Tibet at Last.
After leaving Malba my route lay north-west, up a gradual ascent along
the banks of the river Kālīgaṅgā. We walked, however, only two and a
half miles on the day of our departure, the rain preventing our further
progress. Starting at about seven o’clock on the following morning, we
made a climb of about five miles up a narrow path, the bed of which
consisted of pointed stones and rocks of various degrees of sharpness,
and then refreshed ourselves with a light repast. On resuming our
ascent the incline became very steep and, the atmosphere growing rarer
and rarer, we could proceed no more than six miles or so before fatigue
overcame us, and at three in the afternoon we put up in a village
called Dankar, where I was obliged to stay and recuperate myself
during the whole of the next day. On the 15th we faced due north, and
five miles of a sharp ascent brought us to a glacier valley which we
crossed, and continued a climb of still steeper incline for about four
miles, after which we emerged on a somewhat wide foot-path. At 11 A. M.
we stopped for a rest. Not a drop of water was obtainable thereabouts,
but espying some herbs growing from under a light layer of snow in a
crevice of a rock, I pulled them up by the root, and, on chewing them,
found that the root tasted quite sour. With the help of this herb-root
we made a little lunch of buckwheat biscuits.
It was all ascent in the afternoon, and a very tortuous task it
was; now picking our foot-hold from rock to rock up a craggy
precipice--Mukhala Climb, where it made my head swim to look down
into the cañon a thousand feet below--now trusting my dear life to
my staff, when caught in a sand avalanche, if I may be allowed that
expression for the places where the thaw had caused the snow and rock
to slide down, leaving bare a loose sandy surface, which gave way
under one’s foot. As for my guide-carrier, he hopped, and skipped, and
balanced, and leaped, with the agility and sureness of a monkey, his
staff playing for him the part of a boat-hook in a most skilful hand,
and, in spite of his seventy-five pounds’ burden, he was so much at
home on the difficult ascent, that he was ever and anon at my side to
help me out of dangerous plights into which I would frequently fall,
with my staff stuck fast between two rocks, or while I involuntarily
acted the _rôle_ of a ball-dancer on a loosened boulder. To add to
the misery, with each step upward the air grew rarer and my breath
shorter, making me feel a scorching sensation in the brain, while
burning thirst was fast overcoming me--a morsel of snow, now and then
taken, being utterly insufficient to quench it. Many a time I had
almost fallen into a faint, and then my chronic tormentor, rheumatism,
began to assert itself. I could go no further; I wanted to lie down
on the snow and sleep for a long rest. But as often as I wished to do
so, I had a warning from my guide that a rest then would be sure death
for me, because, as he said, the air thereabouts was charged with a
poisonous gas, and I would soon succumb to its effect; he was innocent
of the knowledge of atmospheric rarity. I knew full well the weight of
this warning, and I struggled on with what was to me at that time a
superhuman effort. By the time we had finished wading across the sharp
slope of the treacherous sand, and landed upon a rock-paved flat, even
that effort failed me; I came to a halt in spite of myself, and also
of the guide, who said that water was obtainable a little distance
below. Finding me really helpless, the man went down and fetched me
some water, which I took with a restorative drug. In a little while
I felt better, and during the rest thus obtained I liberally applied
camphor-tincture over the smarting parts of my hands, which had more or
less suffered from the rigorous exercise they had had in the use of the
mountaineering staff. In the meantime night fell and, picking our way
by the uncertain star-light and the reflexion from the snow, we made a
sharp descent of some four miles, at the bottom of which we came upon
Sanda, a hamlet of about ten cottages, in one of which we lodged for
the night.
Sanda is a literally snow-bound little village, open to communication
from the rest of the world only during the three summer months, and
that through the precarious mountain path I had come over. I was
profoundly astonished to find any people making a permanent abode of
such a lonely secluded place, where the vegetation is so poor that the
inhabitants have no staple food but _tahu_, which is a cereal somewhat
akin to buckwheat, but much inferior in its dietetic qualities.
Nevertheless I must not omit to pay a tribute to the grandeur of the
natural scenery, the ever present snow-clad peaks, the gigantic heaps
upon heaps of rugged rocks, the serene quietude, all inspiring the mind
with awe and soul-lifting thoughts.
My exhaustion had been so great, that I was not able to resume the
journey until the 18th, on which day we had again to wade over a
treacherous slope, which yearly claimed, as I was told, a pilgrim or
two as victims to its ‘sand avalanche’. We headed north-west, and after
passing by a grand ancient forest of fir-trees, and then descending
along the bank of a shooting mountain stream, we reached Tashithang
(dale of brilliant illumination) at about 11 A. M. In the afternoon
we proceeded in the same direction along a path which overlooked
now a dangerously abrupt precipice of great depth, then a beautiful
valley overgrown with flowering plants and stately trees, the home
of ferocious wild animals, the least pugnacious of which are the
musk-deer. We passed that night under an overhanging piece of rock.
Throughout the 19th we kept on facing north-west, proceeding through
many similar scenes of nature, which grew, however, more fascinating
in their picturesque grandeur as we came nearer to the great peak of
Dhavalagiri. We had just reached the head of a slope of the great
snow-clad mountain called Tashila, when--not only affected by the cold
atmosphere, but as the result of general exhaustion--I became so weak
that only by transferring my share of the luggage to the shoulders of
my guide-carrier, in addition to his own, was I able to proceed slowly.
I was thoroughly fatigued, but the sublime beauty of the scenery was
so inspiring that I could not help standing still, lost in extatic
admiration, and fancying that I saw in the variously shaped elevations
the forms of giant deities of the Buḍḍhist mythology, sitting in solemn
mid-air conclave. I was only aroused from my reverie by the warning
of my guide that any further delay would kill me--because of the
atmospheric conditions--and, allowing him to help me on by taking hold
of one of my hands, we thence made a descent of about ten miles, and
once more spent the night under a sheltering rock.
On the 20th of June we began our journey with a climb up another steep
mountain, and in the valleys below I saw a species of deer, locally
called _nah_, ruminating in herds of two or three hundred. Further up
the mountain I came upon a number of wild yaks at short distances,
while on the far-off mountain sides I occasionally discerned animals
which, my guide told me, were snow-leopards, or _changku_ (mountain
dogs), both ferocious beasts that feed on their fellow-creatures,
including man. Scattered here and there on our way I frequently noticed
whitened bones of animals, most likely victims of these brutes. At some
places the thawing snow revealed the bleached remains of human beings,
probably frozen to death. The curious thing was that the skull and the
leg-bones were missing from every one of the skeletons I came across.
It was explained to me that the Tibetans manufactured certain utensils,
used for ritualistic purposes, from these portions of human bones; and
that it was their practice to appropriate them whenever they came upon
the remains of luckless wanderers! The sight and the information could
not but fill me with an extremely uncomfortable feeling, mixed with
one of profound sympathy, and many a time I prayed in silence for the
repose of the souls of the poor neglected brethren, as we went along
our way.
In due course we arrived at a village called Thorpo, situated on the
other side of the mountain we had crossed. Another name of the village
is Tsaka, and its inhabitants are believers in Bon, the ancient
religion of Tibet. Thence we travelled on until July 1st, making an
occasional stop of one or two days for recuperating purposes. On the
way we passed through much the same sort of scenery, abounding in
picturesque views as well as in various interesting plants and animals.
We had now come to the outer edge of the skirts of Mount Dhavalagiri.
My luggage had become considerably lessened in weight, owing to the
absence of what we had consumed on our way, and I now felt equal to
taking over the burdens on to my own back. I turned to my guide, and
told him that he could now go back, as I intended to make a lonely
pilgrimage to Khambuthang--the Sacred Peach Valley--by myself. Nothing
could have given him more astonishment than this intimation, for he
had all along been under the impression that he was to accompany me
back to Malba. He stoutly opposed my venturing on such a perilous
expedition, which nobody, he said, but a living Buḍḍha, or Boḍhisaṭṭva,
would dare to undertake. From the most ancient time, he continued,
there had been only one or two persons who had ever come out of the
valley alive, and it was absolutely certain that I should be torn to
pieces and devoured by the dreadful monsters that guarded its entrance
and exit. But I was not to be moved, and the man went back, with hot
tears of farewell, thinking no doubt that he had seen the last of me.
A solitary traveller, in one of the untrodden depths of the Himālayas,
and loaded with a dead weight of about sixty-five pounds, my progress
thenceforward was a succession of incidents and accidents of the most
dangerous nature, made doubly trying by innumerable hardships and
privations.
On that first day of July, 1900, early in the morning, after watching
the form of my faithful guide on his return journey until he had
disappeared behind a projecting rock, I then turned round and proceeded
due north. To my joy I found the pathway not so difficult as I had
expected, owing to the entire absence of rugged rocks. Still, there
was always enough to weigh me down with anxiety, as I had to push my
way over the trackless field of deep snow, with a solitary compass
and a mountain peak as my only guides. One night I slept on the snow
under the sky, and another I passed in the hollow of a cliff; three
days’ jogging, after parting with my carrier, brought me across to the
other side of the northern peak of the Dhavalagiri. It is here that the
dominion of Nepāl ends and
THE FRONTIER OF TIBET BEGINS.
As I stood on that high point, which commanded on the south the
snow-capped heads of the Dhavalagiri family, and on the north the
undulating stretch of the North-east Steppes of Tibet, interspersed
here and there with shining streams of water, which appeared to flow
out of and then disappear into the clouds, I felt as if my whole being
had turned into a fountain of welling emotions. Toward the south,
far, far away, beyond the sky-reaching Dhavalagiri, I imagined that I
saw Buḍḍhagayā, sacred to our beloved Lord Buḍḍha, where I had vowed
my vow, and prayed for protection and mercy. That reminded me of the
parting words I left behind me, when bidding adieu to my folks and
friends at home. I had then said that in three years I would be able
to enter Tibet. That was on the 26th of June, 1897, and here I was
stepping on the soil of Tibet on the 4th of July, 1900.
[Illustration: ENTERING TIBET FROM NEPAL.]
How could I prevent myself from being transported with mingled feelings
of joy, gratitude and hope? But I was tired and hungry. I took my
luggage from my back and gently set it on a piece of rock, after
brushing off the snow, and then, taking out my store of provisions,
made some dough out of baked flour, snow and butter. Morsel after
morsel, the mixture, with a sprinkle of powdered pepper and salt, went
down my throat with unearthly sweetness, and I fancied that the Gods in
Paradise could not feast on dishes more exquisitely palatable. I made
away with two bowlfuls of the preparation with the greatest relish;
that ended my meal for the day.
I should observe here that I have always adhered, as I adhere now, to
the rule of one full meal a day, besides taking some dried fruits or
something of that kind for breakfast. I may also state that the bowl
of which I speak here was of a fairly large size, and two of them
constituted a full good repast, especially as the wheat produced in
cold latitudes seems to be richer in nutrition than that of warmer
countries.
Well, I had dined grandly. The ocean of snow stretched around me
and below me, far away. I was still in an extatic mood and all was
interesting. But in which direction was I to proceed in resuming my
journey?