Some easier days.
The plain was nothing but a swamp, and I was obliged to wade across
shallow streams alternating with mud flats. At one place I came to a
bog which, when I tried it with my stick, appeared to be very deep, so
that my only course was to select what seemed to be the narrowest part,
and to cross it as best I could. The bog at this place was not more
than four yards in width, and did not look as if it could be deep, as
it was covered with fine sand at the bottom of some shallow water, so
I began at once to cross it by making a bold plunge.
But alas! before I had gone two steps I had sunk deep into it, and,
though I tried to save myself by means of my sticks, I found myself
momentarily sinking further and further into the mire. I then took the
bundles I was carrying one by one off my shoulders, and threw them
on to the other side; then I stripped off my clothes and threw them
likewise, leaving myself exposed to the icy wind. Then I commenced
with the aid of my sticks to balance myself across the bog with as
much care and as gingerly as though I had been balancing myself on
a tight rope in my younger days. As soon as I got my body back into
a vertical position (for I had fallen almost flat upon my face), I
laid the shorter of my sticks horizontally across the mud so as to
give a resting place for my feet, and then with the aid of the longer
stick raised myself slowly until I got both my feet upon it. Then I
slowly moved my feet along the top of the horizontal stick, and thus,
thanks to the lightness of my body, which had been freed from all
encumbrances, I managed in a few minutes to reach _terra firma_.
[Illustration: FALLEN INTO A MUDDY SWAMP]
I was shivering with cold when I got there, but I was exceedingly
proud of my acrobatic feat, and, wringing out my wet clothes as best
I could, put them on again and made my way to a tent which I saw near
the high-road, where I fortunately found some pilgrims who gave me
hospitality for the night.
The word “high-road” suggests to the mind the idea of a macadamised
thoroughfare, but that is not what the traveller finds in Tibet. The
high-road was nothing more than a beaten track, along which men and
beasts trod their way as best they could. In fact anything is called a
high-way in Tibet, if it is frequented by travellers, free from grass,
and not too stony. In desert places, where there is no grass to be
worn off, there are no high-roads, except in the immediate environs of
Lhasa. It would be a mistake to suppose that carriages could be used
on the high-road; there is no road in Tibet capable of being used by
either carriage or jinriksha. When some years ago the Rājā of Nepāl
presented the Dalai Lama with a carriage of European make, to be drawn
by four horses, many of the Dalai Lama’s advisers recommended him to
return the gift, as one which could not possibly be used in Tibet.
Another opinion, however, prevailed: it was urged that the carriage
had been brought from a great distance and could not well be returned
without impoliteness, and it was therefore placed as a curiosity in the
Palace at Lhasa, where it can be seen to this day. This was about four
years ago.
Bad roads are universal in Tibet, except around Lhasa and Shigatze, the
most advanced cities in the country. Still, bad as it was, I was glad
to be once more on the high-road, where there were no fortresses for
the molestation of travellers, and by which I might reasonably hope
to reach Lhasa in due time. One day, after a long stretch of desert
travelling, I reached a tent which was also a grog-shop--a somewhat
strange oasis in the midst of a desert. But it became intelligible
when I found that a large fair of salt, wool, and cattle had recently
been held in this locality and that the grog-shop had been opened in
connexion with the fair by a man from Mondan in the province of Lo. The
liquor sold was a kind of beer made from barley, and the grog-shop was
to remain here for about another month.
I reached the tent about dusk, and was delighted to find myself amongst
friends, for I had made the acquaintance of the landlady sometime
before at Tsarang. The old dame was delighted to see me. She had been
wondering what had become of me and was very glad that fortune had
guided my steps to her tent. She was anxious to know if I were going to
return to Tsarang, to which I gave an evasive answer, and she gave me
such a kind reception that I should have hesitated to accept it from
any but herself.
The next day I travelled over twelve miles to the south-east, with one
of the old lady’s servants to guide me and a yak to carry my luggage.
At the end of the journey we reached the house of a man named Gyal
Bum, to whom the dame introduced me as a venerable Lama, desirous of
hospitality. Gyal Bum is the second man in the province of Bomba, and
possesses two thousand yaks, five thousand sheep, and an enormous
amount of wealth. One of his tents was ninety yards square and had a
stone chapel annexed. There were two other tents, one of ordinary size,
the other very small and fitted up like a tea-house. The bottom edge of
the canvas of the large tent was turned inwards, and on it were placed
large quantities of goods, which served as weights to secure the tent.
The goods were all concealed under Tibetan blankets, and were mostly
butter, barley, wheat, wool, and the like. It was in this tent that I
stayed.
Gyal Bum was about seventy-five years old, and his wife over eighty
and blind. They had no children, and the Tibetan law does not permit
the adoption of a child from another family. Should a man die without
children, his nearest relative, as a general but not universal rule,
becomes his heir. The old couple asked me many questions about
Buḍḍhism, which I answered as kindly as I could. They thought the
teaching was excellent, and as they had now no hopes except in a future
life, they asked me to conduct a benedictory service for them during
their life-time--a request to which I gave consent the more readily,
because I was much fatigued and wished to recuperate. The old gentleman
pressed me, indeed, to make a long stay of a year or more with him, but
this I declined, as I feared running any risks in view of the many wild
rumors about me that were being circulated throughout the Lo province.
Furthermore I was afraid that, however warmly I might be clad, I should
be unable to endure the severe rigors of a winter in those regions, for
I had already been obliged to borrow two fur coats from my host, and
still felt so cold that I was sure I could not winter in the tent. I
was obliged therefore to resist his importunities.
One incident will show that my anxieties about my health were not
groundless. One day while walking I felt a lump in my throat, which
I brought up and found to be a clot of blood, and the bleeding,
having once begun, went on with such persistence that I began to fear
consumption. I was much alarmed, as may be imagined, but the excellent
precepts of my religion enabled me to keep calm, and the more keenly I
felt the pain of the bleeding, the more I kept myself under control.
I sat down on the grass and stopped my respiration, as though for a
meditation, and was glad to find that the bleeding soon ceased, though
not before I had brought up quite a pool of blood. When I got home,
my pale face quite alarmed my host, and when I told him what had
happened, he said that the rarity of the atmosphere (he did not call
it ‘rarity,’ for of that he knew nothing) often had a similar effect
upon Chinese visitors. He fortunately knew of a very good remedy,
which he applied with great success, and thus relieved me of my fears
of a supposed consumption. Three days later I again brought up blood,
though in a decreased quantity, and the old gentleman told me that
after two such vomitings I should never be similarly troubled again.
He was quite right; henceforth I was free from these attacks, even at
Lhasa. The place Bomba is 15,000 feet above the sea-level; Lhasa is
only 12,000, and no one spits blood on account of the rarity of the
atmosphere at this latter place. My host kindly fed me up with milk and
other nourishing food, and when, a week later, I took my departure, he
presented me with the fur of an animal called _yi_, which he said was
the only thing that would do me any good. The yi is a sort of cat that
lives in the snow. It is somewhat larger than an ordinary cat, and its
fur is much valued in Tibet. My host’s present was a tippet of yi fur,
covering the shoulders, and I learned afterwards that such a tippet
would cost twenty-five yen when new, and ten yen for an old one. He
also gave me a quantity of butter and ten tankas of coin, and sent his
servant with a horse to put me well on my journey. Thus I travelled
some ten Japanese miles and reached the house of one Ajo-pu, a village
headman, where I lodged. I was very thankful that I had stayed with
Gyal Bum, for had I spat blood on the journey I should have died.
I left Ajo-pu’s house on the 29th October, 1900, and after going ten
_ri_ to the south-east, down a descent, reached the banks of the
Brahmapuṭra, which was already covered with ice and glittering in the
dazzling sun. I had not originally intended to go by this way, but by
the high-road, which would have taken me more to the east but Ajo-pu
had told me that at this season I should find no herdsmen along the
high-road until I reached Tadun-Tazam, while by the other road I
should come across them frequently. Sure enough, I found a tent on
the banks of the Brahmapuṭra, and was hospitably received by its kind
owner, a man of the name of Gyal-po. He told me that he was starting
the next day along the same route that I was taking, and offered to
take my baggage on one of his yaks. I was glad to be thus relieved of
my burden, and the next morning we all set off towards the south-east
along the river.
It was a sandy swampy country, and after some four _ri_ (ten miles) we
came to a plain of soft white sand which was very tiring to the feet,
so that I thankfully accepted Gyal-po’s offer of a bare-backed horse.
I am not a good horseman, but I trotted on bravely for a while, till
the pain in my hip-bone became unbearable. Then I changed my position
and rode sideways, like a lady, but then my legs began to hurt me, so
I jumped off at last and resumed my journey on foot. It was very hard
walking, but I consoled myself with thinking that, at any rate, I had
no luggage to carry, and so after a weary walk of five miles I came to
a narrow cañon through which the river flowed.
Through this defile we went, threading our way among the numerous
rocks, until at last we came to a place where three great rocks, in
shape like a man’s clenched fist, blocked the valley. Here the river
made a sharp turn to the south, while our road lay through a valley
to the south-east; so we bid adieu to the Brahmapuṭra. Presently we
crossed a big mountain and came out on an extensive plain. We had
travelled nearly twenty miles that day, and near the close of it I
separated from Gyal-po’s party. I was told that evening that there was
another river for me to cross before I got to Tadun-Tazam, and that as
it was full of perils I must hire a guide. This I did, and the next
day, after walking for fifteen miles towards the south-east, arrived
about ten o’clock at a river a hundred and twenty yards wide, which
was still covered with ice. The guide was afraid that the ice, which
was not thick enough to bear us, would cut our legs if we attempted to
wade through it, and on his advice we waited for the sun to melt it a
little. We therefore took our lunch, and at last about noon broke the
ice and began to wade across. The ice cut our legs in several places,
and our feet were quite benumbed with cold by the time we had got
across; but we walked on for another eighteen miles, and then stopped
for the night in a little tent.
The next day, November 1, I started at nine o’clock and walked till a
little past noon, when we crossed another icy rivulet. Twelve miles
more brought us to Tadun, the most famous temple in northern Tibet.
Tadun means the ‘seven hairs,’ and the tradition is that the hair of
seven Buḍḍhas are interred here. The temple stands on the summit of
a hill, and in its enclosure is a revenue office. It is in fact not
a temple but a town (Tazam), one of the most populous and wealthy in
northern Tibet.