Trans-Himalaya: Discoveries and Adventurers in Tibet. Vol. 2 (of 2)
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Title: Trans-Himalaya: Discoveries and Adventurers in Tibet. Vol. 2 (of 2)
Author: Sven Anders Hedin
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Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRANS-HIMALAYA: DISCOVERIES AND ADVENTURERS IN TIBET. VOL. 2 (OF 2) ***
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 act
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