Tinker is a village of Shokas, at no less an elevation by hypsometrical
apparatus than 12,664 feet. Our arrival necessarily caused a great deal
of commotion, and everybody was up to see what was happening.
It is the custom in that part of Nepal—a habit of all Shokas
generally—that no stranger must enter a village after sunset without
sending a messenger ahead to warn the residents; so, according to their
code of manners, we were committing a gross breach of etiquette. I well
knew this, and upon arrival immediately asked for the chieftain of the
village to express my sorrow that we were unable to advise him of our
arrival.
The chief was a splendid fellow—an old friend of mine—a man with a
heart of gold and the manner of a most polished gentleman. He placed
his house at my disposal, and showered upon us lavish presents of
food—fresh meat, rice, ghur, and dried fruit. He would on no account
accept money, so I gave him presents of various kinds, and distributed
the money among his family and servants.
I have ever made it a rule never to accept presents from anybody
anywhere, and, when gifts are forced upon me, to give back some gift of
equivalent value. With natives particularly I ever followed this golden
rule, nevertheless displaying gratitude for their thoughtful offerings.
The house in which we dwelt was a stone structure, the rooms only some
7 feet high, with little slits of windows and a somewhat disjointed
door. When a huge fire was lighted in the room, with no escape for the
smoke or heat, you were simply roasted and suffocated, but after our
cold, fireless nights on the glaciers this felt to us the most
comfortable and luxurious abode we had ever been in. Fleas there were
in abundance—little fleas with marvellous jumping powers, and giant
ones of astounding voracity. With their proverbial partiality for
strangers, they of course directed their undivided attention to us
new-comers, and particularly to me. In a moment we were covered with
hundreds of bites.
The chieftain told me how the Tibetans on the frontier close by were in
a great state of excitement over my approach. They boasted of having
5000 soldiers ready to meet me, and hearing that I was now on Nepal
territory they had despatched them to the Tinker Pass to capture me.
The Tibetans had been for some days busy polishing up their matchlocks
and grinding their swords, and they had accumulated large piles of
stones to precipitate down upon me in ravines which we had to get
through. The same stories I had on many occasions heard before, both on
my previous journey into Tibet and on the present.
When we got up in the morning a great many yaks came in laden with
Tibetan wool, which the natives barter with Tibetans in exchange for
food-stuff, and also long strings of sheep and goats with double sacks
slung across the back and filled with borax. With some of these
caravans, unluckily, arrived—unseen by me—some Tibetan spies, and they
at once set to work to scare the villagers. There was a sudden
commotion in the village, the natives ran here and there conveying
their children, goods, and chattels into their houses, and in these
they barricaded themselves. Only the chief remained cool and collected;
and, to avoid getting him into trouble, and by way of precaution, I
shifted my quarters from his house to a high point commanding the
village, where I pitched my tents, placing men with loaded rifles on
guard of my baggage.
It looked very much as if there were trouble brewing ahead. Some of
these Nepalese Shokas are very curious people, shifty and unfathomable,
the life they lead being one of semi-brigandage and trading. They are
interesting enough as a type—flat-faced and of strongly Mongolian
features, as in the portraits of the long-haired young men I give in
two of the coloured plates—and they have from contact adopted some of
the dash and independence of the Nepalese. We took no notice of the
warlike preparations, and when some young fellows, bolder than the
rest, came out of their houses to inform us rudely that we must go at
once, they duly had their heads punched. We would go when it pleased
me, and not before.
Bad luck never comes singly, but it can sometimes be turned into good
luck. A Nepalese agent also arrived early that morning, and could
persuade no more messengers to come and approach me on the subject of
departing from their country, so he had to come on the errand himself.
With many salaams the Nepalese officer came forth, and, after tender
inquiries after every possible existing and imaginary relative of mine
he could think of, he gently entered upon the question of my leaving
the country. Asked whether he would like his head punched too, or a
gift of five rupees not to worry me and induce the natives to sell me
300 lbs. of rice, some goats, ghur, and butter, he at once said he
preferred the five rupees, and would endeavour to do all he could to be
of assistance. In fact, he went into the village again, and shortly
after the provisions were duly sold to me.
You see, five rupees would be to him, in Nepal, as much as he would
receive in cash from his Government for two months’ salary.
We sacrificed a goat for luck—the luck consisting chiefly in the dinner
that followed—and in the afternoon we made a start in order to cross
the Tibetan frontier.
The Tinker village is perched on a height some distance from the spot
where the two principal sources of the Tinker river join—one coming
from the five glaciers to the east (those described in the previous
chapter), the other source descending precipitously and with great
force from the Tinker Glacier higher up, to the north of the village,
and spreading in a N.E. direction.
Tinker itself is a quaint and interesting place. Flying
prayers—generally pieces of white cloth—decorated every roof in the
village, and some shrubs were similarly decorated with hundreds of
strips of cloth—red, blue, or white—deposited there by devotees.
Chokdens—piles of stones—were numerous, many of them constructed of
stones each of which was inscribed with the Tibetan prayer—“Om mani
padme hum.”
Farther up the mountain one found curious ancient cave-dwellings,
identical with those I have in a previous work described at Taklakot,
in Tibet, the peculiar composition of the rock permitting the chambers
to be hollowed out with comparative ease. These dwellings are very
suitable for that climate, being relatively warm in winter and cool in
summer, besides answering all the purposes of a fortress when built
high up into a cliff. In Tibet itself these cliff-dwellings are most
elaborate, and are connected by means of intricate passages and
galleries going right up to the summit of the high cliff. Outer ways of
communication are also noticeable, in the form of dangerous-looking
steps and sharp and narrow gradients, by which the lodgers can find
access to or escape from their apartments.
Upon the higher Himahlyas, in certain selected points, such as on
passes, or where two trails branch off, or near villages, is generally
to be found a gay exhibition of flying prayers, hundreds of them,
suspended from ropes stretched across upon high poles. Large banners
are also frequently to be seen at these spots. Passing caravans make
these favourite halting-places. Both the women of Tibet and those of
neighbouring tribes often select these spots for stretching their
hand-looms and weaving their fabrics.
The Tinker Glacier was a very beautiful sight with its high terraces,
and we followed it for its entire length on our way up to the pass. It
was a long and steep climb, mostly on snow, and as the trail was low
down between high mountains to the S.W. and N.E. the sun did not
penetrate for any length of time, so that the cold was intense. My men
were rather heavily laden, and at sunset, owing to our late start, we
had gone but a few miles.
We halted at a Tibetan camping-ground, where there were a number of
black Tibetan tents, their occupants bolting full-speed up the
mountain-side as soon as they saw us. After some coaxing, and promises
that we would in no way harm them, they gradually returned and attended
to their business. The women had erected a great many looms outside the
tents, and some jolly, but somewhat shaggy, females were noisily and
busily engaged beating wool previous to packing; others were spinning
it and winding it round long rods; others were speedily making narrow
strips of cloth upon their looms. Upon receiving small presents they
became quite friendly, and gave much information regarding the war
preparations of their countrymen. They said thousands of soldiers were
guarding the pass.
Next morning I went to see for myself, but the Tibetan soldiers had,
when I arrived, already beaten a hasty retreat, leaving nothing more
than their footmarks on the snow. Although I constantly heard of this
formidable army, I never was able to catch it up during my incursions,
or establish its exact position, much less meet it.
Everybody has heard so much of late of Tibetan scenery and travelling
that it will perhaps be more agreeable to the reader if I devote most
of the space which remains at my disposal to the description of some
Tibetan customs. It is well known that Tibet is a high plateau, S.W.
Tibet especially, where most of my exploration extended, averaging
heights of from 15,000 to 19,000 feet, so that people who live in such
a climate and such a country are bound to have peculiarities of their
own, and their ways offer many curious problems.
First of all, I will answer some of the most common questions—generally
very stupid—which I am daily being asked by people who try to be
clever, about the Forbidden Land.
“If you say that Tibet is such a high plateau, barren and cold, with no
trees and no agriculture to speak of, how is it that the people live
there?”
Well, if people stop to think a little, the same question applies to
every country. Why do negroes live in Central Africa, where it is so
hot? Why do people go and live in Panama, where it is so unhealthy? Why
do we live in London, where it is so foggy and damp? In the case of the
Tibetans, as with everybody else in regard to their native land, they
believe that no country in the world can possibly compare with their
own—which, indeed, in a sense, is true. They believe their land is the
most beautiful, the richest, the healthiest on earth, their religion
the only one, their civilisation the highest.
The Tibetans, having lived for so many generations at such great
altitudes, suffer a great deal when they travel to lower elevations,
and they experience a feeling of suffocation and heaviness which makes
them very ill and frequently causes their death. This is not so much
the case with natives of the Sikkim district and of Lhassa, which are
at a much lower elevation; but I am talking principally of the natives
of S.W. Tibet, few of whom live at an elevation of less than 15,000
feet.
“Then,” say other wise folks, “if you maintain that next to nothing
grows in Tibet, that the people are not farmers, how do they manage to
live?”
The answer is simple. The Tibetans import all their food from India,
Nepal, Cashmere, and China during the summer months, while the
snow-passes are open, and they store it in sufficient quantities to
last them all through the winter. Wheat, rice, tsamba (a kind of
oatmeal), ghur (sweet paste), sugar are bartered in large quantities in
exchange for borax, salt, sheep, and yak wool.
Another question that seems to puzzle most people is why polyandry
exists legally in Tibet instead of our marriage customs or polygamy,
and in the next chapter I will endeavour to explain the reason, as well
as why women are so much less numerous than men.