Shoka hospitality--How I obtained much information--On a
reconnoitring trip--A terrible slide.
THEY are indeed Nature's gentlemen, these worthy Shokas, and as such they
did all in their power to make my stay among them pleasant. It was a
contest between them as to who should entertain me first, and who should
be the next. Invitations to breakfast and dinner literally poured in; and
those convenient "sick headaches," "colds," and "previous engagements,"
so opportune in more conventional parts, were of no avail here. No
card--no friendly note bade one to come and be merry. They generally
arrived _en masse_ to fetch me. Pulling and pushing played a not
unimportant part in their urging, and to decline was thus out of the
question. Indeed I must confess there was but little inclination to
decline on my part. When you arrived, your host spread out fine mats and
rugs, of Tibetan and ancient Chinese manufacture, and often of great
value. In front of a raised seat were displayed in shiny brass bowls the
various viands and delicacies which constituted the meal. There was rice
always; there was curried mutton, milk and curd with sugar; then
_chapatis_ made in Hindustani fashion and _Shale_, a kind of sweet
pancake made of flour, _ghi_ (butter), sugar or honey, also _Parsad_, a
thick paste of honey, burnt sugar, butter and flour, all well cooked
together--a dainty morsel even for a jaded palate.
I was invariably made to sit on the raised seat, which I did
cross-legged, while the crowd squatted respectfully on the floor round
the room, forming a semicircle with me in the center. I generally ate
with my fingers in their own manner, a courtesy they particularly
appreciated, and although I must have seemed awkward to them at first, I
soon acquired a sort of dexterity in manipulating hot food--meat and
vegetables, for instance--with my hand. The trick is not very difficult,
but it requires practice. You gather up your five fingers downwards in
the dish, seizing a mouthful, and with a rapid circular twist of the hand
you collect as much sauce as you can round the morsel you have caught.
With a still more rapid movement, and before anything has time to drip
between your fingers, you half drop and half throw it into your mouth.
[Illustration: SHOKA CHILD BEING SMEARED WITH BUTTER]
I soon found that I could, during these cordial repasts, enlivened as
they were by moderate libations of _chökti_ and _syrap_ (wine and spirit
distilled from wheat), acquire considerable knowledge of anthropological
and ethnological interest, and gather also much valuable information
about Tibet and its people. They became, in fact, in the few days I spent
among them, confiding to such a degree, and looked upon me so much as one
of themselves, that I soon obtained the run of the whole place. They came
to confide their grievances and troubles; they related to me their
legends and folk-lore. They sang to me their weird songs and taught me
their dances. They brought me to their marriages and strange funerals;
they took me to their sick men, women, and children, or conveyed them to
me for cure. Thus, to my delight, and with such unique chances, my
observations of a pathological, physiological, and anatomical character
became more interesting to me day by day, and I have attempted to
describe in a later chapter some of the things I was able to note.
[Illustration: THE MASTER OF A HIGH SCHOOL ALTITUDE 10,940 FEET]
After lingering in Garbyang for several days, I paid off my two
chaprassis, Matan Sing and Narenghiri, and they returned to Almora.
On June 6 I started on a journey towards the frontier, with a view to
reconnoitre.
Crossing into Nepal territory below Chongur village, and following
upwards the right bank of the Kali River in a direction of 320° (bearings
magnetic) I reached Kanwa, a Shoka village on a high cliff-like plateau
under which meet the three rivers Kali, Taki, and Kuti. The Kali turns
suddenly to 37° (bearings magnetic), while the Kuti River keeps a general
direction of 325° (bearings magnetic).
Having crossed again into Kumaon, I struck camp at Gungi. Before entering
the village, I passed Dr. Wilson's dispensary, not then completed. In the
village the houses were decorated with long poles joined by strings, from
which hung and flew gaily in the breeze hundreds of wind prayers. The
dwellings were mostly of the ancient, pure Shoka architecture, and not so
fine or so clean as those in Garbyang. The place was picturesque,
clear-cut against the curious background of the dome-like mountain, the
Nabi Shankom, a peak of uncommon beauty with its grey and reddish striped
strata. Near it on another mountain is the Gungi Shankom, a gigantic
quadrangular rock of a warm yellow and reddish colour, not unlike a huge
tower. When I reached its foot, the sun was casting his last dying rays
on it, and the picture was so magical that I was tempted to sketch it. As
I sat there, the shadow of the coming night rose higher and higher on
the mountain-side, tinting it violet blue, and above it the Gungi Shankom
stood resplendent in all its glory like a tower of fire--till night
descended covering the mountain first, and little by little the Gungi
Shankom itself. I shall not easily forget this sight.
[Illustration: GUNGI SHANKOM]
I slept under my little _tente d'abri_ and found it delightfully cosy and
warm.
At 10 A.M. the next day I raised camp. The elevation here was 10,940
feet. Interesting was the _Chiram_, a collection of tombs, five in
number, made of slabs of white stone with poles placed vertically upon
them, and from the summit of which hung flying prayers. The Kuti River to
my left was wide and rapid. On the opposite bank the village of Ronkan
(11,100 feet) made a pretty _vis-à-vis_ to the Nabi village on our side
of the stream, at the same elevation, and directly under the lee of the
Nabi Shankom.
As I rose gradually along the river course the vegetation grew sparse,
and in front of me there remained nothing but barren rocks and high snowy
peaks. The spot where, from opposite sides, the Gunkan River and the Nail
River throw themselves into the Kuti River is most picturesque. There are
on the water's edge a few pine-trees, but above there is nothing but
wilderness--rock and ice and snow.
I soon came upon much snow, and places where the track along the
mountain-side was undiscoverable. Walking was tiresome enough on the
loose shingle and shale, but it became worse when I actually had to cut
each step into the frozen snow. The work was tedious to a degree, and
the progress slow. After a while I noticed a series of lofty snow
tunnels over the raging stream, which is earlier in the season covered
entirely by a vault of ice and snow. The higher I got the harder and more
slippery grew the snow. The soles of my shoes having become soaked and
frozen made walking very difficult. At 12,000 feet, being about three
hundred feet above the stream, I had to cross a particularly extensive
snow-field, hard frozen and rising at a very steep angle. Some of my
coolies had gone ahead, the others were behind. Notwithstanding the track
cut by those ahead, it was necessary to re-cut each step with one's own
feet, so as to prevent slipping. This was best done by hammering several
times into the white sheet with the point of one's shoe until a cavity
was made deep enough to contain the foot and to support one upright. It
ought to be done carefully each time, but I fear I had not the patience
for that. I thought I had found a quicker method, and by raising my knee
high, I struck the snow with my heel, leaving my foot planted until the
other one had by the same process cut the next step.
[Illustration: ZAZZELA MOUNT, NEAR GUNGI]
[Illustration: INVOLUNTARY TOBOGGANING]
It was in giving one of these vigorous thumps that I hit a spot where,
under a thin coating of snow, was hard ice. My foot, failing in its
grip, slipped, and the impulse caused me to lose my balance. I slid down
the steep incline at a terrific pace, accompanied in my involuntary
tobogganing over ice and snow by the screams of my horror-stricken
coolies. I realised that in another moment I should be pitched into the
stream, which would have meant being carried under the long tunnel of ice
to meet certain death beneath it. In those few seconds I found time to
speculate even as to whether those stones by the water's edge would stop
me, or whether the impetus must fling me past them into the river. I
attempted to get a grip in the snow with my frozen fingers, to stem
myself with my heels, but with no success, when I saw ahead of me a large
stone rising above the snow. With desperate tension of every nerve and
muscle, I knew as I approached it, with the foaming water yonder, that it
was my only hope. I consciously straightened my legs for the contact. The
bump was tremendous, and seemed to shatter every bone in my body. But it
stopped me, and I was saved only a few feet from the water's
edge--miraculously, although fearfully bruised, with no bones broken.
[Illustration: CHIRAM]
My fingers were cut by the ice and bleeding. When I was able to stand, I
signalled to the frightened and wailing coolies above to go on, and I
myself proceeded along the watercourse until I found a spot from which I
could regain the upper track.