A Tearful Departure from Lhasa.
Lhasa was at that time in a state of such intense excitement over
the festivities that the people hardly seemed to know what they were
doing. The police force of the city is not large: it consists of thirty
constables (Kochakpa) and thirty policemen (Ragyabpa), and the whole
energies of the force were devoted to the duty of guarding the persons
of the Grand Lama and his Co-adjutor. Every official and priest was
busily engaged in the duties of his office; none could spare even a
thought for anything outside his immediate sphere of occupation--in
short the time could not possibly have been more favorable for my plan
of escaping from the city. Still it was necessary to take precautions,
for there were many priests from Sera in the town, and I therefore
determined to divert attention by wearing, instead of travelling
clothes, a suit of ordinary ecclesiastical garments which I had
borrowed from the Minister a few days before.
At eleven o’clock, on the day of my departure, my kind, host and
hostess of the Thien-ho-thang prepared for me a farewell dinner of
vegetables only. It was a very sad meal, and the two children, a boy of
five and a girl of eleven years old, were almost inconsolable at the
thought of my departure. Poor things, they did their best to retain me
and I must confess that I never before felt so strongly the force of
childish affection.
Some of the members of the family were very anxious to testify their
respect by accompanying me for a mile or two on my journey, but as it
would have been hard to escape observation had we left the house in
a large party, we agreed to go out one by one, and meet again in the
grove in front of the Rebon Temple outside the capital. So, with a
coolie to carry my baggage, I started off by myself through the crowded
streets, and when right in front of the Great Temple was accosted by
a policeman. I felt sure that something had been detected, and gave
myself up for lost.
He looked me straight in the face, and said “I congratulate you,” and
when he found I did not reply he repeated his congratulations. I did
not know what he was congratulating me about, but at least it did not
look as if he were going to arrest me, and I continued my silence, but
he made three low bows as signs of his congratulations, and made as
though I would pass on. Suddenly it occurred to me that I was wearing
a suit of ecclesiastical garments borrowed from the Minister, and that
doubtless the policeman had jumped to the conclusion that as I was
wearing such dignified robes I had been appointed physician to His
Holiness (as indeed it was rumored), and that he expected a reward of
money for his well-meant felicitations. So I gave him a ‘single-handed
blessing,’ and a tanka of money, which made him stick out his tongue
in gratitude, and so went on my way. I reckoned it as a thing most
auspicious that I should have met the man in front of the Temple, and
thus have commenced my journey with words of felicitation.
There are some points about the Tibetan police which I must not omit
to mention. They receive no salaries, and live on the alms of the
community, though their methods of solicitation differ materially
from those of ordinary beggars. At stated periods they go, usually in
companies of three, through the streets, and standing at the gates of
private houses cry out as follows:
“We have come to receive alms from the wealthy, and you are so wealthy
that you can easily relieve our distress. We therefore pray you, the
savior of the poor and the friend of the needy, to give thirty pieces
of gold to thirty poor men who with their wives live in miserable huts,
and the gift you give us this day shall be brought home to our women
and make them happy. We shall fill our broken cups with fragrant liquor
and let them lie down this evening in a state of blissful intoxication.
_Lha-kyallo._[4]”
[4] The words “_Lha-kyallo_” mean: the virtuous God will be victorious.
They will go on repeating these dirge-like petitions at the gate until
at last some one comes out and gives them a few silver coins and some
parched wheat-flour in a tin pan covered with a small kata. There is
no fixed amount to be given, but if a rich man does not give them what
they think they have a right to expect, they will let him know what
they think. They are not supposed to beg at Temples, but as a matter of
fact every Temple gives them something for the sake of its own credit,
and for peace and quiet.
All the money that is thus collected is handed over to one of the
Kochakpa, who distributes it in regular monthly instalments to the
members of the Force. But the Lhasa police have also further sources
of income. When a wealthy pilgrim from the country arrives in the city
they ask for a donation from him, and if they do not get at least one
tanka they will set the worthless people of the city on to attack him
and not stir a finger for his protection. Every countryman therefore
finds it to his interest to pay this blackmail to the police, and when
I was in Lhasa as a layman I had paid my tanka like the others. But
since I had assumed the priest’s robe they had not been able to demand
anything from me, and therefore I suppose that my friend thought the
opportunity of getting a present in return for his congratulations was
too good to be lost.
If a policeman goes on a journey, say to arrest a thief, he takes
nothing with him for the expenses of his journey. He goes to any house
he chooses and takes what they give him to eat and drink, and if
he is going on to a place where there is no entertainment to be had
he just orders the people of the house to provide him with whatever
he requires. The Kochakpa however are far superior to the ordinary
policemen. They have a regular salary from the Government, and so do
not live on blackmail.
Having got rid of my policeman friend, I turned to the Temple for a
final act of worship, and then passing under the Palace of the Grand
Lama and over the bridge, came out upon the vast plain, where, by the
small grove in front of the Rebon Temple, I found the clerk of the
drug-store and a few friends waiting to take their leave of me. I had
had my dinner, and I never drink wine: there was nothing left for me
to do but to change my dress and commence my journey, which I did,
requesting my friends to return my clerical clothes to the Minister of
Finance. But my friends had brought some wine with them, and insisted
on drinking to me before I went, repeatedly expressing their great
sorrow at my departure and urging me to take great care of my health
in the trying climate of India. They were also very anxious to know
whether, after once returning to India, I should ever revisit Tibet
again, and they several times expressed their great indebtedness to me.
As for myself, I cannot say that I was very sorry to be leaving Lhasa,
but the sight of their sorrow made me sad as I passed out of the grove
of the Rebon Temple in the direction of Shingzonka, where I stopped for
the night.
On the 30th of May, I hired post-horses and left Shingzonka. Here I
had been obliged to find serious fault with my luggage-carrier, Tenba.
Tibetans, as my readers must by this time be well aware, are prone to
lies, and will grossly exaggerate the most trivial and insignificant
matters. I had often spoken to Tenba about this, but in spite of my
frequent admonitions, he had told the master of the house where we
lodged at Shingzonka that I was an incarnation of a Lama. Of course the
innkeeper at once was all full of smiles and politeness, put me into
a better room and did all he could for my comfort, and as far as that
was concerned I had no reason for complaint. But I was afraid that by
and by trouble might come to me by reason of that lie, and I spoke to
him in severe terms not only about the wickedness but also about the
inconvenience of uttering falsehoods.
“I only said ‘yes,’” urged the man in his own justification, “when
he asked me if you were not an incarnation. If you go round as an
incarnation, you are respected and honored, and can make lots of money.
There is no profit in going about just as you are.”
“But, you miserable man,” I returned angrily, “I am not here for
the purpose of making money. It is unutterably bad to make money by
deceiving others.”
“But,” he grumbled, “everybody wants to make money”. Nevertheless he
promised to be more careful with his tongue in the future.
That day we had dinner at Ne-thang, and going six miles further on
arrived at the village of Nam. When my teacher, Rai Saraṭ Chanḍra
Ḍās Bahāḍur, visited Nam some twenty years ago, it was a village of
some thirty houses. It seems almost incredible that we stayed in the
single house now standing in the place. The fact is that some six years
after the Rai Bahāḍur’s departure from Tibet, some sixteen years ago,
the whole village was swept away by a flood of the river Kichu. The
villagers then removed their dwellings to a plateau between the ravines
where they would be safe from future inundations, erecting just one
house on the old site for the benefit of travellers.
So, to return to my story, I passed through Nam and reached the village
of Jangtoe, where lived a priest whose acquaintance I had made at Sera.
“Where are you going?” he asked, as he served me with tea.
“On a pilgrimage to India,” was my politic reply, which was received
with great joy, and made my host most sympathetic and helpful. He
insisted on lending me a horse the next morning, and I was thus enabled
to make a rapid journey to Chaksam, where I found several boats, some
of hides and some of wood. I embarked on one of these latter, crossed
to the other side and arrived at the station of Pashe, under the high
and steep mountain of Genpala. At Pashe I hired another horse, (for I
had sent back the priest’s horse from the river), and the next morning,
1st June, at four o’clock, started again on my journey. Half-way up the
hill I found a Chinaman who had left Lhasa a day before myself. He was
feeding his horse by the roadside, and drinking tea, and when I asked
him about his luggage, he said that it was being sent after him.
[Illustration: A DISTANT VIEW OF LHASA.]
On reaching the top of the mountain and looking back, I was able, in
the clear air, to see not only Lhasa far away on the north-eastern
horizon, but even the Grand Lama’s palace above it, a dim vision of
heavenly beauty. Both in coming and in going I enjoyed this beautiful
sight, and saluted the Lama’s Palace in the distance. Genpala rises
fourteen thousand nine hundred feet above the sea, while Lhasa is
twelve thousand, so that the mountain is nearly three thousand feet
higher than the city. The distance, as a bird flies, between them is
thirty-five miles, and though some Tibetan travellers deny the fact, I
can vouch for it from experience that the Grand Lama’s Palace can be
distinctly seen from a point of vantage on the summit of the mountain,
though the slightest change in position causes the palace to disappear.
[Illustration: FAREWELL TO LHASA FROM THE TOP OF GENPALA.]
While speaking of Genpala I recollect an amusing story which I will
here relate. There is in the house of a rich man in Nepāl a Tibetan
servant of the name of Penba-pun-tso, who accompanied his master on one
occasion on a pilgrimage to Lhasa. There were several other Tibetans
in the company. Now, whereas in Nepāl food is cheap and plentiful and
every one gets enough, that is not the case in Lhasa. There, the Lama
gets a good meal with meats of various kinds, vermicelli, and eggs; but
the ordinary layman has to be contented with parched barley flour--not
unmixed with sand and grit--put in a bowl with tea and eaten. And often
there is not enough even of that. The pilgrims cannot always get all
they require, and many lose strength, while all lose flesh.
At last the pilgrimage was over, all the noteworthy Lamas had been
visited, and the party of Nepālese, on their way home, reached the
summit of Mount Genpala. With one accord they all turned round to take
a last farewell of the Holy City. “We are indeed fortunate,” they
murmured, “to have been allowed to accomplish this pilgrimage, and we
pray (here they shed tears of pious fervor) that we may deserve to be
re-born in the Holy Land of Buḍḍha.”
But Penba-pun-tso refused to join them in their prayers. He
deliberately turned his back on the Holy City, and took no pains to
conceal his disgust at the behavior of his companions.
“How joyful it is, brethren,” he replied to their remonstrances, “to
have left behind Lhasa, the hateful abode of hungry demons and evil
spirits. My prayer is that I may never have occasion to see the place
again.”
“You are very hard on Lhasa,” they said.
“Not a bit of it,” was the reply. “I am only honest; that’s all. In my
master’s house in Nepāl I get plenty of food--good rice, with no sand
in it. Why should I call Lhasa the Holy City--a place where the greedy
Lamas are the only men who get enough to eat?”
Penba’s pious companions were much shocked at his outspoken heresies.
But Penba did not mind their threats.
“I may be punished for what I have said,” he calmly remarked; “but all
the same I am glad not to have been born in Lhasa. The devils of the
Holy City may punish me if they like.”
There is a great deal of truth in what the man said. Lhasa swarms with
beggars and paupers, and may truly be called the City of hungry devils.
There are even to be found in Lhasa professional mendicants who are
also usurious money-lenders. These men as a rule starve themselves in
order to save a little money, which they conceal in some secret place
underground and then lend out at exorbitant rates of interest. When
they die, their secret hoard is lost, until some one some day digs it
up by chance, when it is presented as treasure-trove to the priests
of Sera or to those of the Ganden or Rebon Temples. Can these men,
who starve themselves in order to make a little additional gain, be
called anything but hungry devils? Truly, I can witness that Lhasa is
the abode of these hungry spirits, and that the Lamas are flesh-eating
ogres.
Penba-pun-tso, whose story thus amused me as I climbed over the steeps
of Genpala, is still living at Nyallam on the borders of Nepāl and
Tibet. I cannot say that I fully share his feelings against Lhasa,
which I know as well probably as he does; but it is indeed a city in
which wheat and tares grow together, a very few noble Boḍhisaṭṭvas
dwelling in the midst of many extortionate demons. It is my earnest
desire to return some day to the Holy City and there work for the
important object of bringing together into living unity the Buḍḍhism of
Japan and Tibet.
On our way down from the summit of Mount Genpala we diverted our steps
a little in the direction of the village of Ta ma lung, a change of
route necessitated by the desire to dine and to change horses, before
proceeding to the post-station of Palte.
Palte is, as I have mentioned before, a very picturesque town on the
shores of Lake Yamdo. We arrived towards nightfall after a long journey
southward through beautiful winding roads, and here I fancy that my
luggage coolie Tenba, who preceded me by a few minutes, must have
announced me as a physician from Sera, for soon after my arrival the
headman brought me a sick man for examination. I declined to prescribe
for the man at first, but the more I drew back the more did the headman
urge his suit, until I was at last reluctantly compelled to give him
some medicine. I was surprised to find with what great reverence the
people of the place treated “a physician from Sera”.
It was almost as if he had been a God of medicine, so great was the
honor they paid him.
The next day, June 6th, I left Palte on horseback at two in the
morning, and about eight o’clock reached the eastern extremity of Yase
through beautiful scenery, which I need not however describe again.
Some two miles to the east of Yase there is a river which empties
itself into the narrow arm of a lake, and is crossed by a stone bridge
which leads the traveller towards the south. As far as this bridge my
route had been the same as on my former journey through this country:
but after crossing the bridge, I diverged in a south-easterly direction
along the lake shore, and then turned to the south (still along the
lake) for five miles, where I struck off and reached Nankartse in time
for dinner. Here my servant, who was very tired, expected to stop,
but I pushed on westward, until we came out on an immense plain where
we beheld outspread before us the snow-clad mountains of the Bhūṭān
frontier. As we pushed on the scenery became more and more beautiful,
and the mountains closed in on both sides of us. At last, in the heart
of a narrow ravine, we came to a solitary house beside a river. We
should have had to go another five _ri_ before reaching another house,
so we determined to stop here.
The next morning, soon after midnight, I got up and aroused my servant.
He did not want to leave his bed and grumbled about its being midnight
and a long way to dawn, but we had before made up our minds for an
early start so as to get ahead of possible pursuers, and so I kept
to my purpose. It was a very lonely ascent through deep snow, and my
servant was so scared by the darkness and the fear of pursuers that he
did not dare to walk behind me, and when I made him go in front, he
would often stop for me to reconnoitre some suspicious object ahead.
For the road, he said, was full of malicious demons, and there was no
knowing what harm they might not do to one.
[Illustration: CROSSING A MOUNTAIN AT MIDNIGHT.]
I did my best to re-assure him by the fact of my presence and the
example of my courage, and so, with slow and faltering steps we climbed
up the five _ri_ of steep mountain ascent and at daybreak reached the
small village of Za-ra, when we had breakfast and succeeded in hiring
horses. At these mountain-stations it is almost impossible to hire
an animal, for there are none kept there, and the traveller has to
depend on pack-horses and travelling horses that may happen to pass
by that way. What few post-horses there are, are all taken up by the
Government, and never come into the hands of ordinary travellers. And
yet it was very important for us to obtain animals, for we had to pass
along the snowy peak of Nechen Kangsang, and though there are several
places in the ascent as well as in the descent where riding is out of
the question, over the steep and ill-kept roads, there are also places
in the higher plateau of the mountains where the rarefied atmosphere
makes rapid travelling on foot a sheer impossibility.
Thanks, however, to our good fortune in procuring horses at Za-ra, we
were able to push on towards the majestic mountain peaks as far as
to Ralung, where we rested till midnight. We then arose, mounted our
steeds, and following a stream for some ten and a half miles arrived at
Tsanang. In Tibet there is no beautiful scenery except that of snowy
mountains. When the snow-peaks disappear from sight, everything becomes
monotonous and lonely.
The next day we rode into the post-town of Gyangtze, the third city
of Tibet. The city contains a large Buḍḍhist Temple, Pankhor Choeten,
inhabited by fifteen hundred priests, and in it was living the chief
financial agent of the Lama Government, who was married to the niece
of the old nun who once lived with me in the Minister’s residence. As
he was an old and intimate friend of mine, I ventured to call upon
him and was received with great joy. His residence, Serchok, was a
large building on the outskirts of the grounds of the great Temple,
and my friend was very urgent that I should spend some ten or twenty
days with him. This I declined, on the ground that I was going on a
pilgrimage; but as I was anxious to see the Temple, and as moreover it
was absolutely necessary to provide oneself with all necessaries of
life before attempting the trip across the mountains, I determined to
stay for one or two days at least.
The temple is very large, and the tower is the largest in Tibet.
The number of priests is comparatively small, but the monastery is
about one-half the size of the Sera convent. Priests of the New Sect
predominate, but those of the Old Sect are allowed to reside there,
as are also the Sakya and Karma priests. I was shown a great number
of sacred articles preserved in the Temple, and then returned to my
friend’s residence.
Gyangtze is a good emporium for trade. A large market is held every
morning outside the gate of the great temple, and people flock in
from the whole neighborhood to buy and sell. There are many shops,
stalls, and booths in which goods of all kinds are exposed for
sale--vegetables, meat, flower, milk, butter, cotton and articles to
tempt the fancy of the buyers. Also wool and yak’s tails, on their road
from the table-lands of the north-west to India, are brought here in
transit, and are distributed among the merchants who come so far to
obtain them.
After stopping one night in the temple, we started on June 1st, 1902,
at five o’clock. By the kindness of my host, a horse was lent to me for
five days, and so I passed through the town of Gyangtze, crossed the
river Tsangchu, and gradually proceeded southward to the place where
the nunnery of Nening stands. I was told that in this nunnery there
was a living goddess called Dolma in Tibetan, only seven years of age.
I did not however see her. After taking dinner at the house opposite
the temple, we hurried on for about twenty-five miles, and came to the
native village of my luggage-carrier Tenba. That night we lodged in a
small temple where his brother was living, and my man and he had a good
carouse that night.
“Your master’s complexion is unusually fair,” said his brother, “and
differs little from that of Mongolians. Is he not a European?”
“No, no,” said my servant, eagerly trying to dispel his brother’s
suspicion, “he is an honorable physician in Sera.”
“I know the physician in Sera,” answered his brother, entirely
forgetting that I was in the next room; “but he is a doubtful sort of
man, one that brings the dead back to life. No man can do such things
unless he is a European. Be careful, my good brother, that you come to
no harm.”
“That is not so,” pleaded the other emphatically, relating what he had
heard from the owner of Thien-ho-thang, “he is a Chinaman, an intimate
friend of the owner of Thien-ho-thang.”
I pretended not to have heard the last night’s talk between the
brothers, and early the next morning I left the house, and as we were
at the point of departure the brother whispered something in my man’s
ear. Walking toward the mountain south of us for about seven miles, we
came to the post-station of Kangma. While we were resting, twelve or
thirteen pack-horses led by a Chinaman, two of them with my baggage,
came towards us in great haste. It seemed to me that the Chinese did
not know the baggage was mine, and I was glad to see that it was on the
way to Darjeeling.
The sight of my baggage may have increased Tenba’s suspicion. When it
was first packed in Thien-ho-thang, he thought it was going to be left
in the care of the drug-store, but now, to his surprise, he found it
was going off somewhere. He shut his mouth, hung his head thoughtfully,
and followed after me for a long while, till at last he suddenly broke
the silence.
“As we are still some five or six days’ journey from the Phari
Challenge Gate,” he suggested eagerly, yet with some hesitation, “would
it not be better for us to take the other road? They are so very strict
with their enquiries at the gate that it will be hard for you to get
a proper passport, without a witness who can prove that you are only
going on a short trip to India and that you will soon be back. Such a
witness must be taken from the village itself, and it requires quite
a lot of money to get one. You will also have to do some bribing to
get a passport, and I very much doubt whether you have money enough
for the purpose. There is another way where I can get you through for
about half the money required at Phari, and if you will entrust the
matter to me I will take you to it. We must go by the secret path to
Khamburong, from which point it will be easy to get into India; but it
is a difficult road, and not altogether free from wild animals. If you
are afraid of it, there is another route, through Bhūtān, though, to be
sure, it is infested with highwaymen. Still, I dare say you will get
through unmolested, if you conceal your luggage and wear old clothes.
It is for you to choose.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” I replied, “that I had better take some other
route than that of Phari on the ground of expense?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Tenba; “it is nonsense to throw away money like
that.”
“I don’t know how much money it will require,” I replied deliberately,
“but it is folly to risk one’s life unnecessarily. If we go by the
secret path or through Bhūṭān the chances are nine to one that we
lose our lives. It is better to lose money than one’s life. So don’t
dream of going by a dangerous road, for there is no need for it. I am
not without money; how much do you want? I promised to give you seven
yen fifty sen monthly, and I intend to give you a handsome present as
well for the work you undertake to do for me, but I shall not give you
anything unless you stick to your bargain.”
The whole of this suggestion originated, I am sure, from his brother’s
parting whisper, and I was glad to be able to dispel his suspicions,
at least in some degree. Had I acted upon his suggestions, and given
him the money he asked for to take me round by the secret path,
his suspicions as to the shadiness of my character would have been
confirmed, and he would only have waited for me to fall asleep to steal
my luggage. It is impossible to trust oneself entirely to Tibetans,
for honesty is observed only among people who are well-known to one
another, and only so long as actions are done before the public gaze.
Social restraints are no sooner removed than the Tibetan is ready for
any crime or enormity. One has to keep one’s eyes constantly open in
travelling with such people.
After a pleasant walk of about five miles along the mountain ridge,
we arrived at the village of Salu, where we stopped. We left at one
o’clock the next morning (June 8th), much to the disgust of Tenba,
who was again horribly afraid of the journey through the dark, and
proceeded southward towards the mountains. More accurately, we were
going to the south-west, and after proceeding for some seven and a half
miles, reached a high plain. Eleven miles further, we came to a small
lake with a river flowing to it. We kept along the east bank of the
river for another three and a half miles, which brought us to Lake Lham
tso, a sheet of water connected with the lower lake by the river. We
could reach Phari by going round the lake on either side; but we chose
to go along the left or eastern side.
From this point the snowy peaks of the Himālayas look like a row of
beautiful maidens sitting in a line on a bench, and wearing snow-white
bonnets. They are not very high, but there are great numbers of peaks,
the lower slopes of which are covered in summer with grass, which would
I believe make excellent pasture, especially along the borders of the
lake where grass is profuse. We skirted the shores of the lake for
about twenty miles and at last reached the village of Lham-maye, on a
beautiful summer evening with the crescent moon shining faintly above
us. It reminded me of home.
[Illustration: NIGHT SCENE ON THE CHOMO-LHARI AND LHAM TSO.]
We stopped for the night in a large stone house, from which we had
a view towards the south over a great mountain known in Tibetan as
Chomo-Lhari (the mountain of the Mother Goddess). There are many
mountains of this name in Tibet, where nearly every snowy peak is
accounted sacred to the deity and is called by her name. Some say that
there are twenty-one Chomo-Lhari in Tibet, some give the number as
thirty-two; but as nearly every large mountain goes by that name, the
number must be far greater. This particular Chomo-Lhari sits, like the
Buḍḍhist deity Vairochana, with an air of great solemnity in one corner
of the plain, with its head in the clouds; while the snowy peaks which
range themselves on either side of it, embracing the lake as it were
with their gigantic masses, look like the Boḍhisaṭṭva Avalokiṭeshvara
(representative of the great Mercy of Buḍḍha) and Boḍhisaṭṭva Manjushrī
(representative of the great knowledge of Buḍḍha) offering before the
great Buḍḍha Vairochana a sacrifice of silent praise. The whole scene
seemed to me like a picture of the Buḍḍhist Heaven.
On this plateau, as on the great north-western plain of Tibet, neither
wheat nor barley will grow, and the district is fit only for pasturage,
and that only during the summer months. Lake Lham tso abounds in fish
of all kinds, from seven to twelve inches in length, and it is much
frequented during the summer by fishermen who catch and dry the fish
for winter consumption. During the winter, when fishing is impossible,
they take to begging, and so the population around the Lake consists
mainly of people who are half fishermen and half beggars.