by, ii. 400
Letters, welcome arrival of, i. 256, 377;
arrangements for forwarding, 72, 83, 87, 103;
despatch of, from Tokchen, ii. 107
Lhasa, visit of officials from, i. 375, 395;
Tundup Sonam and Tashi despatched with letters to, ii. 42;
instructions to Tibetans from, as to my journey, 44
Lhayak, camp in, ii. 93
Lien Darin, Amban of Lhasa, correspondence with, i. 393, 400; ii. 42,
216
Lighten, Lake, camp and rest at, i. 101;
personnel of caravan reduced at, 102;
second camp at, 107;
soundings and measurements of, 107-110;
storm on, 111;
a miserable night at, 115;
varied memories of, 116;
rescue party reach us, 118;
sudden change of scenery on leaving, 119
Liktse-gompa monastery, ii. 74;
skulls as drinking-vessels in, 75
Linga-gompa monastery, i. 430;
disposal of deceased monk's property, 431;
view from, 432, 434;
rhythmical chanting in, 432;
Pesu temple in, 434;
an optical illusion, 435
Linga-kok village, camp at, i. 430
Lingö village, rock-drawings near, i. 422
Loang-gonga, river, ii. 104
Lobsang, my Tibetan follower, ii. 227
Lobsang Shunten, secretary to Governor of Naktsang, i. 249
Lobsang Tsering, secretary to the Tashi Lama, visit of, in Shigatse,
i. 298
Lobsang Tsering, Tibetan nomad, i. 192, 193
Lo Gapu, Nepalese frontier chief, ii. 75, 80
Log, by Lyth of Stockholm, i. 108; ii. 114
Long, camp at, ii. 239
Lopchak Mission, the, a lucrative monopoly, i. 55
Lopön Rinpoche. _See_ Padma Sambhava
Losar, the (New Year Festival of Lama Church). _See_ New Year Festival
Lo-shung, the, headwater of the Raga-tsangpo, ii. 41
Lukkong, village of, i. 70
Luma-shar country, ii. 306
Lumbo-gangri, holy mountain, view of, from the Kilung-la, ii. 69
Lumbur-ringmo-tso, lake, ii. 286;
suspicions of nomads at, 287;
purchase of sheep at, 289
Lundup Tsering, leader of Naktsang party, ii. 26
Lungdep-chu, the, tributary of the Indus, ii. 211
Lungdep-ningri, head of wild sheep secured on, ii. 211
Lung-ganden-gompa monastery, i. 424;
hermit of the, ii. 3
Lungnak valley, i. 78
Lungnak-bupchu, stream, ii. 323
Lungring pass, ii. 40
Lung-yung, river, ii. 92
Lunkar, camp at, i. 74;
arrangement of caravan on leaving, 75
Lunkar-gompa monastery, ii. 391
Lunkar-la pass, ii. 392
Lunpo-gangri, peaks of, varying views, ii. 325 ff.
Lying, successful, Tibetan admiration of, ii. 350
Mabie-tangsam-angmo, camp at, ii. 389
Ma Chi Fu, Chinese official from Lhasa, i. 400, 402
Machung village, symbolic designs at, i. 421
M'Swiney, Colonel, i. 16
Ma Daloi, Chinese commander in Shigatse, i. 296, 315;
celebration of Chinese New Year, 345;
orders me to leave Shigatse, 391
Madö Gemo, the fish-god of Tso-mavang, ii. 130
Ma-lung, river, i. 277
Mamer, village of, i. 36
Manasarowar, "the holy lake," ii. 106;
Hindu veneration for, 110;
surpassing beauty of the lake and its surroundings, 111;
Tibetan superstitions as to, 112, 114;
former levels, 113;
our first sail on, 114;
soundings and temperatures of, 115 ff.;
lightning effects on, 115;
wonderful natural phenomena, 116, 117;
long voyage on, 121;
pilgrims at, 121, 133;
the lamas of Gossul-gompa astonished, 122;
outlets of, 122;
storm on, 123;
peculiar wave undulations, 127;
map of shore-line drawn, 128;
origin of lake determined, 128;
Tugu-gompa and Yanggo-gompa, 130, 132;
Hindu homage to the, 133;
terrific storm on, 136-140;
succour from Gossul-gompa, 141, 142;
monks' contradictory statements as to, 147;
its sanctity, 151;
springs of, 156, 158;
underground connection with Langak-tso, 157, 168;
outline of, 158;
Chiu-gompa, 159;
our last days on, 160;
Pundi-gompa and Langbo-nan monasteries, 162, 163;
amount of surface water flowing into, 163;
channel between Langak-tso and, 168, 180, 186;
Chergip-gompa, 165;
freezing of, 180;
journey along northern shore, 415
_Mani ringmos_, or stone cists covered with slabs i. 61
Mankogh-la pass, i. 80
Manlung valley, i. 78
Manuel, cook to author, i. 21;
his broken English, 99;
sent home from Lake Lighten, 102, 106
Maps referred to:
of Nain Sing, i. 250, 258; ii, 21, 29, 41, 302, 380, 403;
Ryder and Wood, 41, 85, 90, 405;
Webber, 89;
D'Anville, 185, 186, 327, 401;
Hodgson, 401;
Dufour, 401;
Saunders, 402;
Atkinson, 402;
Krishna, 404
March, length of a day's, i. 73
Marchar-tso, lake, i. 258
Marium-chu, river, ii. 90
Marium-la pass, crossed by Nain Sing, ii. 89
Markham, Sir Clements, book by, mentioned, ii. 402
Markham, Lake, discovered and named by Captain Rawling, i. 148
Marku-tso, lake, i. 224
Marnyak-la pass, ii. 104
Marsimik-la pass, slow progress of caravan over, i. 76;
disagreeable descent of, 77
Martsang-tsangpo, river, ii. 90
Marx, Dr. Karl, i. 54
Marx, Rev. Mr., missionary at Poo, ii. 417
Massieu, Madame, meeting with, at Taranda, ii. 419
Matayun, camp at, i. 39;
disturbance in caravan at, 39
Mausoleums of five Tashi Lamas in Tashi-lunpo, i. 330-338
Medicine-chest, a popular, i. 29, 172;
presented to the Tashi Lama, 316
Memo-chutsen, warm spring of, ii. 373
Memory, examples of marvellous, i. 151
Men-chu, river, ii. 68
Men-chu valley, camp in, ii. 69
Mendicants, Tibetan, i. 217
Mendong-gompa monastery, tent-villages
of, ii. 380
Menu, a tempting, i. 184
Merke-sang, view from, ii. 388
Meteorological observations, i. 142
Minto, Countess of, i. 13, 14, 19; ii. 422
Minto, Earl of, Viceroy of India, efforts on behalf of author, i. 9;
State dinner and levée by, 12;
receives author as his guest, 13;
his popularity in India, and State service, 13;
family life of, 14;
author's farewell to, and family, 19;
hospitality of, ii. 420;
speech to my followers, 421;
good-bye to, 422
Mirage, perplexing effects of, i. 94; ii. 273
Mittag-Leffler, Professor, Stockholm University, ii. 406
Mogbo-dimrop country, i. 199;
gloomy news in, 200
Mohanlal, merchant of Leh, i. 45, 53
Mohanlal, Hindu doctor, ii. 416
Mollah Shah, a former follower, met with, ii. 234
Monks in Tashi-lunpo, religious ceremonies by, i. 348 ff.;
grades and number of, 351, 352;
daily life of, 358, 366;
great consumption of tea among, 359, 361;
voluntary immurement of certain, 363;
strict rule enforced, 364;
manufacture of images by, 367;
funeral customs, 369
Monlam-gongma, ii. 325
Monsoon rains, importance of, ii. 68
Montgomerie, Colonel T. G., ii. 89, 403
Moravian missionaries in Leh, kindness of, i. 54;
admirable work among the Ladakis, 54, 55
Morley, Lord, Secretary of State for India, i. 8, 9, 11;
explains refusal of permission to enter Tibet, 10
Muglib, muster of camp and inspection of animals at, i. 69
Muhamed Isa, my caravan leader, i. 30;
experience and qualifications, 46, 47;
his preparations for equipment of caravan, 48;
watchful care exercised by, 76;
his opinion of the Rajput escort, 78;
way-marks erected by, 83, 149;
sets out for Gyangtse, 391, 396;
arranges festivities in Basang camp, ii. 47;
leaves with main caravan for Saka, 47;
illness and sufferings of, 52, 53;
his death, 54;
funeral of, 56;
appreciations of, 57, 58;
inscription on tombstone, 58;
Guffaru appointed his successor, 59;
Mohammedans hold memorial feast, 60;
depressing effects of his death, 62
Muhamed Rehim, merchant from Khotan, ii. 234
Mukchung-simo massive, Kubi-gangri, ii. 100, 102
Mukden, Christmas 1908 spent in, ii. 248
Mules, comparison of Poonch and Tibetan, i. 28, 198;
heavy losses of, 149, 162, 163, 197;
our new animals at Gar-gunsa, ii. 220;
tonic effects of whisky on, 260, 264;
death of our last veteran, 261
Mundang, Nepal, caravan from, ii. 75
Munjam valley, ii. 212
Mun-tso, twin lakes, position of, ii. 380
My-chu-tsangpo, river, i. 269, 272;
complicated system of, 276;
confluence of Dok-chu with, 422;
journey up valley of, 423 ff.;
scenery of, 428;
an eccentric guide, 428;
commercial importance of valley route, 429
Nadsum, camp at, i. 217
Nagma-tsangpo (Chuma), river, ii. 28
Nagor, the Gova of, ii. 84
Nagrong valley, monk-doctor's tent in, ii. 296;
animals and stores purchased in, 297
Nain Sing, his discovery of great lakes of central Tibet, i. 3;
nomenclature of Bogtsang-tsangpo district, 206;
outline of the Ngangtse-tso, 230;
maps of, referred to, 250, 258; ii. 21, 29, 41, 302, 380, 403;
on source of Brahmaputra, 89
Nakbo-gongrong-gangri, mountain, ii. 376
Nakbo-kongdo-la pass, ii. 376
Nakchu, pilgrims from, i. 200;
purchases from, 202
Naktsang, Governor of, refuses to allow caravan to proceed, i. 236,
243, 247;
previous trouble with, 238;
meetings with, 242, 247;
his treatment by the Devashung, 243, 251, 376;
my proposals to, 244;
unexpected change of front by, 249;
eclipse of sun explained to, 254;
cordial leave-taking, 257
Naktsang, horsemen from, our progress stopped by, ii. 26;
palaver and agreement with, 27;
costumes and equipment of, 31
Namachang district, camp in, i. 261
Namarding valley, camp in, ii. 107
Nama-shu, camp at, ii. 80
Namchen valley, joint camp in the, ii. 362;
stores laid in at, 364;
renewed discussion of my return route at meeting in, 364
Namgyal-lhakang temple, Tashi-lunpo, service in, i. 362
Namla, village of, ii. 85
Namla-gompa monastery, ii. 85
Namreldi, valley and stream, ii. 156
Nangsang-la pass, ii. 92
Naong-rung valley, i. 263
Naong-tsangpo, river, i. 262
Nayala, mountain, i. 415
Nazer Shah, Hajji, a wealthy patriarch of Leh, i. 55;
lucrative monopoly in family of, 56;
services rendered to author by his sons, 56, 377, 384; ii. 217-221;
commercial interests in Shigatse, i. 385
Nebuk, village of, ii. 80
Neka district, camp in, i. 214;
sickness in caravan at, 214
Nema-tok, camp at, ii. 310
Nepal, the Consul of, at Tashi-lunpo, i. 304, 374;
a stolen visit into, ii. 79;
temptation to extend journey southwards, 81
Nerung-tsangpo, river, ii. 84
Neve, Dr. Arthur, Srinagar, i. 23
Neve, Dr. Ernest, i. 23
New Year, Chinese, celebration of, i. 345
New Year Festival, Tashi-lunpo:
its popularity, i. 301;
our dress for, and journey to, 303;
a picturesque assemblage, 304;
dresses at, 305;
reasons for increase of interest in, 306;
an enthralling hymn-chant, 308;
arrival of the Tashi Lama and his court, 309;
religious dances and masques, 311;
effect on the spectators, 313;
a symbolic fire, 314;
combined dance of lamas, 315;
general purpose and significance of the ceremonies, 315
Ngangga, or Ganga, channel between Manasarowar and the Langak-tso, ii.
180, 186
Nganglaring-tso, lake, irregular outline of, ii. 398
Ngangtse-tso, lake, rest at, i. 223;
thickness of ice of, 224;
hermit's cave at, 225;
soundings on, 226 ff.;
sledge constructed, 226;
singular ice-effects, 227-239;
New Year's Day 1907 on, 230;
Nain Sing's outline of, 230;
crustaceæ in, 231;
trying weather on, 232;
letter with bad news from Robert, 236;
meetings with Governor of Naktsang at, 242, 247;
arrival of mail-bag, 254;
reasons for remembering the, 257
Ngartang, bivouac in, i. 277
Ngavang, joint Governor of Saka-dzong, ii. 353, 368
Ngomo-dingding, glaciers of, ii. 92, 96, 101
Ngurbu Tondup, our mail-carrier to Gyangtse, i. 260, 274;
brings us good news, 282
Ngurkung-la pass, ii. 76
Nien-chen-tang-la range, geographical importance of, i. 267, 272; ii.
19, 330;
questions as to its direction and extent, 217, 324
Nima-lung-la pass, ii. 324
Nima-pendi valley, ii. 129
Nima Tashi, chief of escort, ii. 366
No Man's Land, i. 94
Nomads, first meeting with, i. 179, 181;
from Naktsang, 199;
from Senkor, ii. 290
Nubra, i. 64
Nuns, in Tashi-lunpo, i. 353, 356;
in Mendong-gompa, ii. 386
Nurla station-house, i. 43
Nyandi-gompa monastery, ii. 190;
periodic increase of pilgrims to, 191;
halls of, 191
Nyang-chu, river, i. 294
Nyang-tö-ki-pu, hermits' caves at, ii. 8
Nyanyo, village in Nepal, ii. 80
Nyapchu-tsangpo, river, ii. 393
Nyuku, friendliness of Gova of, ii. 60, 67;
arrival and camp at, 67
Oang Gye, son of Governor of Saka-dzong, ii. 353, 368;
his grief at shooting of wild-goose, 362
O'Connor, Major W. F., British Trade Agent at Gyangtse, i. 244, 389;
interpreter to the Tashi Lama in India, 322;
welcome surprise from, 377;
correspondence with, 389;
Muhamed Isa despatched to, 391, 396;
gift of books from, ii. 43, 224
Ogawa, Professor, Kioto University, translation by, ii. 183
Ogorung-tsangpo, river, ii. 13
"Om mani padme hum," Tibetan sacred formula, i. 44; ii. 9, 48;
Waddell's remarks on, 204;
universality of, 204-206;
Köppen and Grünwedel's translation of, 204
Ombo, nomads from, i. 208
_Ombo_, shrub used for fuel, ii. 296
Pabla, mountain range, i. 260;
solution of important geographical problem of the, 267, 272
Pachen valley, ii. 112, 126, 161
Pachung valley, ii. 112, 126, 161
Padma Sambhava, founder of Lamaism, i. 312; ii. 29
_Pama_, species of juniper, ii. 13
Pama valley, ii. 79
Pamzal, i. 78, 80
Panchen Rinpoche, "the Great Precious Teacher." _See_ Tashi Lama
Panchor, brother of Kamba Tsenam, ii. 342;
acts as our guide, 366;
doubtful character of, 372, 376, 378
Panggong pass, i. 70
Panggong-tso, lake, i. 70;
previous visit to, 70
Pangsetak, camp at, ii. 45
Pankur country, ii. 290
Parka, baggage sent to, ii. 166;
camp at, 179
Parka Tasam, threats by, ii. 178
Partridges, shooting of, causes suspicion, ii. 304
Parva valley, camp above the, ii. 33
Pasa-guk, village of, ii. 65;
unreliable data in, 66
Passes of the Trans-Himalaya, principal, ii. 408;
unknown, crossed by author, 409;
average height of, 410
Passport, Chinese, ultimate value of, i. 299;
cancelling of, 395;
terms of my new, 398; ii. 21, 27
Pathans of escort, i. 28;
difficulties with, 38;
dismissed from caravan, 41
Pati-bo, district of, i. 207
Patterson, Captain, Joint-Commissioner of Ladak, kindness of, i. 46, 47;
addresses caravan before starting, 51
Pears, Colonel, Resident at Srinagar, letter from, i. 25
Pedang-tsangpo, valley of the, ii. 394, 396
_Peling_, or European, i. 200
Pemba Tsering, of Saka, ii. 60, 63, 348, 354
Pensa, Gova, ii. 390
Pere-pala, Nepalese merchants' serai in Shigatse, i. 374
Permanakbo-tang valley, camp in, i. 279
Peter, Rev. Mr., Leh, i. 51, 54
Pike-la pass, i. 213
Pilgrimage of prostration, description of, ii. 199
Pilgrims, meeting with, and purchases from, i. 200, 202;
on the Tsangpo, 292;
in Tashi-lunpo, 353, 356;
devotional exercises, 357;
my experiences of Mecca, ii. 69;
Hindu, at Manasarowar, 133, 153;
on journey round Kailas, 192, 197;
mental sketch of great routes of, 203
Pinzoling, bridge at, i. 416
Pobrang village, meeting with English sportsmen at, i. 71;
rest for man and beast at, 72;
arrangements made for letters, 72;
our last point of contact with outer world, 72, 74
Political complications:
Tibetan Government officials' visit in Shigatse, i. 375;
orders from Tibetan and Chinese Governments, 388, 391;
advice from Gaw Daloi, 392;
letters to Chinese and Tibetan State officials, 393;
Chinese supremacy, 395;
letter from Chang Yin Tang, 397
Pongchen-la pass, i. 260
Poo, Moravian missionaries' hospitality at, ii. 417;
Takkar's return to, 418
Poonch, mules from, compared with Tibetan, i. 28;
trouble with men from, 39
Porung valley, sulphurous springs in, i. 269
Poru-tso, lake, view of, ii. 392
Potu-la pass, i. 42
Prayer formula, Tibetan, i. 301, 357, 404, 408
Prayer-mills, in Tashi-lunpo, i. 360;
in Tashi-gembe, 413;
ubiquity of, ii. 205
Priesthood, orders of, i. 351;
domination of the, in Tibet, 384
Prostration pilgrimage, description of, ii. 199
Pu-chu, valley of, ii. 40
Pul-tso, lake, camp at, i. 131;
sudden storms at, 133, 136;
soundings and
measurements, 133-135;
crustaceæ in, 134;
mysterious camp-fire, 135
Pundi, double peaks of, ii. 112, 126, 171
Pundi-gompa monastery, ii. 162
Pung-chu, river, ii. 85
Punjab, Lieutenant-Governor of the, i. 12
Puntsuk, Tibetan nomad, i. 189, 191
Pupchung-tsangpo, river, i. 264
Purang, epidemic of smallpox at, ii. 92
_Pustin_, Yarkand fur coat, i. 74
Pusum village, camp at, i. 415
Quadt, Count, German Consul-General, dinner given at Simla by, i. 16
Quetta, i. 5
Rabsang, biographical details of, i. 151
Races, mixture of, in caravan, i. 31
Radak valley, ii. 353
Raga-tasam, camp at, ii. 41;
route of Rawling's expedition touched at, 41;
messengers despatched to Shigatse from, 42;
camp life at, 43;
Tibetan Government's instructions regarding author, 44;
visit of the Gova of, 63
Raga-tsangpo, river. _See_ Dok-chu
Ragok valley, i. 206
Rains, importance of monsoon, ii. 68;
our first, since leaving Ladak, 74
Rajputs of escort, i. 28;
Muhamed Isa's opinion of, 78, 103;
sent home at Lake Lighten, 102, 106
Rakas-tal. _See_ Langak-tso
Rambirpur, village of, i. 63
Rartse plain, arrival of missing followers at camp in the, ii. 399
Ravak-la pass, ii. 45
Ravens, pertinacity of, i. 143, 148, 155, 164
Rawalpindi, i. 21
Rawling, Captain C. G., i. 16, 51;
discovers Captain Deasy's stores at the Yeshil-kul, 129;
maps out Yeshil-kul district, 130, 137;
Lake Markham discovered and named by, 148;
expedition to Gartok under, ii. 90
Rehim Ali, lessons in rowing to, i. 108;
terror of, in storm on Lake Lighten, 113;
attacked by wild yak, 176;
sacrifice offered up by, 194
Religions, various, in caravan, i. 31, 53
Ribbach, Mr. and Mrs., Leh, i. 55
Richen-chu, river, ii. 132
Richung-chu, river, ii. 129
Rickshaws, reason for their abundance in Simla, i. 17
Rigi-hloma, Gova of, interesting information by the, ii. 393
_Rikchen_, order of priesthood, i. 351
Rinakchutsen, lake, camp at, i. 198
_Ringding_, order of priesthood, i. 351
Riochung country, camp in the, ii. 276
Robbers, in the Chaktak-tsangpo country, ii. 335;
Tibetan punishment of, 336
Robert, my faithful servant and meteorological assistant, i. 29, 39,
142, 150;
medical skill of, 171;
home-sickness of, ii. 62;
bad news received by, 219;
my parting with, 229
Rock valley, ii. 67
Rock-drawings in Dok-chu valley, i. 422
Ronggak-chu, river, ii. 104
Ruins, encouraging effect of discovery of, i. 169
Rukyok-tsangpo, river, and valley, ii. 69, 334
Rung valley, bivouac in, i. 277
Rung-chu, river, i. 280
Rungma, village of, i. 285, 403
Ryder and Wood, maps by, referred to, ii. 41, 85, 90, 405
Sachu-tsangpo, river, ii. 327;
camp at the, 361
Sadung, camp at, i. 403
Saka, permission for excursion granted by Governor of, ii. 47;
arrival at, 51;
difficulties with officials of, 60;
longing to get away from, 61;
village life, 62;
search-party from, visit our camp, 345;
my return route discussed with the Governor of, 355-359, 364
Sakti, village of, i. 64
Saka-gompa monastery, ii. 62
Salt-caravans, ii. 64, 323, 329
Salt lakes, gradual shrinking of Tibetan, i. 91;
importance of their product, 193
Salutation, Tibetan form of, i. 182, 240, 280, 429
Samde-puk convent, ii. 1;
hermit's cell near, 2
_Samkang_, or hermit's cave, i. 224
Samo-tsangpo, river, fish of, ii. 107
Samye-la pass, hydrographical and geographical importance of, ii. 329;
unbroken continuance of the Trans-Himalaya proved at, 330;
not on the same chain as the Angden-la, 330
Sanchen-la pass, ii. 310
Sandhills, shifting, on the Brahmaputra, ii. 86
Sand-spout, near Amchok-yung, ii. 36
Sangchen-chu, river, camp at the, ii. 308
Sangge-ngamo-buk, visit from chief of, ii. 383
Sangmo-bertik valley, ii. 375
Sangmo-bertik-la pass, ii. 377
Sangra, mountain, i. 264
Sangra-palhe valley, i. 265
Saspul, i. 44
Satsot-la pass, ii. 322
Saunders, map by, ii. 202
Schnabel, Rev. Mr., missionary at Poo, ii. 417
Search-party from Saka, ii. 345;
their instructions regarding us, 346, 349;
my recognition of Pemba Tsering and interview with, 348-350;
agree to accompany them to Semoku, 350
Sekya monastery, i. 281
Sela-la pass, i. 267, 272;
triumphant reflections at, 268
Sele-nang valley, i. 266, 268
Selin-do, camp at, i. 268
Selipuk-gompa monastery, abbot of, ii. 399;
earthquake at, 399
Selung-urdu valley and glacier, ii. 156
Semoku, journey to, ii. 353;
meeting with Governor of Saka-dzong in, 355-359;
mutual courtesies at, 360
Senes-yung-ringmo, ii. 285
Sen-kamba-la pass, ii. 103
Senkor, nomads from, ii. 290
Seoyinna, mountain, i. 189
Serchung-la pass, view from, ii. 69
Sereding, hill, i. 266
Serme-lartsa, ii. 40
Serolung valley, camp at, ii. 113
Serolung-gompa monastery, ii. 112
Serpo-tsunge, mountain, i. 266
Serpun-lam, the, great high-road of, ii. 321, 394
Sershik-gompa monastery, ii. 29
Sertsang-chu, river, visit of Tibetans at, i. 217
Sha-kangsham, mountain, ii. 302, 306, 310, 322, 381
Shak-chu, river, ii. 20
Sha-la pass, ii. 36
Shalung-la pass, ii. 371
Sham valley, camp in, i. 275
Shamsang, camp at, ii. 88
Shangbuk-la pass, ii. 25, 32
Shang-chu, river, i. 272
Shapka, camp at, ii. 95
Shapku-chu stream, ii. 97
Shargul, lama temple at, i. 42
Shar-tso, lake, ii. 306
Shawe, Dr., Leh, i. 54
Sheep, return of our missing, i. 165;
wild, 174; ii. 252, 310, 380;
used as pack-animals, 289, 334
Sheep-driving, author's inaptitude for, ii. 299
Shemen-tso, lake, camp at, ii. 270;
journey along, 272
Sherring, Mr. C. A., ii. 128;
kindness of, and Mrs., 144
Sheryak, camp in, ii. 92
Shey monastery, i. 61
Shialung valley, camp near, ii. 236
Shib-la-yilung valley, i. 271
Shigatse, arrival at, i. 295;
interview with commander of Chinese garrison, 296;
remains of caravan at, 297;
visited by Tibetan officials at, 298;
impression made by my Chinese passport, 299;
permission to attend New Year Festival in Tashi-lunpo, 299;
description of Festival, 301-315;
return Ma Daloi's visit, 315;
arrangements for visit to the Tashi Lama, 316;
architecture of, 340;
Dzong of, 340, 377;
sports-meeting at, 341-345;
Chinese New Year celebration, 345;
gruesome funeral customs, 370;
Lhasa Government officials' visit to me, 375;
arrival of correspondence, 377;
assistance rendered by Gulam Kadir, 377;
market-place of, 378;
system of espionage in, 379;
sketches of women in, 380;
variety of types and costumes, 382;
visit to Kung Gushuk, 385;
Chinese intrigues in, 390;
review of my position, 394;
sudden cordiality of authorities in, 398;
formal council held, and my return route specified, 398;
a canine interlude in, 399;
preparations for departure from, 400;
messengers despatched from Raga-tasam to, ii. 42
Shipki, village of, ii. 417
Shipki-la pass, farewell to Tibet from, ii. 417
Shooting competitions, Tibetan, i. 343
Shovo-tso, lake, camp on shore of, ii. 396
Shukkur Ali, uniform cheerfulness of, i. 52
Shuru-tso, lake, i. 216; ii. 25;
terraces of, 33;
unusual direction of, 33;
storm on, 34;
shape of, 34
Shyok valley, wretched journey through the, ii. 230-232;
farewell festival in village, 232;
caravan derelicts in, 237;
canine happy event, 238;
enormous wastage of horses in, 240, 245;
scarcity of provender, 241;
our complicated situation, 242;
miserable camping-places, 242, 246;
Mohammedan hymn in, 246
Simla, scenery of railway journey to, i. 5;
arrival at, and welcome by Sir Francis Younghusband, 6;
anxious moments in, 7;
State functions in Viceregal Lodge, 12, 17; ii. 420;
rickshaws in, i. 17;
Lord Kitchener's house in, 18; ii. 422;
departure from, i. 20;
return to, ii. 420;
residence in Viceregal Lodge, i. 13; ii. 420;
hospitality of Colonel Dunlop Smith and Lord Kitchener, 420, 422;
lecture before the Viceregal Court, 421;
good-bye to my Ladakis and Little Puppy in, 422
Sind, valley of the, i. 35
Singi-buk, camp at, ii. 210
Singi-chava, ii. 212
Singi-kabab, source of the Indus, ii. 210, 212
Singi-tsangpo, or Indus, ii. 210
Singi-yüra, ii. 212
Singrul, camp at, i. 65
Sirchung, village of, i. 425
Skulls as drinking-vessels, Liktse-gompa, ii. 75
Sledges, on the Ngangtse-tso, i. 226
Smallpox epidemic at Purang, ii. 92
"Snoring Kunchuk," ii. 299, 333;
new title for, 379
Snowstorm, a terrific, ii. 269
Sogbarong Tsering Tundup, Tibetan nomad, ii. 288
Soma-tsangpo, river, camp at, ii. 380;
journey along the, 386
Sonam Ngurbu, Governor of Chokchu, ii. 399
Sonamarg, bivouac at, i. 37
Sonam Tsering, leader of advance caravan, i. 51;
in charge of the mules, 72;
points out Deasy's depot, 129
So valley, i. 284
Source of the Brahmaputra, ii. 96, 101;
of the Sutlej, 129, 153, 180;
of the Indus, 212
Spanglung valley, camp near, i. 78
Spittol monastery, i. 45
Sports, Tibetan, i. 341-345
Srinagar, scenery of journey to, i. 22;
arrival at, 23;
dinner-table talk about author, 24;
interview with the Maharaja of Kashmir's private secretary, 24;
fête at, 27;
equipment of caravan, 28;
departure from, 30;
puppies taken from, 34;
plates and rock specimens sent to, 103
Srong Tsan Ganpo, wives of, i. 333
Stagna-gompa monastery, i. 63
Stockholm, departure from, i. 4
Stok, the Raja of, letter of recommendation from, i. 57, 298
Stokpa, village of, i. 57
Stoliczka, Dr., monument in Leh, i. 59
Stone, impressions in, i. 337, 406
Storm, a thirty-days', ii. 283 ff.
Sulphur springs, Chuta district, i. 82;
in Porung valley, 269;
at the Chunit-tso, ii. 323
Sultak, i. 67
Sumdang-tsangpo, river, ii. 398
Sun, eclipse of the, i. 252
Sung-chu, river, ii. 181
Surnge-la pass, ii. 400
Sur-la pass, ii. 393
Sutlej, the, source of, ii. 129, 153, 180, 188;
old bed of, 181;
Tibetan name of, and assertions regarding its origin, 182;
translation of Chinese extract as to its source, 183;
its source and that of the Tage-tsangpo the same, 184, 188;
accuracy of Chi Chao Nan's statements regarding, 185;
Colonel Burrard on drainage area of, 187
Tabie-tsaka, lake, salt-caravans from, ii. 64, 323;
location of the, 322;
view of, 392
Tagar, village of, i. 64
Tage-bup valley, ii. 105
Tage-tsangpo river, ii. 105, 107;
measurements of, 129;
its source that of the Sutlej, 184, 188
Tagla Tsering, chief of Sangge-ngamo-buk, visit from, ii. 383
Tagrak-tsangpo, river, i. 261, 264
Tagramoche district, bivouac in, ii. 105
Takbur district, high-handed behaviour of chief of, ii. 49, 50;
abundance of game in, 50
Takbur-la pass, ii. 50
Takkar, our Tibetan dog, ii. 305, 307, 319;
his antipathy to Tibetans, 322, 377;
devours wolf-cub, 399;
returns to Poo, 418
Takyung Lama, abbot of Mendong-gompa, ii. 315, 318
Ta-la, or "Horse Pass," view from, i. 278
_Talkan_, or roasted meal, i. 53
Tambak valley, ii. 84
Tamchok-kamba (Brahmaputra), river, i. 403, 417
Tamlung-la pass, important watershed of, ii. 104, 129
Tamlung-tso, lake, ii. 104
Tanak (Black Horse) valley, camp in, i. 286, 403
Tanak-puchu valley, i. 286
Tang Darin. _See_ Chang Yin Tang
Tangna, village of, i. 417
Tang-yung province, Tibetan visitors from, i. 212, 214
Tang-yung-tsaka, lake, i. 208
Tanjur, one of the two Tibetan Bibles, i. 412
_Tanka_, or pictorial banner, i. 318
Tankse, auxiliary horses hired from, i. 50, 67;
camp and rest at, 67;
festivities in caravan at, 68;
men from, petition to be allowed to return home, 102;
parting with my Ladakis at, ii. 225
Tankse, river, i. 67
Tarbung-la pass, ii. 25
Tarchen-labrang, ii. 190, 198, 202
Targo-gangri, view of the, ii. 20, 22, 381;
glaciers of, 25, 32
Targo-tsangpo, river, ii. 21;
valley of, 22;
our progress stopped at the, 26;
terraces of, 26, 30
Targot-la pass, ii. 30
Targyaling-gompa monastery, camp below, ii. 64;
intolerant behaviour of lamas of, 65;
plundered by robbers, 315
Tarmatse-tso, lake, i. 214
Tarok-tso, lake, position of, ii. 325;
described, 391
_Tarpoche_, or votive pole, i. 280
Tarting-choro, village of, i. 404
Tarting-gompa monastery, i. 283, 405;
sepulchres of high priests of, 406;
preparations for deceased lama's funeral
pyre at, 407;
reflections on monastic life, 408
_Tasam_, or high-road, ii. 41
Tasang-la pass, ii. 84
Tashi, despatched to Shigatse, ii. 42;
his return and adventures, 71
Tashi-gembe monastery, i. 218, 411;
the two Tibetan Bibles in, 412;
temples of, 412;
incongruous European figures in, 413;
prayer-cylinders in, 413;
brilliant colouring of, 414
Tashi Lama, the, increased prestige of, i. 307, 323;
kindness to us at New Year Festival, 310;
my visit to, 317;
dress and general appearance of, 319;
his kindly reception of author, 319;
intelligence and shrewd questions of, 320, 354;
his pleasant recollections of visit to India, 321;
widespread power of, 322;
previous visits of Europeans to, 322;
attributes and functions of the Dalai Lama and, 323;
favours granted to author by, 324;
medicine-chest presented to, 325;
ineffaceable impressions left by, 325, 355;
ceremonies observed on the approaching death of a, 327;
method of choosing his successor, 327;
mausoleums of previous Tashi Lamas, 330;
record length of service of first, 331;
visit of third Tashi Lama to Pekin, 334;
footprint of, 337;
photograph taken of, 354;
presents gifts to author, 355;
rigidly prescribed life of, 356;
his anxious questioning of author, 392;
farewell greetings from, 402
Tashi-lunpo, New Year Festival in, i. 301-316;
a cloister town, 330;
the Labrang, 330;
aerial street system in, 330;
mausoleums of earlier Tashi Lamas, 330-338;
date of foundation, 331;
library of, 333;
temple of Tsong Kapa, 335;
a sacred staircase, 337;
clerical tailors in, 348;
religious ceremonies witnessed, 348 ff.;
grades and numbers of monks, 351, 352;
bells of, 351;
nuns and pilgrims in, 353, 356;
author's interview with the Tashi Lama, 354;
pilgrims' devotional exercises in, 357;
sources of income, 358;
monks' life in, 358, 366;
prayer-mills of, 360;
tea a favourite beverage in, 359, 361;
kitchen of, 361;
the walling-up of certain monks, 363;
the Dena-lhakang temple, 365;
manufacture of images, 367;
funeral customs, 369;
last visit to, 393
Tayep-parva-la pass, ii. 397
Tea, Tibetan, i. 247;
monks' fondness for, in Tashi-lunpo, 359;
enormous infusions of, 361
Tea-pots, costly, i. 350
Teheran, Christmas 1905 spent in, ii. 248
Tela-mata-la pass, ii. 397
Telegrams to British Prime Minister, i. 8, 390
Temperature, sudden change of, i. 75;
records of low, 155, 173, 199, 207, 258, 274;
lowest recorded by author in Asia, ii. 259
Temple, lama, i. 42
_Tenga_, Tibetan coin, i. 56
Teri-nam-tso, "the heavenly lake," ii. 381;
its salinity, 384;
journey along southern shore, 384;
different pronunciations, and meaning of the name, 384;
extent of, and height above sea-level, 384
Terkung-rung valley, Lhasa caravan in, i. 270;
importance of road through, 270
Teta-la pass, view from, ii. 380
Thakur Jai Chand, Gartok, ii. 107, 215, 417;
provisions and letters from, 144
Thirteen, the number, prominence of, in author's journey, i. 20, 249;
ii. 236
Thirty-days' storm, a, ii. 283 ff.
Tibetan Government, the, vindictive treatment of the Governor of
Naktsang by, i. 243, 251, 376;
proclamation on retiral of British expedition, 245;
author visited by two officials from, 375, 376;
system of spies, 379;
orders to author to leave the country, 388;
increased stringency of, regarding Europeans, ii. 356
Tibetan language, author's lessons in, ii. 277
Tigu-tang, dangerous roadway of, i. 430
Tikze, monastery and village of, i. 61;
camp at, 62
Ting-la pass, view from, ii. 22
Tirtapuri monastery, parting with followers at, ii. 416
Titles, high-sounding, applied to author, ii. 393
Toa-nadsum, bivouac at, i. 262
Tokchen, the Gova of, ii. 107, 110;
caravan reduced at, 107;
valley of, 110;
return to, 400;
departure from, 415
Tok-jonsung, bivouac at, ii. 91
Tokpas, Tibetan gold-diggers, i. 189
Tombs of the Tashi Lamas, i. 330-338
Tong, the Gova of, i. 424
Tong-tso, bivouac on shore of the, ii. 302
Tongue, protrusion of the, Tibetan salutation, i. 240, 280, 429
Tooth, Mr. Lucas, the last European seen by author for two years, i. 71
Topelius, Christmas song of the poet, quoted, i. 219
Tormakaru, mountain, i. 264
Torno-shapko, unfriendliness of nomads at, i. 217
Totling-gompa monastery, news from the outer world at, ii. 416
Tova-tova, district of, i. 262
Tradum, the Gova of, ii. 60, 69, 70, 73, 83;
camp at village of, 72;
excursion from, 73
Tradum-gompa monastery, ii. 73;
hermit's dwelling at, 73
Trans-Himalaya, the, author's first crossing of, i. 268;
geographical and climatic importance of, 273; ii. 20, 35;
approach to main crest of, 13;
second crossing of, 19;
third crossing, 35;
fourth and fifth crossings of, 209, 215;
sixth crossing, 239;
its unbroken continuance proved, 330;
seventh and eighth crossings, 377, 400;
previous attempts to map out, and books treating of, 401-405;
Ryder and Wood's bearings of, 405;
statement regarding wall-maps in Venice, 406;
principal passes of, 408;
previously unknown passes crossed by author, 409;
length and breadth of, and average height of passes, 410;
general comparison of, with the Himalayan system, 410;
author's reason for use of name, 412;
opinions for and against the title, 412, 413
Treaty, new, between Great Britain and Russia, ii. 221
Tree, miraculous, in Kum-bum monastery, i. 335
Tsa-chu-tsangpo, river, junction with upper Brahmaputra, ii. 74
Tsaktserkan, author's official attendant in Shigatse, i. 302, 353
Tsalam-nakta-la pass, ii. 376
_Tsamba_, or parched meal, i. 215
Tsangpo (upper Brahmaputra), river, i. 284;
formation and fertility of valley, 284, 285;
varying nomenclature of, 287;
description of boats on, 288;
varied scenery of, 290, 293;
day-dreams on, 291;
pilgrim parties on, 292, 293;
dust-storms, 402, 403
Tsasa-la pass, ii. 75
Tsechung-tso, lake, ii. 95
Tsepagmed, seated figure of Buddha, i. 355
Tsering, cook to author, i. 152;
loquacity of, 157, 161;
vocal powers of, ii. 13
Tsering Dava, Tibetan nomad, i. 189, 191
Tseti-la pass, ii. 208
Tseti-lachen-la pass, ii. 209
Tso, district of, ii. 80
Tso-kharki-tsangpo, river, ii. 80
Tso-mavang. _See_ Manasarowar
Tsong Kapa, temple of, in Tashi-lunpo, i. 335, 362;
reforms Lamaism and introduces monastic celibacy, 335
Tsongpun Tashi, merchant from Lhasa, ii. 308, 311;
purchases from, 315;
visits our camp, 316;
his suspicions, 317
Tso-niti, pools of, ii. 93
Tso-niti-kargang pass, ii. 92
Tso-nyak, lake, ii. 106
Tso-ri, or "Lake Mountain," the, i. 219
Tsotot-karpo, lake, ii. 83
Tsukchung-chang pass, i. 417
Tsumtul-pu monastery, bivouac on roof of, ii. 202
Tubges, huntsman to caravan, ii. 323
Tugden-gompa monastery, i. 409;
statues in, 410
Tugri-la pass, ii. 103
Tugu-gompa monastery, ii. 130;
wool-market at, 130;
interesting picture in, 131;
shrine of lake-god in, 131;
monks' offering to their god on author's behalf, 145;
translation of inscription in, 154
Tugu-lhamo, height, i. 206
Tuksum, the Gova of, ii. 86;
grants permission to author to travel on south side of river, 87
Tumsang valley, i. 268
Tundup Sonam, huntsman to caravan, i. 131, 139, 144, 150, 154, 164, 191;
despatched to Shigatse, ii. 42;
his return and adventures, 71
Turkestan, Eastern, ostensible object of expedition, i. 23, 25;
passport for, requested from Swedish Minister in London, 25
Tuta, camp at, ii. 389
Tuto-pukpa, mountain, ii. 72
Tynchung valley, camp in, ii. 104
Ugyu, Tibetan youth, his wonderful recovery from bullet-wound, ii. 46
Ujam-tso, lake, ii. 85
Umbo district, camp in the, ii. 91
Ushy, village of, ii. 361
Ushy-la pass, ii. 361
Utensils, Tibetan domestic, ii. 15
Vezir Vezarat, the, i. 41;
author's headquarters in house of, at Leh, 45
Viceregal Lodge, Simla, State functions in, i. 12, 17; ii. 420;
author's quarters in, i. 13; ii. 420;
description of, i. 14
Vultures, abandonment of Tibetan dead to the, i. 371; ii. 11
Waddell, work on Buddhism by, cited, i. 329 _n._;
opinion on monastic seclusion, ii. 9;
on Tibetan sacred formula, 204
Wakkha, river, i. 41
Walker, Dr. Gilbert, Simla, presents from, ii. 223
Wallenberg, Herr G. O., Swedish Ambassador in Pekin, i. 391
Wall-paintings in Tugu-gompa, ii. 130
Weather, Tibetan, i. 74, 88, 90, 160
Webber, Thomas, on sources of the Brahmaputra, ii. 89
Whisky, a tonic for mules, ii. 260, 264
"Wilderness, the call of the," i. 1
Wolves, persistency of, i. 143, 168, 178, 198
Women, descriptions of Shigatse, i. 380;
uniform dirtiness of, 353, 380
Wool-market in Tugu-gompa, ii. 130
Wrangel, Count, Swedish Minister in London, passport requested from, i.
25, 299
Yaks, as beasts of burden, i. 75, 183, 198; ii. 64, 323, 329;
abundance of wild, i. 173;
Rehim Ali's adventure with a, 176
Yalloa-champa, holy apartment in Tashi-lunpo, i. 332
Yamba, lieutenant to chief of Tarok-shung, ii. 390
Yamchuk, village of, ii. 80
Yamchuk-pu valley, ii. 80
Yanggo-gompa monastery, ii. 129, 132
_Yapkak_, plant used as forage and fuel, i. 83, 91
Yere-tsangpo, river, i. 281
Yeshil-kul, lake, view of, i. 119;
antelope-traps at, 119;
intense saltness of, 120;
soundings on, 120;
choice between shipwreck and wolves, 122;
storm on, 124;
a freezing night, 125;
Deasy's depot discovered by Rawling, 129;
previous travellers' visits, 130
Ye-shung valley, camp in, i. 281, 409;
monasteries in, 411
Yildan, hunters from, ii. 275
Yimba Tashi, abbot of Linga-gompa, i. 431
Younghusband, Sir Francis, welcomes author to Simla, i. 6;
expedition to Lhasa referred to, 11;
parting with, 20;
letter as to passport from, 26;
recommends Muhamed Isa to author, 30, 46
Yulgunluk, ii. 235
Yumba-matsen, ii. 215
_Yungchen_, order of priesthood, i. 351
Zambul, _numberdar_ of Pobrang, i. 73, 87
Zoji-la pass, difficulties of caravan in the, i. 38
Zugmayer, Austrian naturalist, i. 130
THE END
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