In heart and soul the Tibetan is a sportsman; but if you look for grace
in his movements you will be sorely disappointed. Indeed, more fervour
and clumsiness combined are hardly to be paralleled anywhere. Perhaps
the Tibetan is seen to advantage on his pony, and some of his feats on
the saddle I will here describe.
Horse races are quite a favourite form of amusement, and are run in a
sensible manner. Only two ponies at a time go round the course, the
final race being run between the winners of the two best heats. Praying
is usually combined, in some form or other, with everything people do
in Tibet, and so even races are run round the foot of an isolated hill
or around an encampment of tents; for, as you know, circumambulation of
any kind, if in the right direction, is equivalent to prayer, and
pleases God. Thus, just as with their prayer-wheels, a rotatory motion
is kept up from left to right, so races are run in the same way from
the standpoint of the spectator.
A Tibetan race would astonish an English crowd—the means adopted by the
well-matched couples being very effective, if somewhat primitive. Such
simple devices as seizing one’s opponent’s reins, or lashing him in the
face to keep him back, or pushing or pulling him off his saddle, are
considered fair and legal means in order to win the race. The last heat
is usually the most exciting, especially for the spectators, for blows
with the lash are exchanged in bewildering profusion by both riders
taking part in it, their respective ponies sharing unsparingly in the
punishment. Occasionally the race becomes a regular hippic wrestling
match, when both riders, clinging tightly together, tumble over and
roll to the ground. When the ponies are recaptured, the bruised
horsemen remount and continue the race as if nothing had happened.
The heavy sheepskin coats worn by the Tibetans are some protection when
the lash is applied, and the pain inflicted is not always in proportion
to the noise made by the blow; but such is not the case when they catch
one another across the face.
The winner is presented with a kata by the umpire—a high Lama or a
military officer, a most picturesque creature in a brilliant red coat
and fluffy hat, who has a peculiar standard with hundreds of long,
vari-coloured strips of cloth, or flying prayers. Sitting on a handsome
pony, with gaudy harness of green leather inlaid with brass, a valuable
Chinese rug upon the saddle, and many tinkling bells round the pony’s
neck, the umpire and his pony certainly produce a gay ensemble. This
gentleman takes himself very seriously, and seldom condescends to
smile.
The kata, or “scarf of love and friendship,” which is given to the
winner is a long piece of silk-like gauze, the ends of which have been
trimmed into a fringe. As I have elsewhere described at greater length,
these katas play quite an important part in the social intercourse of
Tibetans. They can be purchased or obtained from the Lamas of any
monastery, or where no monastery exists the natives manufacture them
themselves, for they are constantly needed. No gift can be sent nor
accepted without “a veil of friendship” accompanying it, and no
stranger ever enters a tent without offering, with outstretched hands,
a kata, which he quickly lays at the feet of his host. Diminutive katas
are enclosed in letters; sweethearts exchange katas on every possible
occasion—until they are actually married. Polyandry being prevalent in
Tibet, when one of the several husbands returns to his wife after the
customary absence, he never fails to bring a kata with him. Not to
offer a kata to an honoured visitor is as palpable a breach of manners,
and as great a slight as can possibly be offered in the Forbidden Land.
Necessarily, when a kata has been blessed by the Lamas, or is won in a
race before high officials, it has additional value, and these simple
folks value it more than a gift of money or food. It is stored away in
the tent among the heirlooms, and is handed down to posterity.
A slightly more difficult feat, very common in a similar form in most
countries, is the picking up of a kata by horsemen at full gallop. One
horseman, a high official, revolves the kata seven times in the wind,
and then darts full gallop in one direction, followed by twenty,
thirty, or more horsemen riding wildly, and each trying to push his
neighbours out of the way. The official, some thirty yards ahead, flies
the kata in the wind, and when fancy takes him lets it drop out of his
hand. The kata eventually settles on the ground, and the horde of
riders gallops away from it, yelling and quarrelling. At a signal from
the officer the horsemen turn round and make a dash for the scarf,
towards which all the ponies are converging. Clinging to the saddle
with one hand and hanging over, each rider attempts to pick up the kata
without dismounting. Collisions and nasty falls are numerous, and this
sport generally partakes of the character of an all-round fight among
the ponies’ legs. Somebody, however, always succeeds in picking up the
scarf and getting clear of the others, when he triumphantly rides round
the camp fluttering the prize in the wind.
Some of the younger fellows are clever at this sport, and when one
rider at a time does the feat, he seldom misses picking up the kata at
the first swoop.
An interesting and more difficult feat of horsemanship I witnessed in
Tibet was the loading and firing of a matchlock while at full gallop—a
performance which requires a firmer seat on the saddle than appears.
The heavy and cumbersome weapons had to be unslung from the shoulders,
the props let down, the fuse lighted by flint and steel, some gunpowder
placed and kept in the small side receptacle, and last, but not least,
the shot fired off—that is to say, when it would go off! The full use
of both hands was required in this exercise, and therefore the horsemen
held the reins with their teeth. When firing they lay almost flat on
the ponies’ backs in order to prevent being thrown by the sudden
bucking of the frightened ponies.
Another exercise consists in bodily lifting a person on the saddle
while the pony is at full gallop. The pedestrian is seized as low near
the waist as possible, and the impetus of the pony’s flight, not the
rider’s actual strength, is utilised in raising the person on the
saddle.
The women seemed particularly interested in this sport, because a
practical application of this exercise is used by enterprising lads of
Tibet to overcome the scruples of reluctant maids who do not
reciprocate their love. At a suitable opportunity the doomed young lady
is abducted bodily in that fashion, and conveyed in all haste to the
suitor’s tent, with the honourable intention, of course, of making her
his happy bride.
Women are scarce in Tibet, and actual raiding parties, I was told,
occasionally take place against neighbouring tribes in order to obtain
a fresh supply of wives.
Taking things all round, there are few men and women in Tibet who
cannot ride well, yet there are few who can claim exceptional skill in
that line. The Tibetan generally values his bones too much to indulge
in fancy tricks upon his pony. Some young fellow, more ambitious than
others, will master the art of standing erect upon the saddle while
going full speed, his feet being inserted into the stirrups, which have
for the purpose been shortened as high as they could go. By pressing
with his ankles against the saddle he manages to maintain his balance,
in the familiar way of the Cossacks and tribes of Central Asia, who all
excel in this game.
Tibetan saddles, as you know, are in appearance not unlike a cross
between a Cossack saddle and a rude Mexican saddle, and as good as
neither, but quite suited to the country where they are used. Men and
women ride astride, with exceptionally short stirrups, so that the leg
is bent at the knee at a right or even an acute angle. In order to
maintain one’s equilibrium when riding fast some additional stability
is obtained by stretching out the arms sideways.
Taking all things into consideration, there is no doubt that in a
rugged, mountainous country like Tibet, and for a Tibetan, his is the
most practical and useful type of saddle, and his fashion of riding the
most sensible—evidently the outcome of practical experience. When
riding in caravans, driving herds of laden yaks or ponies, the
advantages of legs doubled up high upon the saddle are soon apparent,
avoiding the danger of crushing one’s lower limbs or having them partly
torn off. In the English way of riding, when among obstacles, one’s
legs are always in the way; in the Tibetan fashion they are always out
of the way, or, at any rate, can easily and quickly be moved over from
one side to the other of the saddle. Also, when tired of riding in one
position, altering one’s position to side-saddle is quite convenient
and easy.
The blocks of the saddles are of wood imported mainly from India,
Nepal, or China, with bindings of hammered iron or brass, often inlaid
with silver and gold. Lizard skin and coloured leather adorn the front
and back of the saddles, and a substantial pad covers the central part
and the otherwise very angular seat. For extra comfort
rugs—occasionally valuable and always decorative in blue and red
tints—are spread, while to leather laces behind the saddle are slung
double bags containing tsamba, chura, or cheese, a brick of compressed
tea, and whatever sundry articles may be used on a journey. The last,
but not least attachment on a Tibetan saddle is a long coiled rope of
yak hair with a wooden peg at the end for tethering the pony at night.
Whatever one may say of Tibetans, the best-inclined could not
compliment them on their shooting. Their matchlocks—their only
firearms, made in Lhassa and Shigatz—are weapons so clumsy and heavy
and badly made, that when fired it is truly more dangerous to be behind
them than in front of their muzzle. During my captivity in Tibet in
1897, indeed, I was fired upon twice—by distinguished marksmen who took
accurate aim only a few paces from me—but neither time was I hit. Nor
in all my experience of Tibet have I any remembrance of ever seeing a
Tibetan hit with a projectile from his matchlock anything which he
intended, although the range was never more than twenty or thirty
yards. Few are the matchlocks in the Forbidden Land which will carry as
far as fifty or a hundred yards.
They possess a long barrel, not always perfectly straight nor
cylindrical; they are smooth-bore, the explosion being caused by a
primitive fuse attachment which, when lighted by means of a flint and
steel, applies the fire to a small cup of gunpowder at the side of the
barrel. They have a peep-hole sight, but this is absolutely devoid of
mathematical accuracy, and the bullets and gunpowder used by the
Tibetans are home-made and of inferior quality. Pebbles, or small
pieces of iron, are frequently used for ammunition. A movable prop is
necessary in order to enable the long weapon to be held in a horizontal
position, and this should in a way facilitate accurate shooting. Apart
from the various faults of the matchlocks themselves, an additional
difficulty arises in Tibet even when firing with more perfected
weapons. Shooting at great altitudes, it may be pointed out, involves
special sighting of one’s rifle; the variation in the trajectory of a
projectile being considerable, at 15,000 or 16,000 feet above
sea-level, owing chiefly to the rarefied air. The clearness of the
atmosphere also prevents the correct estimate of range. For instance,
with my ·256 Mannlicher rifle, with the usual sight at 100 yards, it
was necessary at that altitude to aim about a foot lower than the
target in order to make a bull’s eye.
When people get to high elevations for the first time, and until they
have the cause explained to them, or learn it for themselves, this is a
constant puzzle, and frequently leads to the condemnation of a good
weapon.
It must be said for the Tibetan that his eye is generally fairly
accurate and his hand steady, and with bows and arrows I have seen some
archers make quite creditable performances. These are, however, now
looked upon as obsolete weapons by the natives. The soldiers as well as
civilians are armed with matchlocks.
Men and women in Tibet are extremely skilful in the use of a rope
sling, which they always carry about their person, and with which they
can fling stones long distances with great precision. It is not
uncommon, as I have said, to see them strike in this manner a picked
recalcitrant sheep in a large flock, or a distant yak which they want
to drive to camp. Even children, through constant practice, are adepts
at stone-throwing.
All over Asia, as we have seen, is found the ancient custom of
“stone-fighting,” either as a sport or to settle disputes between
factions; and although in Tibet these combats do not assume such
gigantic proportions as in Corea, for instance, where thousands of
combatants are engaged in fierce fights, still in the Forbidden Land,
too, there is plenty of scope for broken skulls and bruises. The
battles are generally fought between the male members of two or more
rival families, and seldom between large factions or guilds, except in
big towns such as Lhassa or Shigatz, where these stone fights
occasionally assume alarming proportions. They are undoubtedly a speedy
and practical method of settling controversies among rival families,
besides affording some considerable amusement and excitement to the
gathered crowd of spectators watching the progress of the combat well
out of range of the missiles.
Stone-throwing in a different form, as a sport, is indulged in on
festive occasions by young men. Some large rocks, more or less
spherical, and some 30 to 50 lbs. in weight, being collected, and the
participants in the game having divested themselves of their heavy
coats, which are left hanging from their waistbands, the rocks are
lifted and swung over the head and flung some considerable distance,
often ten or twelve yards, either into an appropriate hole or near a
mark-stone. This exercise generally takes place near a mani wall, such
as is represented in the illustration in this book. Another form of the
same game consists in kicking to or near a particular spot a small
stone with the instep of one’s foot, swinging one’s stiffened leg as if
it were a golf-club.
Wrestling is one of the few other sports noticeable in Tibet. It is,
however, not commonly indulged in, and is done according to no rules.
It is, in fact, in the “catch as catch can” style, with additional
biting and vicious kicking until the victor can firmly hold the
helpless vanquished flat under him.
The amusement which always causes much mirth among Tibetans is
tobogganing. They do not always indulge in it as a sport; but when
opportunity offers, for instance, to save themselves the trouble of
long and steep descents on snowy mountain slopes, they greatly enjoy
the fun. I have seen Tibetans slide on their backs at a terrific pace
for a hundred or two hundred yards down precipitous inclines, laughing
and yelling, with their heavy sheepskin coats collected in front, and
their legs up in the air except when required for steering purposes.
With the exception of the above, I do not recollect seeing any other
national sport; nor, as a matter of fact, do Tibetans indulge much in
sports of any kind—partly owing to the great altitudes which they
inhabit, where violent exercise leads to considerable personal
discomfort and suffering; partly because of a somewhat depressed
nature. Although not always devoid of considerable humour, the Tibetan
can seldom be roused from his normal sulkiness and made to put forth
superfluous exertion either for his own delectation or that of others.
Also, the nomadic existence which he leads from one end of the year to
the other, is full of ever present wild excitements and surprises. He
often travels over snowy passes several thousand feet higher than the
highest mountains of Europe, where precipices and avalanches and
land-slides or falling rocks are of daily occurrence, and any devised
sport becomes in comparison rather tame and uninteresting.
Naturally, there is no such thing in Tibet as training to be an
athlete, nor are the few sports and games specially taught to the
children. They are merely picked up from one generation to the other by
imitation. The Tibetan is extremely hardy and wiry.
Amusements which are the result of prosperity and happiness are not
plentiful in Tibet. Playing cards and dice and a primitive sort of
chess, and one or two more elaborate games imported from China and
Nepal, are occasionally to be seen; but perhaps the most interesting to
us is their dancing, notably their war-dances, curious in people so
little martial. With a sword in one hand and a kata in the other, and
with the knees bent, the dancers keep time to the beating of a double
drum and the clapping of hands from the spectators. They attempt some
more or less clumsy revolutions on their heels, but the movements of
their arms are quite graceful. Alternately each bent arm is raised in
front of the head, while the other is held far back, and they manage to
give a pretty semi-rotary twist to both forearms and hands when they
have reached the highest and lowest points respectively.
As the dancers and musicians get excited the movements of the arms and
legs are greatly accelerated, and some of the best dancers can move
their limbs so quickly that on looking at them one’s eyes get confused
to such an extent that only a shapeless moving mass is distinguishable.
Owing to the rarefied air, they cannot, however, keep this up very
long, and, panting, their lungs in convulsion and eyes bulging out of
their sockets, they abruptly end the dance with a suggestive and
humorous—often too humorous—posture, or else with a leap in the air,
doubling up the body and resting the head upon the knees before the
feet touch the ground again.
The most appreciated dancing, from a Tibetan point of view, is when the
performer can continue his evolutions, bringing his legs forward
alternately with knees bent low and almost touching the ground. In a
way, this dance is not unlike Russian peasant dancing. The best dancers
give solo performances, while the rest join in a circle round and round
them until they get tired out and dizzy.
The women’s dancing has precisely the same characteristics, except that
it is done with no sword. Only a kata is held in the right hand, and
the contortions are less exaggerated, and, therefore, more graceful.
The abrupt end also is done away with, together with odd posturing. The
women, whenever I saw them dance, usually danced singly to the
accompaniment of softer and more sentimental music than was the case
with the men. They added sad, melodious chanting to their movements,
weird and wild to a degree, yet full of expression and quite pleasing
to the ear.