TACHIENLU TO PA-U-RONG, YALUNG RIVER
I set out from Tachienlu on 15th April. My caravan consisted of three
mules to carry my baggage and silver[175] (very light loads which in
level country might have been carried by a single mule), two riding
mules for myself and my servant, and four for my escort. Half a mile
beyond the city I crossed the stone bridge known locally as the Gate
of Tibet, close under the walls of a gloomy lamasery, and entered the
long defile that leads into the heart of the great mountains. The road
gradually rose to a height of about 2,250 feet above Tachienlu, and at
the hamlet of Chê-to--about 10,650 feet above sea-level, and about 40
_li_ from Tachienlu--I found a haven for the night in a ruinous hut.
As far as Chê-to my route followed the Litang-Batang road that leads
into Tibet proper, and I met several yak caravans bringing goods to
Tachienlu. Outside my quarters at Chê-to hung a proclamation in Chinese
and Tibetan informing the people that the insurrection of the I-jên
(barbarians) gave all good men a favourable opportunity for proving
their loyalty to Government by ready compliance with the regulations
about _ula_; but the dead bodies of no less than four yaks lying by the
road-side between Tachienlu and Chê-to offered a grim comment on the
results of those regulations.
[Illustration: "THE GATE OF TIBET." [_To face p. 154._]
[Sidenote: CHÊ RI PASS]
At Chê-to my road left the caravan-route and led into a wild region
where during a day's march I passed only one lonely house, near which
we encountered the only representative of the local population--a
sad-faced old woman sitting astride a mottled yak. The day's journey
(the second stage from Tachienlu) was long and arduous. The road from
Chê-to rose steadily, but not steeply, through a confined valley,
following the left bank of a stream. About midday we were picking
our way laboriously through deep snow, and early in the afternoon we
reached the summit of the pass of Chê Ri La, 17,400 feet above the
sea-level.[176] The pass is a double one, the two summits being divided
by a long valley which appears to have been at one time the bed of a
glacier.[177] High as we were, there were peaks in the north-east that
still towered several thousand feet above us, and to the south and
south-west we saw nothing but a vast ocean of billowy mountains with
innumerable trough-like valleys. The descent was a difficult one on
account of the snow, which was almost too deep for our mules, one of
which fell never to rise again. A fertile valley opened before us as we
descended, and we soon struck the right bank of a stream flowing down
from the snows of the range we had just crossed. A beautiful forest of
firs covered the slopes on the eastern side. About 3,000 feet below
the summit we came upon the first signs of human habitation--a herd of
yak. Five _li_ further we came to a few cultivated fields and a large
two-storied house, which proved to be the beginning of the straggling
hamlet of A Te, where we spent the night. In this valley the high
peaks are all hidden, and though its elevation is about 13,000 feet
the gently-sloping hills are well forested. Here for the first time I
caught sight of the great white pheasant known as the machi.[178]
[Sidenote: CHINESE TIBET]
This day's march was a fair sample of our daily toil for the next few
weeks. It was a continuous march up and down the snowy or forest-clad
slopes of the loftiest mountains in China; and no doubt the journey
would have been monotonous and arduous enough had it not been for the
magnificence of the ever-changing scenery. The food which I shared
with my followers was of the roughest and plainest. We lived almost
entirely on _tsamba_--parched barley-meal, mixed with yak butter and
the peculiar concoction which the Tibetans believe to be tea, and
kneaded by one's own fingers into a thick paste. Occasionally--for I
had to be very sparing of my cartridges--I contributed a pheasant to
the table, and in two or three places we were able to buy goats. The
goats trotted along with our caravan until we were hard up for food,
and then they trotted no longer. White pigeons were numerous in the
deeper valleys. Villages were very few--we seldom passed more than two
in a day, and sometimes none at all, and as a rule they were nothing
but the sorriest hamlets. We were generally able, however, to arrange
our stages in such a way that we could spend the night under cover. We
had no tent, and the nights were always too bitterly cold for sleeping
out of doors. I was clothed in thick Peking furs, and wore boots lined
with sheep-skin. During the day I wore smoked glasses to protect my
eyes from snow-blindness. A couple of extra pairs I lent to two of my
escort, and the rest wore the yak-hair eye-shade which the Tibetans
call _mig-ra_. We found the villagers friendly and hospitable, and we
never had any difficulty in getting accommodation when we came to a
hamlet; and as we paid well for all supplies--a matter which sometimes
caused evident surprise--we were always given the best that the village
could produce or could spare. I did not meet a single Chinese between
Chê-to and Li-chiang in Yunnan[179]--a journey that occupied about a
month--and the Chinese language was entirely unknown.
Tibetan houses are gloomy stone buildings with small windows, and
the rooms are both dark and dirty. I was sometimes grateful to the
darkness for concealing some of the dirt, but my sense of smell
unfortunately remained painfully acute. The windows are necessarily
small, as paper is too scarce to be used as a protection against the
wind, and glass is of course unknown. The apparent size of the houses
is deceptive. A building that presents the outward appearance of a
substantial two-or three-storied dwelling-house with many rooms,
shrinks into a dismal and draughty collection of stables, courtyards,
and dungeon-like living-rooms, when one gets inside. As often as not,
the greater part of the ground-floor is used as a cattle-shed, and off
this a short passage leads into the family common-room. The upstairs
rooms--reached by clambering up a block of wood, with carved notches to
serve as steps--are generally only granaries and barns, full of beasts
that crawl and bite. In some cases I was provided with the luxury of
a room to myself; but more often I had to share the living-room with
men, women, children, and disagreeable animals that love the night.
My slumbers would certainly have been unpleasantly disturbed if I had
been less worn out at the end of each day's journey. There are no
fire-places or chimneys. The fire is kindled in the middle of the room,
and the smoke escapes by the door and windows or through holes in the
wall, but much of it does not escape at all, and the effect is trying
to the eyes; while the black streaky soot, that clings to the walls
and hangs on spiders' webs dangling from the roof, adds to the general
effect of gloom and discomfort.
[Sidenote: TIBETAN TEA]
On arriving at our destination each night, we all crowded round the
fire and consumed our _tsamba_, while our hostess exercised a pair of
muscular arms in vigorously stirring up our tea and butter in a big
wooden churn,[180] whence she ladled it out into a big pot, from which
each of us poured what he wanted into his own bowl. Tibetan tea--made
of the twigs of the tea-plant, and its coarsest leaves--has been much
maligned: I always found it drinkable if one added plenty of butter
and forgot it was meant to be tea. If as tea it is horrible, as a soup
it is almost agreeable. The yak-butter, taken by itself, is insipid
and unpleasant; but the Tibetans can make a kind of cream-cheese out
of it, and I found this fairly good when I could get nothing better.
Conversation with my kind hosts was apt to be stilted, even with the
assistance of my semi-Tibetan boy. Fortunately my bull-terrier formed a
topic of never-failing interest. His three simple tricks had delighted
the genial monks of Mount Omei and the village children of central
Ssuch'uan, and indeed his mere appearance--so different from that of
Chinese dogs--had filled them with wonder; but when the simple herdsmen
of the Yalung valley saw the strange foreign beast lying down at the
word of command, or sitting on his hind legs and balancing a lump of
_tsamba_ on the end of his nose, the prevailing feeling seemed to be
something not very far removed from religious awe.
Every valley seemed to have a dialect of its own, and occasionally my
servant found it hard to make himself understood. As none of my hosts
appeared to have heard of England, it was difficult to satisfy their
curiosity about myself, and I fear they often failed to understand
what I meant by saying that my country was outside the Chinese empire,
and that it had an emperor all to itself. On the whole, I was far less
troubled by the inquisitiveness and curiosity of the people than in
China proper: and, indeed, I was glad to find that the three soldiers
who formed my Chinese escort were often regarded with greater curiosity
than I was myself. The children appeared to look upon us as a new kind
of wild beast, and I fear we often unwittingly brought tears to their
eyes. Our mules were changed, under the rules of the _ula_ system,
at nearly every village. A riding-mule was generally procurable for
myself, though as a rule I performed at least half the day's journey
on foot. When mules were unobtainable we employed yaks, and if yaks
were not to be had my baggage was carried by Tibetan men, and still
more frequently by women. This last circumstance was a source of great
gratification to my three soldiers, who hardly knew more Tibetan than I
did myself, but were never at a loss in exchanging lively banter with
the damsels who accompanied us. Once or twice I was seized with the
unworthy suspicion that the village patriarchs were careful to entrust
us with only the least attractive of their women-folk: otherwise, I was
at a loss to account for the circumstance that whereas every Tibetan
village possessed several good-looking girls, the women who carried
our baggage were almost invariably plain.
[Sidenote: THE PEOPLE]
The people of eastern Tibet are totally unlike the Chinese in
appearance, though the extraordinary mixture of races produces a large
variety of types. As a rule, the men are tall, very well made, with
well-marked features, noses of European shape, and eyelids that are
often quite free from the peculiarity which produces in many Eastern
races the well-known appearance of an obliquity of the eyes. As
specimens of vigorous, stalwart manhood they are much more noteworthy
than the people of Lhasa and Central Tibet. They are born mountaineers
and have healthy, well-bronzed faces. Sometimes, indeed, they are as
dark in complexion as the Burmese.[181] They wear goat-skin or yak-skin
clothes, and well-lined leather boots, reaching nearly to their knees,
that protect their feet from snow and frost-bite. Most of them are
attired in a garment that might be regarded as the prototype of the
Scots kilt. The women wear skirts, and, as their feet are of course
unbound, they do not walk with the mincing gait of the lily-footed
lady of China. I have been told by persons who take an interest in
the human form that the average woman of Chinese Tibet is decidedly
handsome. It is unfortunate that she does not often wash her face. She
is certainly more genial and vivacious than the quiet and timid Chinese
woman. She climbs mountains as nimbly as her husband, and the loads she
carries are just as heavy; nor does she hesitate to join in amiable
conversation with her husband's male friends when she meets them on the
road.
Marco Polo, who only touched the fringe of the Tibetan countries,
describes in his naïve way some of the peculiar social customs of
the people of those lands "as a good story to tell, and to show what
a fine country that is for young fellows to go to";[182] and a much
later traveller--Cooper--amusingly describes how he unexpectedly found
that he had gone through a ceremony of marriage with a Tibetan damsel
when he innocently thought that he was merely having a picnic under a
grove of walnut trees.[183] No such hymeneal experience fell to my lot,
though walnut trees were common enough in the deep valleys. Nor am I
able to endorse Marco Polo's somewhat hasty criticism that the Tibetans
are "an evil generation, holding it no sin to rob and maltreat: in fact
they are the greatest brigands on earth." I took no special care of my
money and baggage, yet I never met a robber, and never--so far as I
am aware--lost even a handful of _tsamba_. "These people of Tibet are
an ill-conditioned race. They have mastiff dogs as big as donkeys."
This further remark of Messer Marco's is nearer the truth if we take
"ill-conditioned" to mean "unclean," and allow for a considerable
exaggeration about the size of the dogs. No Tibetan household is
complete without one or two of those uncouth animals. The breed has
changed since Marco's day, for the dogs are not mastiffs (though these
are still well known throughout Tibet proper), but a large long-haired
dog that somewhat resembles a collie. They are exceedingly savage
towards strangers and of great value as watch-dogs. Their physical
strength is enormous. The usual custom is to allow them to go loose at
night and to chain them up in the yard or in front of the house during
the day, the theory apparently being that any one who wanders out of
doors after nightfall must be a knave, and deserves any ill-fate that
may befall him. Their bark is most peculiar: not sharp and crisp like
that of most European dogs, but with a sepulchral and "far-away" sound
as if each dog kept his own ghost in his stomach and it was only the
ghost that barked.
[Sidenote: MOUNTAIN FLORA]
The villages are surrounded by fields which--considering the great
elevation of even the deepest valleys--are wonderfully productive. In
many cases, where the valleys are very narrow, the cultivated land
has all been reclaimed from virgin forest. Up to 10,000 feet, and in
some places at greater elevations, there is a good deal of wheat and
maize; in sheltered valleys, buckwheat, oats, beans, peas and barley
are cultivated with considerable success up to over 13,000 feet. The
mountain flora surprised me immensely by its richness and variety.
Wild-flowers--many of them quite unknown to England and perhaps to
Europe--grew luxuriantly in the deep ravines into which we dipped
between the parallel ranges, and the mountain slopes up to 14,000 feet
at least were generally covered with immense primeval forests of pine
and fir. In the great forests the pine was the first to die out on the
higher levels; the fir asserted itself to 2,000 or 3,000 feet higher,
and the hardiest of all was the tree-rhododendron, which I have seen
growing at a greater height than 16,000 feet. There is some variation
in the line of perpetual snow on the different ranges and even on the
two sides of the same range; on an average it was not below 16,500
feet, though there were several passes at a lower elevation on which
I was told the snow only disappeared for two or three months in the
summer.[184] Next to the pines and firs the commonest trees are other
coniferæ such as the spruce and juniper, and evergreens such as the yew
and cypress. Among deciduous trees the poplar,[185] horse-chestnut and
wild cherry are common at heights varying from 8,000 to 12,000 feet.
The Chinese oak (_quercus sinensis_), which has evergreen leaves, is
also to be met with very frequently. Besides the rhododendron there
are many hardy shrubs to be found at elevations almost as great, such
as brambles, _aucuba_, the viburnum, artemisia, a kind of hydrangea,
the clematis, and wild-gooseberry. The wild-flowers are naturally not
numerous on the summits of the lofty ranges, but in the neighbourhood
of the banks of the Yalung and other rivers and in the warmer valleys
I found innumerable flowering plants to which, had I been a botanical
expert, I should have been glad to put names, but which were, after
all, quite as beautiful nameless. The familiar plants included wild
roses, edelweiss, gentian, spiræa, and several varieties--some almost
certainly unknown to botanists--of the primula.
[Sidenote: BIG GAME]
Had my principal object in visiting these remote mountains been to
study their fauna or to shoot big game, I should no doubt have been
amply rewarded for my toil; but, as it was, I cannot say much of the
country from a sportsman's point of view, for I carried no rifle, and
shot only to supply the needs of my frugal table. Most of the wild
animals kept well out of my way, and I did not go in search of them.
The musk-deer and horned stags are common denizens of the mountains,
and there are also the wolf, fox, antelope, bear, panther,[186]
wild ass, wild goat and wild sheep. Sometimes, when camping in the
forest--which we had to do several times after crossing the Yalung--my
followers insisted upon keeping up a big fire all night, and begged me
to discharge my gun once at least to frighten away the beasts of prey.
This precaution was judged necessary on account of the mules, which on
such occasions were turned loose to find their own fodder. Instinct
apparently prevented them from wandering far from the camp, for we
never had the least difficulty about catching them in the morning.
The heights of the passes which we crossed varied between 12,000 and
17,500 feet, and some of them were above the line of perpetual snow.
The climbing was sometimes very steep work, but it never became really
difficult except on the few occasions when we experienced high winds
and snow-storms. The cold was then so intense that the thickest furs
did not afford adequate protection. The rarefied air made rapid motion
impossible, and prevented one from getting warm through exercise. The
mules stopped to recover breath at intervals of a hundred yards, and
though I never suffered from the least trace of mountain-sickness I
often found walking strangely laborious. We made slow progress, of
course, sometimes not more than 10 or 12 miles in a day, but nearly
every stage took us from dawn to sunset to accomplish. The tops of
the passes were generally sharp ridges, in some cases culminating in
a sheer wall of frozen snow and ice through which my men had to dig
out a path for the mules and for ourselves. Stone cairns (_lab ch'a_)
surmounted by sticks and rags crown the summit of every pass; they
were always greeted by my men with shouts of joy, and sometimes they
added a stone to the cairn or tied an extra bit of rag to one of the
protruding sticks.[187] But the steep descents were sometimes quite
as arduous and dangerous as the upward climbs, especially when it was
necessary--owing to the excessive steepness--to descend in zig-zags, or
when a miniature avalanche tore down in our direction bringing stones
and boulders in its frozen clutches.
[Sidenote: PLEASURES OF TRAVEL]
But, on the whole, I found the difficulties of this almost unknown
route by no means so serious as I had been led to expect. I never for
a moment regretted that I had so obstinately declined to be guided by
the timid officials at Tachienlu, and never found myself without a
good reserve of strength and energy at the end of every day's march.
I should be indeed sorry if my description of the route should deter
others from undertaking the same journey. Granted health, strength, a
first-rate digestion, and an average fund of cheerfulness, there is no
reason whatever why any of my readers who longs to behold Nature in her
supreme glory should not forthwith pack up his hand-bag--he should take
little else--and follow in my steps with a light heart. Would that I
could bear him company: for the spirits of the mountain and the forest
never cease, in hours of solitude, to haunt the mind of him who has
known them once and learned something of their spell.
The reader who does not propose to undertake any such expedition may be
recommended to glance but lightly at many of the pages that follow. The
details of my daily march through the mountains of Chinese Tibet to the
borders of Yunnan will hardly be of interest to any but those who are
themselves travellers or are contemplating a journey of a similar kind.
My route from Tachienlu to the frontier of Yunnan may be divided for
descriptive purposes into three sections: the first, from Tachienlu
to the village of Pa-U-Rong, on the banks of the Yalung or Nya Ch'u,
occupying eleven days; the second, from the west bank of the Yalung to
the lamasery of Muli, seven days; and the third, from Muli to Yung-ning
in north-western Yunnan, three days.
[Sidenote: OCTAGONAL TOWERS]
Of the first section, the two first stages from Tachienlu have already
been described. On the third day from Tachienlu (17th April), my road
led in a most tortuous manner through three long valleys, fairly well
populated and sprinkled with villages. The first village, about 3
miles from A Te, is Du Sz Drung, situated at the point where the road
emerges from the first and turns into the second valley--the direction
as far as Du Sz Drung being south-west, and thereafter almost due west.
Opposite the next village of Dza Ri K'u is a conspicuous conical hill;
a little further on the valley (lying N.N.E. and W.S.W.) becomes very
much broader, and is dotted with several isolated houses and a village
named Ring I Drung. Here we changed _ula_. Immediately afterwards, we
struck off to the south into the third valley, keeping to the left bank
of a stream named the Dja Ki Ch'u. In the villages of these valleys
I observed several cases of goitre, a complaint which is common in
the highlands of Ssuch'uan and the lofty tableland of Yunnan. Curious
octagonal stone towers, now seen for the first time, are a conspicuous
feature in the landscape of both these valleys. The towers which
are described by Gill[188] as existing further north in the country
explored by him are evidently of the same pattern. Baber, who knew of
them only from Gill's account, has made the following observations
on the subject. "What the use of these buildings may have been is
unknown, but the presumption is that they were watch-towers; for the
present purpose it is enough to know that they are universally said to
have been erected by the Menia, and that there is nothing resembling
them west of the Yalung on the main road."[189] My own observation
corroborates the information given to Baber. I passed a large number
of the towers, but none further west than Ri Wa, which was still five
days' journey from the Yalung by my route. All were built on the same
plan, and have eight corners, as shown in the ground plan on the
following page. That they were used as watch-towers and beacon-stations
is highly probable, for they are generally placed in positions from
which the watchers would have an uninterrupted view up and down the
valleys; but as I observed several of them close together, when
one would have been sufficient according to the watch-tower theory,
it is probable that they must have been used also as fortresses. At
the advance of an enemy the tribesmen very likely drove their cattle
and other animals into the large room on the ground floor,[190] and
used the upper stories for their own protection. Missiles could be
discharged from the roof and from the narrow holes that served also as
windows: just as was the case with the old peel-towers of the Scottish
border. I explored several of the towers, but found no inscriptions.
They are nearly all in a dilapidated condition, but some have been kept
in good preservation and are used as granaries and store-houses. In one
case at least the tower has been made to serve as the wing of a modern
house of the ordinary Tibetan type, and the interior has been partially
reconstructed.
[Illustration: Plan of Watch-tower]
[Illustration: OCTAGONAL TOWER AT RI WA. [_To face p. 170._]
Two or three miles of easy riding through the third valley brought us
to a curious wooden bridge by which we crossed the Dja Ki Ch'u, which,
having been joined by several tributaries at the intersection of the
valleys, was now a fairly large river. It joins the Yalung, but its
valley is apparently impracticable for travellers, for our road soon
left its banks. We had changed _ula_ for the second time at Ring I
Drung,[191] and we did so again at a place called Ba Lu, where there
is a single hut. At last, after a march of about 16 miles for the
day, we put up at a solitary house named P'un Bu Shi. The valley here
lies N.N.E. and S.S.W. Just beyond our quarters, on the left bank of
the river, a small tributary descended from a valley, containing some
houses, in the south-east. Leaving this valley on our left we continued
the next day to keep to the valley of the Dja Ki Ch'u, which, however,
twice changes its name during the day's march. We soon passed a
conspicuous ruined tower a couple of hundred feet above the road on our
(the right) bank of the river. The lofty mountains were all invisible,
and the hills that bounded our valley were smooth and low, with plenty
of pasturage and a fair amount of forestation. In one small area I
noticed sheep, goats, yak, ponies and pigs all pasturing together, and
all apparently on the most amiable terms with one another.
[Sidenote: DEFORESTATION]
A second tower, higher up than the first, stands about 2 _li_ beyond
the latter. About a mile beyond this the valley narrows to a gorge,
where cultivation ceases. The name of the river at this point was given
to me as A-mi-chi-ts'a, which is also apparently a name of the people
who inhabit the westerly end of the valley. In the gorge the lower
slopes were well wooded, but a good deal of tree-felling was going on.
The abundance of timber makes the people wasteful, for they selected
their trees with an obvious disregard of their age or condition. For
about 20 _li_ we went through the forest by a winding path and then
crossed the river by a well-made wooden bridge of the same peculiar
construction as that crossed on the previous day. This brought us to
the left bank of the river, which in this locality is known as the
Li Ch'u. Very soon afterwards, emerging from the gorge, we came to a
solitary house at the entrance to a valley which lies approximately
south-east and north-west. We took our frugal midday meal of _tsamba_
in the cottage, then, leaving the Li Ch'u, which we never saw again, we
proceeded in a south-easterly direction up the new valley, down which
flows a rather large stream, the Tsa Ch'u. A rough road wound in and
out amid well-wooded and picturesque scenery for a distance of about 5
miles, till we found ourselves opposite a large house on an eminence
overlooking our valley, and at the entrance to another valley lying
in a south-westerly direction. The house we found to be the residence
of a _t'u pai hu_, or sub-chief, who received us very cheerfully and
provided us with comfortable quarters for the night.
[Illustration: HOUSE OF _T'U PAI HU_.]
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR'S CARAVAN. [_To face p. 172._]
[Sidenote: TAN GA PASS]
For two days our route had been an easy one, lying as it did through
a series of river-valleys. The next day our toils began again. We
left the hospitable headman's house on a brilliantly fine but cold
morning. There had been hard frost during the night, and the still
waters were coated with ice when we started. Proceeding up the new
valley towards the south, we gradually ascended for a few miles till
we reached a beautiful level glade from which we had a fine view of
dense pine forests that covered the hills on both sides almost to
their summits. Another short climb brought us to a point from which we
began the ascent of the pass of Tan Ga La.[192] We changed _ula_ at
the hamlet of Sho Ti Ba Dze at its foot. After another 3 miles or so
the hills began to close us in on every side and the ascent began to
be steep. The mountain is wooded up to the summit of the pass (15,000
feet), which we reached about midday. The descent began at once and
abruptly, and was at first very steep. We descended about 3,000 feet
into a wooded gorge where machi and other game-fowl abound. We then
entered a valley of which the direction (E.N.E. and W.S.W.) was at
right angles to that through which we had descended. A large brook
flowed through it in a westerly direction, and, rather to my surprise,
our road led us along its right bank towards the east. A walk of half a
mile brought us to the hamlet of Tu or Lu Li, where we spent the night.
I found lodging in a barn. The people seemed more afraid of us than
was usually the case, and did not greet us with open arms; but they
made up for their cold reception of us by increased friendliness later
on. The valley is broad and fertile enough for cultivation. As usual,
the principal grain is the Tibetan barley (Chinese _ch'ing k'o_), from
which _tsamba_ is made. The dialect spoken differed considerably from
that we had heard spoken in the morning only a few miles away. The
valleys in this wild region are so sharply separated one from another
that their inhabitants must always have formed more or less isolated
communities; thus the rapid changes of dialect are not surprising.
[Illustration: A RUSTIC BRIDGE. [_To face p. 174._]
[Sidenote: DJI DJU LA]
Starting at daylight next morning a few hundred yards' walk brought us
to the end of the cultivated part of the valley. We followed the right
bank of a stream, the road gradually turning S.S.E. We then crossed to
the left bank by a wooden bridge. After proceeding for 3 miles through
a gorge we entered a plain several miles broad, and the road turned due
south. Half a mile's further walk brought us through the hamlet of Dro
Dze Drung (or San Chia-tzŭ) to that of Na K'i (or Hsia Ch'êng-tzŭ),
where we changed _ula_. On the hillside on the right of the road I
noticed some small caves. They are artificial, but bear no resemblance
to those of the Min river, and are said to be used as herdsmen's
shelters. Near these two villages are clusters of prayer-flags marking
the site of a graveyard. The people of this region frequently--as
already mentioned[193]--dispose of their dead by cremation. The scenery
now becomes much wilder and the forest almost ceases, giving place
to rugged rock. After going S.S.W. for 2 miles, we reached the village
of Dra Shê, where we again changed _ula_. This village is very poor and
semi-ruinous. The longest obo or _mani-dong_[194] I had yet seen lay
between the villages of Na K'i and Dra Shê. Another mile or so brought
us to the dilapidated hamlet of Ri Wa (Chinese Wu Chia-tzŭ[195]), where
I saw the last of the octagonal towers.[196] Soon afterwards we reached
the end of our stage at a hamlet of three houses named Ko Ri Drung
(Chinese Chung Ku). The stage was a short one, but I learned that no
shelter was to be obtained further on. This I ascertained to be the
case next morning, when we commenced the ascent of the great pass of
Dji Dju La. Our path, lying S.S.W., climbed the right bank of a stream
by the side of a gaunt and jagged range of precipitous mountains. The
only vegetation consisted of a few stunted trees near our path, and not
a shrub was visible on the black flanks and snow-crowned summits of the
hills. But as we ascended the lower slopes of the pass, the path wound
into one ravine after another, and in their sheltered depths I noticed
large numbers of coniferous trees and rhododendrons. The last few
hundred feet of the pass were deep in snow, and along the ridge of the
summit (at a height of about 17,500 feet) we were faced by a pointed
wall of ice. From Ko Ri Drung to the summit--a climb that kept us
busily occupied for the greater part of the day--there is no house and
no cultivation. From the pass there was a grand view of snowy summits
on both sides, and I was told by our yak-drivers that the pass itself
is never free from snow. An icy west wind met us as we reached the
top: so cold that it seemed as though it must have swept over all the
frozen mountain-tops of eastern Tibet. The first part of the descent
is steep. Lower down it becomes easier, and for about 10 miles we went
south and south-west through a forest of firs. The weather changed for
the worse as we descended, and for four hours we had to grope our way
through a blinding snow-storm. After a very arduous day's march of over
twelve hours' duration we were glad to find a resting-place at last in
the comparatively large village of Dur (Chinese Hei Lao), where I found
roomy but draughty quarters in the house of a sub-chief or _t'u pai
hu_, who had gone to Tachienlu. I was told by his wife, who entertained
us, that he had gone to prosecute a lawsuit which had already been
dragging on for two generations.
[Illustration: TIBETANS OF WESTERN SSUCH'UAN.]
[Illustration: MOUNTAIN SCENERY NEAR SIN GO LA. [_To face p. 177._]
[Sidenote: THREE PASSES]
The upland valley in which this village lies is known as Dji Dju Rong.
Part of it, if I mistake not, is the bed of an extinct glacier. It
was still snowing when we set out next morning. For about 3 miles we
retraced our steps of the previous day, then crossed and left the
stream that comes down from the Dji Dju La range and found ourselves
in a beautiful open glade. It is a small flat plain, affording good
pasture-land for a herd of yaks, and surrounded on all sides by forests
and enormous mountains. It contains three log-cabins. From here our
road lay W.S.W., and we struck up into the mountains again to the pass
known as Wu Shu (or Shih) La. The forest accompanied us nearly all
the way to the summit, the height of which is about 15,500 feet. The
ascent is steep at first, then very gradual, and finally steep again
near the top. The forest met us again on the other side, and through
it we descended to the village of Wu Shu. The stage was a short one,
probably not more than 11 miles. The scenery about Wu Shu is extremely
beautiful. Close by the village are the remains of a ruin on a mound.
It may have been an octagonal tower but it was impossible to identify
it as such.
The ground was covered with snow and it was still snowing heavily when
we started next day (23rd April) on what proved to be on the whole
the severest day's march which I experienced throughout the whole of
my long journey. We began a stiff climb almost immediately, and going
south and south-west reached the summit of the first pass (Sin Go
La), after a straight pull of about 5 miles. The elevation was about
15,000 feet. Before we reached the top the snow ceased to fall, and
the weather for the rest of the day was brilliantly fine. From the
summit we had a glorious view of lofty peaks towering far above the
highest limit of the thick forests. We descended about 2,000 feet into
a shallow ravine, from the further side of which we mounted about 3,000
feet to the second pass, Nai Yu La, about 16,000 feet. On the further
side of this pass we descended very gradually to a confined valley,
where we crossed a frozen brook and started to climb a third pass, Hlan
Go La, the height of which is about 17,200 feet. This was the longest
and most arduous climb of all.
[Sidenote: "FAIRIES' SCARF"]
I observed that on the sloping sides of the ravines dividing these
three ranges hundreds of acres of forest-land had been cruelly
devastated by fire. During my journey from Tachienlu to Yunnan nothing
puzzled me more than the extraordinary frequency of the forest fires,
which must have destroyed many thousands of acres of magnificent
timber. The natives say they are caused by careless travellers, who
leave the glowing embers of their camp fires to be scattered by the
wind; but, as many of the fires commence and burn themselves out in
pathless regions where neither natives nor travellers ever set foot,
the explanation was obviously unsatisfactory. Serious as the fires
are, the forests have to contend with an enemy even more dangerous. No
traveller in this region can fail to notice the pale green moss that
swathes itself round the trunks and branches of firs and pines, and
hangs in graceful festoons from tree to tree. This is the parasitic
lichen known to botanists as _usnea barbata_, and popularly as the
"fairies' scarf," which dooms any tree once caught in its pendulous
net to gradual decay and ignominious death. In many places I saw
hundreds of fine trees--the parasite attacks young trees as well as
old--stark and dead, stripped of their bark, as if they had been struck
by lightning, but still draped with the vampire-like lichen that had
sucked them dry. It seems to spread rapidly from one tree to another;
its streamers are sometimes several yards long, and in a dense forest
it only requires a moderate breeze to blow the loose end of a streamer
from a tree that is already dying to its still vigorous neighbour;
and so the disease spreads. Apparently the only way to protect the
forests would be to cut a "fire-belt" round every group of trees that
had been attacked, and so isolate it from the rest. But forestry is an
unknown science in the Chinese empire, and the Government does not seem
to realise the value of its neglected forests. For want of a better
explanation of the forest fires I hazard the suggestion that they
may be caused spontaneously by friction between the dry branches of
adjoining trees that have been killed by the "fairies' scarf."
The descent from the pass of Hlan Go La into the ravine below was steep
and long. A large level plain occurs during the descent, and it is
after traversing it that the descent becomes steepest. We found shelter
for the night, after a very arduous march, in Gur Dja (Chinese Yin
Cho), a hamlet of log-huts. Clearances have been made in the valley
just below (for the hamlet is perched on the side of a ravine), and
there are a few fields of barley and buckwheat.
Next day we again retraced our steps to a distance of 2 or 3 miles.
Then we crossed the ravine and commenced a climb on the opposite side.
As usual our climb lay at first through forest, then we plunged into
the snow, and found it deeper and more troublesome than on any of
the other passes. At about 16,500 feet we reached the summit of the
pass known as Ri Go La. The descent was sudden and steep, not without
its exciting moments, and we lost a mule. We proceeded downwards in
a southerly and south-westerly direction and re-entered the forest.
Thence we descended several thousand feet into a deep ravine. By
the afternoon we had left the snows behind us and entered into a
region characterised by a luxuriance of vegetation that was almost
tropical. Among other plants and grasses there were great clusters
of bamboo--fragile and feathery, and so thin that it could be bent
between two fingers. It was also pleasant to come upon beautiful beds
of primroses and flowering shrubs. As we neared the end of the stage
we met with a light shower of rain--a sure sign that we were at a
comparatively low elevation and drawing near the valley of the Yalung.
The village of Pei T'ai, where we spent the night, lay at an elevation
of about 10,000 feet. Just before reaching it we had a short climb of
800 or 1,000 feet over the small pass of Pu Ti La, which gave us no
trouble. The village of Pei T'ai is the proud possessor of three gilded
pinnacles which adorn the roof of a miniature lamasery. The headman's
house, in which I was entertained, almost adjoins it.
[Sidenote: PA-U-RONG]
The next day's march was the last stage to the Yalung. We began by
descending a rough path from the eminence which is crowned by the
village. Our road then led up and down the south side of a deep
ravine, with many tortuous windings. The path--such as it was--had in
some places been torn away by recent landslips. Wild-flowers and wild
fruit-trees were in blossom, and the young vegetation was delightfully
fresh and green. Squirrels were common, and we caught sight of some
beautiful long-tailed green parrots. A steep path led us down to a
confined valley named Lan Yi Pa, and outside its solitary hut we
stopped for our midday meal. The woman of the house, with a nose quick
to scent the proximity of untold wealth, hastened to offer me, on
bended knee, a present of three eggs. From here the road led steeply
to the crest of a hill, and after turning several corners we found
ourselves in full view of the noble waters of the Yalung.
When we reached a projecting corner of the road at a spot called Hsin
Yi La, I was requested by the _ula_ people to fire a shot from my
gun in the direction of the village of Pa-U-Rong, which now lay at
our feet and was in full view. This I did, on learning that it was a
custom with which all travellers approaching Pa-U-Rong were expected
to comply. The village, with its comparatively rich fields, has often
been the prey of mountain robbers, and any travellers who approach
without giving a warning signal are presumed to be coming with no good
intent, and may find all the inhabitants of the valley fully clad in
the panoply of war, ready to give them a hostile reception. From the
spot where I fired the warning gun the road again descended steeply,
but after crossing a deep gully we found ourselves in the large village
of Pa-U-Rong, and were received by the people with friendly faces.
The valley slopes gradually towards the river, and, though it is of
small area, it is thoroughly well cultivated with wheat, barley and
other grain, and several kinds of vegetables. The actual banks of the
river are very steep, and on them there is no cultivation. The level of
Pa-U-Rong is about 7,700 feet, and the river, which has a considerable
rise and fall, is on an average about 200 feet lower. The village--with
two or three scattered suburbs in other parts of the valley--contains
a population of perhaps two thousand, and was the largest and most
prosperous centre of population we had come across since leaving
Tachienlu.
[Sidenote: MOUNTAINS AND SNOW]
We had now descended, for the time being, from the icy heights of the
Chinese Alps, and were in a region of green vegetation and tranquil
beauty. But the snowy peaks and passes were still in full view, and
amid the rich scenery that now surrounded me it was the wild splendour
of the mountains, and the snow, and the dark primeval forests that
haunted me still. The scenery through which I had passed was not of
the kind that could be looked at, admired and then forgotten. The
purple crags and jewelled peaks rising in sombre majesty from the white
slopes of the sun-lit snow-fields were sights upon which one might
gaze from dawn till dark and ever find new treasures of beauty, and
which, when the eye had once seen, the mind could never forget. Surely
our great prose-poet--never more full of enthusiasm and spiritual
insight than when describing the glories of his beloved Alps--spoke
with truth when he told us that in the whole range of inorganic nature
there could perhaps be found no object "more perfectly beautiful than
a fresh, deep snow-drift, seen under warm light."[197] But, as Ruskin
well knew, it is the dark setting of rock and crag that lends so rare
a beauty to wide stretches of untrodden snow. The wild and desolate
aspects of nature have indeed a charm that is different in kind from
that which belongs to sylvan or merely "pretty" scenery, for they
touch profounder depths in our nature than can be reached by the faery
beauty of dale and wood and running water. The feelings they excite
can only be compared to the deepest religious emotions of which our
nature is capable. "Surely, if beauty be an object of worship," said
Tyndall, "those glorious mountains, with rounded shoulders of the
purest white--snow-crested and star-gemmed--were well calculated to
excite sentiments of adoration."[198] Thus it is that in the presence
of Nature's holiest shrines it is generally best to be alone. If we
have companions, all we ask of them at such times is that they should
be silent. The wonders of mountain and snow, ocean and sky, need not
the explanatory or descriptive notes of any commentator when we have
the reality before our own eyes. The man to whose deeper nature they
do not at once appeal will not learn their secrets any the better for
listening to the ecstatic ejaculations of the noisy friend who is for
ever at his elbow telling him how lovely are those purple mountains, or
how rich the colours of that splendid sunset. It is better to acquire
the reputation of being insensible to all beauty than to force oneself
to listen patiently and respond cheerfully to such well-meant chatter.
The feelings that such aspects of Nature produce within us are not
feelings that any man has ever yet learned to put into words. Speech,
after all, can only interpret the thoughts that lie on the surface of
our natures; the deeper thoughts and the nobler emotions elude the
grasp of mere human language. The mystic well knows, and the poet well
knows, that their sublimest visions cannot be adequately rendered, even
by the use of the most splendid imagery and allegory, in the terms of
written or spoken language. And similarly it is known to every lover of
Nature, though he be no poet, that the deepest mysteries of Nature's
loveliness are only revealed to him who possesses, in the unsounded
depths of his own soul, the key that can unlock them. And what he has
learned he can no more communicate to others than a Saint Teresa or
a Saint Ignatius can describe in fitting words the visions that were
shown to them in their mystic trances.
[Sidenote: LONELINESS]
Each of us, after all, must act as the pilot of his own soul in its
solitary voyage through the unknown. The loneliness of the individual
human soul is one of the saddest facts of human experience, but there
are divine moments in the lives at least of some of us when by the
contemplation of the supremely beautiful in Nature or in Art, or by the
stirring of some profound emotion, we feel that our loneliness is a
mere appearance that will pass away: moments in which we feel that we
are in communion and fellowship with the perfect beauty and white truth
that lie beyond the fleeting shadowland in which we daily move. And
though our splendid visions may not be always present to fill us with
rapture, we feel that the spiritual wisdom they have given us can at
all times be drawn upon to help and guide us through the darker hours
of our lonely daily life.
FOOTNOTES:
[175] The complications and variations in currency and money values
constitute one of the greatest vexations to a European traveller in
China. As is well known, the ordinary medium of exchange in China
for small purchases is the "cash" (_t'ung ch'ien_) of which about
1,000 (sometimes more and sometimes less) are equivalent to a dollar
(Mex). In larger transactions silver sycee or "broken" silver is
used, in which case payments are made by weight and according to the
"touch" or fineness of the silver. The ingots are cut up by the use
of sycee-shears into small or large portions as required. The larger
ingots--which in Ssuch'uan are generally of the approximate value
of ten taels each (equivalent to nearly two pounds)--usually bear
the guarantee "chops" of bankers and large merchants. In the west of
Ssuch'uan the Indian rupee became many years ago a well-known and much
appreciated coin, and very largely took the place of broken silver.
Its convenient size and shape specially commended it to the Chinese
and Tibetan merchants who had trade relations with Burma, Tibet and
India: and as its exchange-value in and about Tachienlu was in excess
of its face-value many Yunnanese merchants used to bring mule-loads of
rupees to that city from Tali-fu, thereby making a very considerable
profit. The coin was generally known as the _lama-t'ou_ or Lama's
Head--Queen Victoria's head being supposed to be that of a lama--and
also as _yang ch'ien_ or "foreign money," the same term that is often
applied in other parts of China to the Mexican and British dollars.
Recently the provincial Government prohibited the circulation of Indian
rupees in Ssuch'uan, and began to issue a similar coin of its own at
the Mint in Ch'êng-tu. The new coin is almost exactly equivalent in
value to the Indian rupee, and resembles it in size and appearance:
but it bears the head of the emperor of China instead of that of the
emperor of India. It is interesting as being the first Chinese coin, so
far as I am aware, to bear the sovereign's head. Probably had it borne
no head at all it would have been regarded with suspicion and dislike
by those who had for years been accustomed to the Indian rupee. One
of the Ssuch'uanese coins (a half-rupee) is illustrated in the text,
along with the obverse and reverse of a Tibetan coin also in common
use about Tachienlu and western Ssuch'uan. I found the new Ssuch'uan
rupee was accepted fairly willingly by the people between Tachienlu
and Pa-U-Rong, less willingly by those of the Muli country. South of
Yung-ning I again had recourse to broken silver; but west of Tali-fu
the Indian rupee is generally accepted, and at the town of Hsia Kuan,
near Tali-fu, Indian rupees can be bought in any quantity by travellers
and merchants bound for Burma. The Indian rupee is now a rare coin
in Ssuch'uan, but sometimes it is treated like broken silver, being
cut into pieces and sold by weight. I have in my possession several
mutilated rupees which were weighed out to me as small change. The
late queen-empress's head has been treated with small respect by the
silver-merchants.
[176] See Note 23 (p. 428).
[177] It has been pointed out by Griesbach that the central Himālayan
glaciers are receding, and once extended much lower than at present.
Apparently the same is the case in the "Himālayas" of Tibetan
Ssuch'uan. I saw few living glaciers; but in many ravines there were
evident traces of lateral and terminal moraines.
[178] This I take to be the _crossoptilon Tibetanum_. It is quite
unknown in China proper.
[179] See Note 24 (p. 428).
[180] The Tibetan _ja-ndong_.
[181] See Note 25 (p. 428).
[182] Yule's _Marco Polo_ (Cordier's edition), vol. ii. p. 45.
[183] _Travels of a Pioneer of Commerce_.
[184] It is now well known that in parts of the Himalāyas which form
the watershed of the great Indian rivers the line of perpetual snow is
as high as 18,000 or even 20,000 feet.
[185] There is a fine poplar grove close to Tachienlu, fringing the
"royal" parade-ground. Sarat Chandra Das (_Journey to Lhasa and Central
Tibet_) mentions a poplar at Lhasa which is supposed by the Tibetans to
have sprung from the hair of the Buddha.
[186] The _felis fontanieri_, besides other members of the Cat tribe.
[187] Customs of this kind seem to exist or to have existed all over
the world. For Tibet, see Sarat Chandra Das's _Journey to Lhasa and
Central Tibet_, and several recent works. Frazer, in the _Golden Bough_
(2nd edn. vol. iii. pp. 4-6), has an interesting note in which he
mentions the same or similar customs in the Solomon and Banks Islands,
Nicaragua, Guatemala, Central and South Africa, Bolivia, Burma and
Korea. He says: "The act is not a religious rite, for the thing thrown
on the heap is not an offering to spiritual powers, and the words
which accompany the act are not a prayer. It is nothing but a magical
ceremony for getting rid of fatigue, which the simple savage fancies
he can embody in a stick, leaf, or stone, and so cast it from him."
Gipsies have a custom of leaving heaps of stones and bits of stick at
cross-roads, to guide members of their band who have fallen behind.
I do not propose to argue from this fact that the gipsy race was
originally a Tibetan tribe, in spite of the facts that both gipsies and
Tibetans love a wandering life, and that the gipsies of Persia and the
Tibetans use almost the same word for "tent," which is _guri_ in Persia
and _gur_ (གུར་) in Tibet.
[188] _River of Golden Sand_, vol. ii. p. 136.
[189] Royal Geographical Society's _Supplementary Papers_, vol. i. p.
96.
[190] Sometimes, however, the door is several feet above the level
of the ground, so that ladders of some kind must have been used for
entrance and exit.
[191] The word _Drung_ or Dr'ong (གྲོང་) is the Tibetan word for
Village.
[192] _La_ is the Tibetan word for a Mountain Pass. _Ri_, which often
occurs in the names of villages and passes, means Mountain, and _Rong_
Valley.
[193] See above, p. 143.
[194] See above, p. 145.
[195] Many of the villages between Tachienlu and Yung-ning have been
given Chinese names by the Yunnanese, who occasionally send merchandise
by this route. The Chinese name, as a rule, has no connection with the
Tibetan or Man-tzŭ name. _Wu Chia-tzŭ_, for instance, means a "Village
of Five Families"; _San Chia-tzŭ_ a "Village of Three Families."
[196] See illustration of this tower, which is a fair sample of the
rest, _to face p. 171_.
[197] _Modern Painters_, I. II. chap. iv. p. 2.
[198] See John Tyndall's description of his ascent of the
Finsteraarhorn (_Glaciers of the Alps_).