Beautiful Tsarang and Dirty Tsarangese.
At the foot of the mountain out of which we had emerged, and where the
plain began, we came upon a stone-turreted gate about twenty-four feet
in height. Standing by itself and entirely unprotected, the gate was
not intended, as I was told, for any military purpose; but it was used
for housing Buḍḍhas and other deities that would keep guard against the
invasion of the locality by evil genii. About a mile and a half to the
rear of the gate stood the town of Tsarang, at the entrance of which we
were met by fourteen or fifteen men, who, as it appeared, anticipated
our arrival. Serab Gyaltsan led me to the house of the Chief of the
town, which was of considerable size. As in Tibet so in Tsarang, all
well-to-do people generally have a separate chapel in their residence.
When they have a visitor of rank and social position, they, out of
respect, put him up in their chapel, and a person entitled to such
distinction in these localities is generally a Lama. So it was that, as
a Chinese Lama, I was given that privilege in the Chief’s chapel, which
I found to be a typical one of its kind, with its image-crowned altar,
a special depository for religious Texts, etc., and altogether much
superior in its general finish and furnishings to the family dwelling.
I may remark that these folk generally keep a good store of the Texts,
not because they make use of them themselves, but more as a matter of
form, the form showing their deep reverence for their religion; but it
is apparently beyond their ken that volumes of Texts are but so many
sheets of waste paper, if their possessors do not understand and live
by them.
By the side of the chapel in which I was installed there was another
small building, in which lived Serab Gyaltsan. My host was a widower,
quiet and amiable, and living with two grown-up daughters, about
twenty-three and eighteen years of age respectively, who between them
managed the household and the family business, employing under them a
number of servants, farm-hands and cattlemen. I could not but admire
the two young women for the creditable manner in which they attended
to their business. I also observed that the chief amusement of all the
villagers consisted in spending evenings in dances and comic songs,
except when they went to a sort of semi-religious meeting presided
over by a Lama Maṇi, who would narrate the stories of ancient priests
of great renown, or the biographies of the more famous monarchs of
Buḍḍhist States, to the great delight of his audience.
The days I spent in Tsarang were, in a sense, the days of my tutelage
in the art of living amidst filth and filthy habits. In point of
uncleanliness, Tibetans stand very high among the inhabitants of the
earth, but I think the natives of Tsarang go still higher in this
respect. In Tibet people wash themselves occasionally, but they almost
never do so in Tsarang. In the course of the twelve months that I
lived there, I only twice saw a person wash himself, the washing being
confined even then to the face and neck. Such being the case, the
native’s skin all over the body has on it a peculiarly repulsive shine
of polished dirt, so to say. I often noticed women, whose complexion
would have appeared quite fair if only an occasional scrubbing were
administered to the skin; but what can they do when it is a custom, as
it is among them, to laugh at persons who wash their faces nice and
clean, and to deride them as being very dirty in their habits? Not only
in their appearance, but in all that they do, the natives seem to have
absolutely no idea of cleanliness. To say that they think nothing of
making a cup of tea for you with the same fingers with which they have
just blown their nose, is to give only a very mild instance of their
filthiness, and I have no courage to dwell here on their many other
doings, which are altogether beyond imagination for those who have not
seen them done, and are too loathsome, even unto sickening, to recall
to mind. As it was, my life among these slovenly people did one good
thing for me, in that it thoroughly prepared me for what I had to
endure in Tibet.
My work with Serab Gyaltsan consisted in this: a lecture on Buḍḍhism
for three solid hours in the morning, which required much preparation,
and exercises in Tibetan rhetoric and penmanship for another three
hours in the afternoon, which was, however, of a very easy nature, and
gave me occasion to engage in discussions with my teacher.
There is in existence to this day in Tibet a sect of Buḍḍhists which
believes in a teaching originated by a priest whose name may be
translated into “born of the lotus flower” (Padma Sambhava) or Padma
Chungne in Tibetan, and whom they regard as their savior and as Buḍḍha
incarnate. His teaching is a sort of parody on Buḍḍhism proper, and
an attempt to sanctify the sexual relations of humankind, explaining
and interpreting all the important passages and tenets in the sacred
Text from a sensual standpoint. Indeed, Padma’s own life was simply
his teachings translated into actual practice, for he lived with eight
women whom he called his wives, drank intoxicants to his heart’s
content, and fed freely on animal food. Now in the Tibetan rhetoric
in which I took lessons under Serab Gyaltsan I found this lewd and
detestable teaching largely incorporated, and it was on this account
that hot disputes not unfrequently arose between my instructor and
myself. At times I felt sorry, as I feel sorry now, for my Serab,
because, from what I was able to gather, he is one of those on whom
(as the result of twenty years’ study, maintaining well the while his
undefiled priesthood) was conferred the title of Doctor by the great
monastery of Sera, but who, because of having afterwards yielded to
feminine temptation, lost his qualification to go back to Mongolia as
a respectable Lama, while out of shame it became impossible for him to
continue to live in Lhasa, so that he was compelled to pass his life in
obscure seclusion. I felt sorry for him all the more, because I found
him to be a profound and widely-read scholar, who could have risen in
life but for his carnal weakness. Another thing I noticed about him
to my pain was that he very easily became angry, like all the Mongols
I came across, but, like them also, he was very quick in becoming
reconciled.
I said I had disputes with my Serab. It was on one of these occasions
that I differed from him with regard to the real merits of a certain
Buḍḍhist saint. Thereupon, flying into a terrible rage, he caught hold
of my clothes near my throat with one hand, and, with the other picking
up a bar belonging to a table that stood between us, was about to
visit me with a blow. The situation was very humorous, and I broke out
into loud laughter, saying the next moment that I had always thought
a little better of him than to suppose that he was capable of such
an exhibition as he was thus making of himself, in defiance of the
teachings of the saint he revered so much. This took him aback, but he
did not let go his grasp. I saw him grind his teeth, and fire glared
in his eyes; he then removed his grasp and withdrew as if too wroth to
be near me. But reconciliation followed. So time passed on, I spending
seven to nine hours a day in preparation, besides the six hours of
the regular daily lessons. Out of the twenty-four hours, thirteen to
fifteen were thus taken up for purposes of study every day, with the
exception of Sundays, my other occupation being to take one meal a day
with some tea, and to go out for a walk. Sundays I invariably spent in
mountaineering of a somewhat unusual character. I had an idea that I
should never be able to compass the arduous journey before me, toiling
on in a rare atmosphere through trackless wildernesses at great heights
while burdened with heavy luggage on my back, unless I had a thorough
training beforehand for the purpose. Guided by these thoughts, I made
a point of carrying on my back a heavy load of stones when making my
Sunday climb, and of making the ascents with all possible speed. I
was in excellent health then, and I felt that the mountaineering made
it still better, especially with regard to my lungs. Such was the
life I led for awhile, and I shortly became quite a famous man in the
locality. It was in this way.
The natives hereabouts are merely, it may be said, creatures of animal
instincts. True, they engage in agricultural work to some extent, which
keeps them occupied during the summer months, but at the other seasons
they think of nothing but eating, drinking and sleeping, their minds
being otherwise filled with thoughts pertaining to sensual love. They
occasionally spend their evening in listening to a Lama Maṇi preaching
or lecturing, but only occasionally. They change their clothing but
once a year, casting off the old for the new; but if any of them is
brave enough to wear the same suit for two years, that person is made
an object of high praise. And as they never wash their wearing apparel,
it is always shining with grease and dirt. Indifferent as they are
to their appearance, they are very painstaking in preparing food, as
also in making their sleep comfortable. But their ruling passion is
that of carnal love, and that applies to all ages, from the young to
the very old. But as human beings they are subject to illness, and
like all uncivilised people they are intensely superstitious. To them
a Lama is omnipotent, for they believe that he can cure diseases and
divine all future events. So it came to pass that the Chinese Lama--I
myself--became an object of great esteem and reverence among them. For
it was not long before my presence in Tsarang became known among the
inhabitants, and my doings in the mountain on Sundays began to attract
their attention. Especially my altercations with Serab Gyaltsan, which
were often loud enough to be heard outside, furnished them with no
end of material for gossip, while the fact that the medicines I gave
away at their pressing request occasionally proved of good effect
contributed greatly to my fame. I knew not of these things myself at
first, but heard of them from my host’s daughters, who frequently
called to favor me with tea and sweets, when they would inform me of
what people were saying of me. The most ridiculous of all was their
interpretation of the quarrels between Serab and myself; they made out
that these disputes originated in Serab’s objecting to my giving away,
to the poor, things sent to me as presents, instead of giving them to
_him_, or to my giving some cash to beggars! Idle tales as these were,
they seemed to find ready ears among the natives, who looked on me as
a being of a higher order.
[Illustration: TSARANGESE VILLAGE GIRLS.]
While treating of Tsarang, I may dwell a little on the natural beauties
of that place. Tsarang has but two seasons, namely, summer and winter,
and many are the natives that do not know even the names of the other
seasons. In summer, simple as is the contrast between the verdant
fields of luxuriant wheat, interspersed with patches of white and
pink buck-wheat, and the majestic peaks that keep guard over the
plain and look ever grand in their pure white robes of perennial snow,
the combination makes a striking picture. Throw into the picture a
buoyant army of butterflies, that flutter up and down, keeping time,
as it were, to the stirring melody of sky-larks, which is now and then
softened by the clear notes of a cuckoo, while the fields below are
resonant with the rustic melodies of joyous damsels, and the _tout
ensemble_ becomes at once as enchanting as it is archaic; and this is
the picture of Tsarang in summer, when the day is bright and warm. But
more sublimely spectacular is the view on its winter’s eve. The moment
the sun begins to descend behind the snow-covered mountains that rise
about ten miles to the west of the town, the equally snow-robed peaks
that tower above the eastern range become luminous masses of coral-red,
as the last rays of the sinking sun strike them. The ruby color
gradually changes into a golden-yellow, but that only for a moment,
and it fades away to reveal huge pillars of silver-white, shining out
majestically against the cloudless clear blue sky. The scene once more
changes as the dusk deepens, burying the peaks in faint uncertainty,
and the moon in her glory rises slowly from behind them, to spread
again an indescribable lustre of cold--if coldness has a color of its
own--over the mountain tops, which now look like a vision of celestial
seas hung in mid-air.
But Tsarang has its horrors as well as its charms, as when a snow
storm rages. The wind is often so strong that it blows away the tilled
surface of a farm, and in time changes it into a barren field of sand,
while the snow comes down in such abundance that it drifts itself into
huge mountains here and there on the plain. The cold is, of course,
intense on such occasions and nobody dares to go out. But the scene
on a moonlight night after a blizzard is worth seeing. The sky is
filled with clouds of dusty particles of snow, moving ever onward like
phantom armies, now thickening into ominous darkness and then thinning
into vapory transparency, through which one sees struggling, the lustre
of the grey steely moon. No scene so weirdly harrowing can be seen
anywhere else.