The first two things that strike an observant traveller on entering a
Tibetan encampment are that the number of children in the population is
so small, and that the majority of Tibetans appear, to European eyes,
middle-aged, or even old and decrepit. The second remark is more easily
explained than the first, and many are the reasons which cause Tibetan
men and women to look well on in years long before they have attained a
really advanced age. I have seen a man with hands and face so wrinkled
that he might easily pass for an octogenarian, yet he was no more than
three-and-forty.
The women manage to preserve their complexion slightly better than the
men, by smearing the cheeks, nose, and forehead with a black ointment.
This, to a certain extent, prevents the skin chapping in the cold, but
the winds in Tibet are so terrific that they are disastrous to any
human skin, whether besmeared with grease or not. Indeed, no one who
has not been in Tibet knows what wind can be. I cannot better describe
a gale than by likening it to myriads of knives thrown at one with
great force. It cuts into one through any kind of clothing, and
penetrates to the marrow of one’s bones. The skin, particularly where
exposed, chaps and cracks and becomes a mass of sores, unless the
constant precaution is taken of keeping it well soaked in butter,
grease, or vaseline.
Again, the intense glare of the snow-covered landscape and the
extraordinary brilliancy of the atmosphere compel the natives
constantly to frown—as may be noticed in many of the illustrations
reproduced in this work—in order to screen their semi-closed eyes as
much as possible from the blinding light. This everlasting frown, of
course, covers the forehead with deep wrinkles and grooves, while
“crow’s feet” in continuation of the outward corners of the eyes and
deep channels at both ends of the lips disfigure the faces of Tibetans
at an early age. Naturally, to a European these wrinkles at once
suggest age, whereas they are merely caused by the inclement weather,
and they have been the chief cause which has led casual observers to
describe the population of Tibet as composed mainly of old people.
Another curious fact worth noticing is that, according to theoretical
scientists, the greatly rarefied air of the Tibetan plateau should
retard the growth of human beings, and that therefore a Tibetan should
reach the age of puberty later in life than people living in a
corresponding latitude but at lower elevations. This is not the case at
all. Tibetan boys and girls attain a state of maturity at a
comparatively early age. I have often noticed girls of fifteen or
sixteen and boys of eighteen or nineteen fully developed, and it is at
these respective ages that men and women of Tibet frequently marry.
Now let us try to explain why one sees so few children in Tibet.
Personally, I think it is mainly due to the custom of polyandry
prevailing in the country, which is bound to have disastrous effects
upon the birth-rate of healthy, strong children, with deteriorating
results upon every generation; and also undoubtedly the altitudes at
which the people live to a great extent limit the increase of
population. The generally unhealthy condition of most Tibetans’ blood
also greatly contributes to the non-fertility of parents.
We have yet another curious fact. To an average of fifteen male
children who are born and live in Tibet, only one female child is
healthy enough to survive. There are various reasons for this, and it
would be difficult to discover the primary one; but in my mind, and
from personal observation, I could not help associating that fact with
these two principal causes. First, the food diet of the parents, which
certainly has marked effects on the production of one sex more than
another; secondly, the greater mortality among the weaker female
children. Tibetans always told me that the death-rate in children under
the age of two years was very great in proportion to the number of
births.
It is impossible to give exact statistics, but, from constant inquiry
from families I met, I came to the conclusion that an average of three
children out of seven born succumb before the age of five. Of these
deaths, the majority would be female children.
The life of a Tibetan baby is not a merry one at best. He is cherished
by his mother when newly born, and for some days the new-comer affords
amusement to the tent-mates and the members of the tribe. Occasional
caresses are bestowed upon him, but the trials of having a loving
mother soon begin. She will besmear him from head to foot several times
daily with yak butter, the mother realising that by this process the
skin of her infant will be made impervious to cold; and with maternal
fondness she will press and force the butter into every pore of his
little body. This done, the baby is left naked in the sun so that under
the heat of its rays his skin may absorb the maximum of melted butter.
His next torture comes in the shape of piercing his poor little ears.
The lobes are rubbed between the first finger and thumb until they
become numbed, then with a long silver or brass pin the hole is made,
the fond mother being again the operator. As care is never taken to
disinfect the pin from the accumulation of dirt upon it, and as that
very same pin has for generations been used in the various capacities
of tooth-, nose-, and ear-pick, nail-cleaner, and head- and
back-scratcher, it is not infrequent to find that the ear-piercing
operation is accompanied by inflammation or some nasty sore or other,
causing the little fellow much unnecessary pain. Heavy ear-rings are
next inserted, elongating and disfiguring the little ears, in many
instances the lobes actually tearing down altogether owing to the
weight of the ear-ring.
Until a few months old the baby is made to lie in a basket, in which he
is carried about on his mother’s back—that is to say, if the mother is
in a comfortable enough position to own a basket. Otherwise she will
carry him on her back, suspended by his little arms, which she tightly
clasps over her shoulders; and as this mode of transport somewhat lacks
comfort, it is rather curious to notice the intelligence of Tibetan
babies in order to feel the least inconvenience possible. Under similar
circumstances the average civilised baby who felt his little arms
almost pulled out of their sockets would very likely cry and scream,
helplessly dangling his legs in order to be again deposited on terra
firma. The Tibetan baby knows better. Guided only by his instincts, he
will clasp his mother’s waist with his little toes, so supple that he
can use them almost like fingers. By thus supporting his own weight
upon her hips in the identical position of a monkey climbing a tree,
the tension on his arms is absolutely released and he looks quite at
his ease, even comfortable.
Babies in Tibet, as in other lands, do not lack a temporary charm. They
are by nature good, well-behaved babies; occasionally they are even
jolly. The clothes in which their mothers garb them are not devoid of
quaintness,—as can be judged by some of the illustrations,—and if often
size is preferred to style, it is, as in most countries, for economy’s
sake. Sometimes I have seen babies simply smothered in beads and
ornaments, but even the humblest displays a row of beads round his neck
and a charm or two.
Notwithstanding what has been said of the strange marital customs, the
average Tibetan woman is seldom absolutely sterile. This, of course, is
mainly due to the fact that if she survives at all to the age of
puberty, it is because she is strong and healthy; but at best she is
never so prolific as her Asiatic sisters or even European women. In
Tibet one rarely finds a woman with more than three living children.
The majority of mothers can only boast of one. Yet, on the other hand,
the Tibetan woman can bear children until a fairly advanced age. I
remember meeting a lady who acknowledged her age—after complicated
computation with the aid of fingers and toes—to be forty. Her skin was
so wrinkled and rough that without maliciousness one could have put her
down at fifty-five, but maybe she spoke the truth—she certainly was not
less than what she had stated. She carried in her arms a baby a few
months old.
“It is my baby,” she proudly said, screening with her hand the fat
offspring to prevent the “evil eye” of an inquisitive foreigner. “Go
away; do not touch him or he will die.”
I was in a chaffing mood, and chaff in Tibet can never be too personal.
“I do not believe that he can be your baby, for he has a smooth skin
and yours is rough and wrinkled. Were he your child he would have a
skin like yours.”
The woman, half-amused, half-astonished, called witnesses to testify
that the baby was really hers, and after assumed reluctance I
acknowledged that there existed some resemblance between mother and
son, in the lack of nose.
“Why,” I asked her, “did you not have the child sooner, so that he
might now be a help and comfort to you in your old age?”
She said she had had two other children, but they had died, one when
only “a few moons” old, the other when about four years of age.
With the exception of the few larger towns, Tibet is peopled by small,
semi-nomadic tribes. A large tribe may number a hundred tents, but the
average is from ten to fifty tents. Each tent is inhabited by one
family, although investigation generally brings out the fact that
nearly all members of a tribe are related to one another owing to the
constant intermarriage among themselves.
This constant intermarriage also contributes to a great extent to the
decadence of the race generally, and to the diminution of the
population with each generation.
I had several opportunities of noticing the difference which existed
when either the wife or husband had come from a distant tribe. There
were generally more children to the union, and they were invariably
stronger, both physically and mentally. The Tibetans are well aware of
this, and when a tribe is likely to die out from the causes I have
stated, fresh blood is imported into it by the advice of the Lamas in
order to revive it.
I found that the cleverer men I met in the country were generally born
from parents of different tribes, and not infrequently of widely
separated social positions.
In cases of crosses between different races altogether, such as a
Tibetan and a Nepalese, for instance, or a Shoka, or other frontier
tribes, the families were larger; but these semi-foreign marriages are
not common, and cannot be given as a general rule.
Wilful infanticide is seldom practised in Tibet, and cannot be put down
as one of the causes limiting population. It, of course, occasionally
occurs, for instance, in order to suppress an illegitimate child, but
the custom is greatly looked down upon by Tibetans, although no
punishment—beyond the contempt of the entire tribe—would be meted out
to the culprits.
The women of Tibet are seldom separated from one or other of their
husbands. When one man goes for some days to take the yaks or sheep to
a distant grazing ground, another fills his place in the tent.
Occasionally more than one of her legal husbands live together happily
under the same tent, but usually not more than one at a time.
As I have fully explained in a previous book, In the Forbidden Land,
marriages are principally family arrangements, where a girl becomes the
wife of several brothers; and, in any case, bachelors are, as a whole,
to be greatly congratulated in Tibet.
Other minor causes there are which tend to limit population, but which
cannot very well be mentioned here. Several diseases of the blood—very
common—decidedly do not improve the race; and possibly all these
evils—some natural, some unnatural—may in time bring about the
disappearance of the Tibetan race from their lofty and sacred land.