Another thing that strikes the traveller in Tibet is the sturdiness of
Tibetan ponies,—long-haired, short, stumpy little brutes, which possess
most marvellous endurance under circumstances which would kill most
horses. They live on whatever grass they can find, which is not much—at
best, short semi-dried blades which take a good deal of looking for
before you can see them at all. Tibet ponies have all the qualities of
a goat and antelope combined, and I have seen them, with a rider on
their back, go up gradients where a human being would have great
difficulty to go up on foot.
The dogs of Tibet are not quite so attractive, being either vicious to
a degree or else stupid, lazy, and uninteresting. The common kind is
not unlike our sheep-dog, except that the hair is longer, which in some
cases gives them a slight appearance of collie dogs. They are generally
ill-treated and suffering, and they seem to have no affection for
anybody. They possess plenty of intelligence, especially those trained
by shepherds, and they are indeed a great help to their masters in
driving the flock in the right direction and keeping the sheep
together. These sheep-dogs are generally made to carry a broad leather
collar with an immense brass bell.
Perhaps, talking of dogs’ affection, I might here give some account of
a Tibetan dog—a friend of mine—that I met on my first expedition into
Tibet, while I was being chased all over the country by the Tibetan
army. One night, during a storm, we were attacked, and I heard a number
of voices around my camp. I only had two men left, and we jumped up to
defend ourselves. Stones were flung at us with slings—an art at which
both Tibetan men and women excel. From their earliest childhood they
keep in constant practice at flinging stones, and in daylight they can
hit the mark with great accuracy. Shepherds use them constantly, and
can pick out any sheep in a flock of hundreds. We kept close to the
ground, rifle in hand, a few feet from our tent, to avoid being hit, as
evidently they were aiming at it, it being of a lightish colour. They
struck it several times. With them was a dog barking furiously all the
time. Dog and men seemed to be approaching—at least, by the sounds of
their voices, for I could not see them. This seemed an appropriate time
to fire a shot, which would undoubtedly, as usual, cause a stampede. It
did. Only the dog remained, barking and yelping the whole night, but we
were otherwise not troubled in any other way, although, of course, we
kept watch until sunrise, when all we found were numerous fresh
footmarks a few yards from our tent.
The dog ran about a good deal, barking and barking, until we prepared
our breakfast, when he sat himself down upon his hindquarters and
watched the proceedings with keen interest. He seemed very shy, and
whenever we tried to get near him he bolted away with his tail between
his legs, howling madly as if he had been hit by a stone. Dogs in Tibet
are so accustomed to have stones flung at them at every possible
opportunity that no doubt in his imagination he fancied he had been hit
by a missile each time we raised our hand to caress him. Animals are
not unlike people in that way.
At last, by offers of tinned meat and the use of the favourite Tibetan
term of endearment, “Chochu, chochu,” the dog became our friend. He
seemed utterly astonished at being caressed, and rubbed himself
affectionately against our legs. He took a particular fancy to Mansing,
my faithful man who developed leprosy, and from that day the dog
followed us everywhere. Mansing, who was suffering considerably, and
who took no interest whatever in scientific observations, photography,
surveying, etc., had at last a sympathising friend to whom he could
confide his grievances. The two were inseparable, and whenever we
stopped Mansing pathetically conversed with the dog, who seemed almost
to understand all the coolie was telling him.
It was rather a puzzle to me why this dog followed us so long, for we
had so little food that we could but seldom spare him any. He slept
near us at night with his head on the lap of one of us, and during the
march he showed quite sporting instincts by chasing antelopes and kiang
(wild horse) when we encountered herds of hundreds of them. Curiously
enough, when we entered a Tibetan encampment he always avoided being
seen in our company. It seemed almost as if he realised that we were
not welcome guests in the country, and feared the consequences.
Possibly he only temporarily left us to see what he could pick up in
the way of food, but whenever we came across him in the encampment, he
never would show signs of recognition, much less of affection, as was
the case when he would rejoin us some miles beyond on the march, when
he made ample efforts to reingratiate himself. He seemed almost to want
to express: “Sorry I had to cut you in the encampment, but I really had
to!”
At last the day came when we were captured, and underwent several kinds
of tortures, as I have already described in In the Forbidden Land. The
dog had vanished, and, to tell the truth, we did not give him much of a
thought, as we were somewhat concerned about ourselves.
One day, when Mansing and I were stretched, or rather suspended, on a
primitive kind of rack, and we were for some time left to ourselves—the
soldiers and Lamas having retired some distance off into the huge tent
of the Pombo, a high official—the dog sadly walked towards us, sniffing
us, and rubbing himself against Mansing and me. He was particularly
affectionate to Mansing, whose face he licked several times; then with
a pathetic movement of his head as if to express his sorrow, he gave us
a parting sad look, turned his back, and walked slowly and sorrowfully
away. That was his last mark of friendship and the last we saw of him.
Tibetan encampments have no great interest except for the peculiar
shape of the black tents—a pattern of shelter most suitable for the
climate of their country. The two sides of the tent are separate, and
when the tent is put up it leaves an aperture all along its highest
ridge. This is for various reasons. First, because the Tibetans light
fires inside their tents, and an opening is necessary to let the smoke
out; also as a means of ventilation, the cold air not penetrating so
quickly as when it comes in at the sides, owing to the warmed
atmosphere inside. The black tents are woven of a coarse and waterproof
fabric of yak hair. Through the slit at the top generally protrude the
props of the matchlocks bundled against one of the tent poles.
Every man in Tibet owns one of these weapons, and is considered a
soldier in time of war.
The inside of a large Tibetan tent is quaint enough when you have
reached it by skipping over masses of dirt and refuse which surround
its outside. Only, when you peep in, the odour is rather strong of the
people, old and young, all since birth innocent of washing, and the
smell of badly-prepared skins, and stores of chura (cheese). Nor must I
forget to mention the wall of yak-dung erected right round the tent
inside to serve the double purpose of protection against the wind where
the tent meets the ground, and of fuel, being gradually demolished to
feed the double mud-stove erected in the centre of the tent. Mud alone
is also occasionally used for the inside wall.
As you know, dung is practically the only fuel obtainable in the
highest parts of Tibet, although occasionally a few low shrubs are to
be found. The fuel is constantly collected and conveyed from one camp
to the next, when changing in order to find more suitable grazing for
the sheep and yaks.
The centre mud-stove is built according to the most practical notions
to make it draw properly, and upon it can nearly always be seen one or
two large raksangs, brass vessels in which brick-tea is being stewed
and stirred with a long brass spoon. But the operation of tea-making is
rather complicated in Tibet. After the leaves have been stewed long
enough the liquid is poured into a dongbo, or cylindrical wooden churn,
in which have been deposited several balls of butter with copious
sprinkling of salt. A piston which passes through the movable lid is
then vigorously set in action, and when well stirred and steaming the
mixture is served all round and avidly drunk in wooden bowls, one of
which every one carries about the person. Tsamba, a kind of oatmeal, is
frequently mixed with the tea in the bowls, where it is made into a
paste with the fingers.
No matter how much non-Tibetan folks may find merriment in the idea of
tea being brewed with butter and salt, there is no doubt that for a
climate like Tibet it is “the drink” par excellence. It warms,
nourishes, and is easily digested. I very often indulged in the luxury
myself, when I could obtain butter, only, my digestion working rather
rapidly owing to the amount of roughing we daily endured, I left out
the salt so that I should not digest the mixture too quickly.
The richer owners of tents generally have a sort of folding shrine,
with one or more images of Buddha, which occupies the place of honour
in the tent. Numerous brass bowls and ornaments are displayed in front
of these images and also offerings of tsamba and butter. Wicks, burning
in butter, are occasionally lighted around and upon the shrine.
Decrepit old women seem to spend most of their time revolving their
prayer-wheels and muttering prayers in front of these altars, and when
occasion arises thus teaching little children to do the same. The
younger folk, too, are very religious, but not to the fanatical extent
of the older ones.
It is quite amusing to see little mites—children are always quaint in
every country—try to master the art of revolving the prayer-wheel. It
must be revolved from left to right, to pray in the proper fashion,—not
that if you revolved it the other way you would necessarily be
swearing, only, according to the laws of Tibetan Buddhism, prayers spun
in the wrong direction would have no effect and bring no benefit. In a
similar way circumambulations, either round hills for pilgrimages, or
round a tent, or round a sacred lake, must always follow a similar
direction to the revolving of the prayer-wheel.
In Lhassa and many other sacred places fanatical pilgrims make these
circumambulations, sometimes for miles and miles, and for days
together, covering the entire distance lying flat upon their bodies,
then placing the feet where the head was and stretching themselves full
length. Inside temples a central enclosure is provided, round which
these circumambulations are performed, special devotions being offered
before Buddha and many of the other gilt or high-coloured images which
adorn the walls of the temple.
As can be seen by the coloured plate illustrating one of these scenes,
from the ceiling of the temple hang hundreds of long strips, Katas,
offered by pilgrims to the temple and becoming so many flying prayers
when hung up—for mechanical praying in every way is prominent in Tibet.
There is, after all, no reason why praying should not be made easy like
everything else. Thus, instead of having to learn by heart long and
varied prayers, all you have to do is to stuff the entire prayer-book
(written on a roll in Tibet) into the prayer-wheel, and revolve it
while repeating as fast as you can go these four words: “Om mani padme
hum,”—words of Sanscrit origin and referring to the reincarnation of
Buddha from a lotus flower, literally “O God, the gem emerging from the
lotus flower.”
The temples of Tibet, except in Lhassa itself, are not beautiful in any
way—in fact, they are generally very tawdry and dirty. The attention of
the pilgrims is directed to a large box, or often a big bowl, where
they may deposit whatever offerings they can spare, and it must be said
that their religious ideas are so strongly developed that they will
dispose of a considerable portion of their money in this fashion.
Large monasteries, of red or yellow Lamas, are attached to these
temples, where proselytes are also educated. These Lamas, whatever
their colour, are very clever in many ways, and have a great hold over
the entire country. They are, ninety per cent of them, unscrupulous
scamps, depraved in every way, and given to every sort of vice. So are
the women Lamas. They live and sponge on the credulity and ignorance of
the crowds; and it is to maintain this ignorance, upon which their
luxurious life depends, that foreign influence of every kind is
strictly kept out of the country. Their abnormal powers have been
grossly exaggerated. They practise, it is true, hypnotism, but that is
all. They can perform no more marvellous feats than any one can do in
England who is able to mesmerize. As for the Mahatmas, who, our
spiritualistic friends tell us, live in Tibet, they are purely
imaginary, and do not exist. The Tibetans have never heard of them nor
about their doings.
Personally—and I am glad that the few men who know Tibet from personal
knowledge and not from political rivalry agree with me—I believe that
the intrigues of the Lamas with Russia are absolute nonsense. Tibet, it
must be remembered, was not forbidden to Englishmen only, but to
everybody from every side, whether native or white, certain Nepalese
and Chinamen, only, having the privilege of entering the country. It
was a fight against Western ways in general which the Lamas were
carrying on, quite successfully owing to the geographical position of
their country, and the natural difficulties of reaching it, and not a
fight against one race more than another. The accounts of the Lhassa
Mission to the Czar were possibly the best diplomatic practical jokes
which have been played upon this credulous country; and the mythical
and much-feared Dorjeff is possibly—at least as far as power is
concerned—nothing more than the creation of hysterical Anglo-Indian
officials who, everybody knows, seem to see the treacherous hand of
Russia in everything.
Perhaps no other country but England would be so rash as to go and sink
millions of pounds sterling good money on a country that is, for all
practical purposes, absolutely useless and worthless. This does not
detract from its pictorial, nor from its geographical or ethnological
interest; from these points it is most interesting indeed.
Agriculturally, as I have stated, nothing grows there; no very wealthy
mines have so far been discovered, the only mines that are plentiful
being of borax, which has not sufficient market value to pay for the
expensive carriage from Tibet to the coast. Regarded as a climate for a
sanatorium for our sick soldiers in India—for which Tibet is frequently
recommended by Anglo-Indian papers—I believe that such an establishment
would be a very quick way of disposing altogether of all the sick men
sent there. And as for such gigantic schemes as the construction of
railways, say from India to the upper waters of the Yangtze-Kiang, or
to Pekin, the expense of taking a railway over the Himahlya range and
keeping it in working order during the wintry months—nine out of
twelve—would, I think, never be remunerative. In Tibet itself the
construction of a railway would be comparatively easy, as great
stretches of the country are almost flat. Stations of imported fuel
would have to be provided for the entire distance across Tibet, and the
engines would have to be constructed specially to suit the great
altitude.
For trade and commerce with the natives themselves, the population of
the country is so small, so deplorably poor and so lacking in wants,
and the country is so large that, personally, I do not see how any
large commercial venture in such a country can turn out successful. It
is very difficult to get money where there is none. Small native
traders, of course, can make small profits and be satisfied. Besides,
the intercourse between Tibet and the neighbouring countries,
particularly those to the south, can only take place with comfort
during three months of the summer when the high snow-passes are open.
So that, much as I would like to see Tibet open in a proper way to
travellers, I cannot quite understand the necessity of the Government
spending millions of money and butchering thousands of helpless and
defenceless natives in a manner most repulsive to any man who is a man,
and of which we can but be ashamed—and all this to obtain a valueless
commercial treaty. It is true, the Tibetans had been very impudent in
every way on our frontier, but for this we only have to blame ourselves
and our incompetent officials. If, instead of giving way to their
bluff, we had kept a firm hand, matters would have been different.
Even in the case of my capture and torture on my first expedition into
Tibet I never had a feeling of resentment towards the Tibetans for what
they did to me. It was very exciting and interesting for me to
endeavour to reach their sacred city, but I did so at my own risk and
against their repeated warnings and threats, and I got nothing more for
it in the end than I expected, in fact, bad as it was, considerably
less. Highly amusing as it was to me to give them endless trouble, it
was undoubtedly equally enjoyable to them to torture me, when once they
succeeded in effecting my capture. Possibly, if I now have any feelings
at all towards the Tibetans, it is a feeling of gratitude towards them
for sparing my life in the end, which, by the way, they came within an
ace of taking as they had promised to do.
As a punishment for what they did to me—because, after all, my men and
I suffered a great deal more than the average man could stand—the
Government of India practically ceded, as we have said, all the rights
to Tibet of an immense district of British territory at the frontier.
Can you blame the Tibetans for doing worse if they had a chance?