CHRISTMAS IN THE WILDS
Much depressed but outwardly composed, I dismounted from the yak and
entered my tent just as Tsering brought in the brazier. The tent seemed
more dismal than usual, the brazier made me feel weary, and at this
moment I seemed to realize how lonely and dull my life had been all
through the winter; but Tsering was as tranquil as usual, and raked the
fire with the tongs to remove some still smoking dung.
"Now you see that I was right; how often have I told you that we should
be ordered to halt at the Bogtsang-tsangpo?" I said.
"Ordered to halt?" exclaimed Tsering in astonishment.
"Yes, now we are stuck fast, but I will not move a step from the spot
until the Tibetans have provided me with a new caravan, though I have to
wait all the winter. Then we will go north-eastwards, look for the
Mongolian pilgrim road, and hasten to Pekin. I will force the Mandarins
to allow me to see the parts of Tibet where no European has yet been."
"I do not understand what the Sahib means; hitherto no one has hindered
us, and the country southwards lies open before us."
"What are you talking about? Have they not come this very day to stop
our further progress?"
"No, on the contrary, three Tibetans are sitting with Muhamed Isa, and
they are most civil and friendly."
"Has, then, Rabsang played a trick on me and the Babu Sahib?"
"Ah," replied Tsering, laughing, "now I understand the matter. Rabsang
was up at the tents this morning, and allowed himself to be frightened
by a Tibetan, who told him that we should be forced to remain where we
are, for we had no right to travel southwards to Naktsang. But that was
only the Tibetan's own notion, and Rabsang, who had to go immediately
after to the valley with the yaks, had not heard how matters really
stood with us."
"Bravo, Tsering, slay the fattest sheep we have got, and invite every
one to a feast. I will have the kidneys fried in their own fat."
Now the storm-beaten tent seemed more comfortable and the brazier sent
out a pleasant kindly heat. I sat buried in thought, wondering whether
this were a good omen, when Muhamed Isa announced a visit of the three
Tibetans. I invited them to take a seat at the fire. Turning to the
chief man, who wore a blood-red fur coat and a brick-red fox-skin cap, I
asked him who he was.
"I am Karma Tamding from Tang-yung," he answered; and I was astonished
that he gave his name at once, for the Tibetans are generally shy of
doing so, lest they should bring upon themselves retaliation on the part
of their superiors when their names are known.
"We are, then, in the province of Tang-yung?"
"Yes, Bombo Chimbo, the pass you crossed yesterday is its northern
boundary; to the west Tang-yung extends for three days' journey, and as
far to the east, and southwards to the Dangra-yum-tso."
"Why have you come to my tent, Karma Tamding? Has one of your superiors
sent you?"
"No, but idle rumours have been current here for some time. First it was
an old woman, who would have it that two hundred men were coming down
from the north. Large bands of robbers from Nakchu have plundered the
nomads in the north, and we felt sure that they were robbers who were
coming into our country. The day before yesterday we heard that it was
only a peaceful European, who took, indeed, yaks, sheep, butter, and
milk from our people, but always paid well for them. I am now come to
see our guests with my own eyes, and I am very glad to find you instead
of a robber band."
"You have not heard, then, that any messenger from Shigatse has been
inquiring about us?"
"No, not a word. But this very day I have heard that an express has been
sent from the Bogtsang-tsangpo to Shansa-dzong, and that messengers will
travel thence to Lhasa."
"Will you be so good as to sell us yaks, Karma Tamding?"
"Yes, willingly. I saw you five years ago at the Bogtsang-tsangpo. Then
you were conducted over the frontier by a large escort and two officers,
but now Europeans seem to be privileged to pass through the country."
"Will you procure us guides?"
"Certainly; but which way do you think of taking? If you wish to go to
the Dangra-yum-tso, you must cross the Kam-la, which lies a little
farther up this valley. But if you prefer the route to the Ngangtse-tso,
you must travel on eastwards. It is all the same to us which way you
take, but I must know for certain. I will ride back to my tent and fetch
parched meal, which you can buy when I overtake you in a few days. The
yaks I will send to-morrow morning."
Karma Tamding seemed so trustworthy that I handed him half the purchase
money in advance, and the next day we bought 3 yaks at 20 rupees a head,
and received a guide, who conducted us over two difficult passes,
eastwards to the Rara country, and on December 16 over the Pike-la, a
gap in a longitudinal valley running parallel to the Bogtsang-tsangpo.
We were compelled to camp early by one of our three mules, which could
not travel any farther. He came up to the fire with trembling legs and
laid himself down. "The news of his death will be the first I shall hear
in the morning," I thought, but I had not to wait so long, for before
the stars had begun to twinkle he lay stiff and cold in the smoke of the
camp-fire. Only two of the Poonch mules were left.
Then Karma Tamding rode up with twelve other Tibetans, two of them
women. They sat down by the fire and looked at me; and I looked at them.
The older woman had a fine sheepskin, and on the forehead an ornament of
pendent coral and silver coins from Lhasa. The younger was similarly
dressed, and had a huge lambskin cap. Little could be seen of her, but
the little that was visible was dirty beyond belief. The men were
strongly built and well proportioned--one could perceive that, when they
drew off the right sleeve and exposed their breasts to the heat of the
fire.
When we had gazed at one another long enough, and I had learned that the
small lake near by was called the Tarmatse-tso, the whole party crawled
into Muhamed Isa's tent to offer their edibles for sale. And there
parched meal and barley was bought to the value of 68 rupees; it was
quite a pleasure to see with what an appetite our last twelve animals
emptied their bags of barley; they had so long had to put up with the
execrable grass of the desert.
Next day we took leave of honest Karma Tamding. "On the boundary of
Naktsang you will meet with an elderly man, named Chabga Namgyal, who is
just as nice as I am," were his last words. We continued our long winter
journey through Tibet eastwards along the same convenient longitudinal
valley, and bivouacked in the district Neka, an ominous name (it means
in Swedish to refuse), which might perhaps have brought us bad luck had
the supreme chief of Tang-yung, whose headquarters are here, been at
home at the time. Fortunately he had a short time before set out with
his wife and children to Tashi-lunpo for the New Year festival, and had
consigned his large herd of yaks and flock of sheep to the care of his
servants and his herdsmen. They sold us milk and butter, but disapproved
of my disturbing the gentle fish in a neighbouring pool. Within an hour
I had twenty-five on dry land, which were a great treat at dinner.
Robert had been unwell for some days, and now developed high fever,
which confined him to his bed. Sonam Tsering suffered from a curious
mountain sickness, in consequence of which all his body swelled up and
assumed a livid hue. Two others were unwell, and the medicine chest
stood open again. Sonam Tsering's tent was like an hospital, where all
the sick found shelter as soon as they were incapacitated. Only old
Guffaru was still healthy, did the work of two, and had at present no
use for the shroud he brought from Leh. His large white beard had turned
yellow in the smoke of the fires, and his hands, frost-bitten in winter,
were dark and hard as iron. We stayed two days in camp No. 90, to give
the invalids a rest. My dapple-grey from Yarkand was nearly drowned in a
spring; fortunately he was seen from the camp, and ten strong men pulled
him out of the mud. Then he was dried at the fire, rubbed well down, and
covered with cloths. But his days were numbered.
On December 20 we ride on along the longitudinal valley parallel to the
Bogtsang-tsangpo, and encamp at the mouth of a transverse valley, which
belongs to the southern mountains, and is called Kung-lung. Frozen
springs are seen on all sides; the farther we advance southwards the
more the country is fertilized by the monsoon rains. The ground is
honeycombed by millions of mouse holes; they are so close together that
there is no room for more. The field-mouse here does the work of
loosening and ploughing up the ground that the worm does in our soil.
But the herbage derives no benefit from it, for the mice subsist on the
roots and destroy the grass.
When we had passed the boundary between Tang-yung and Naktsang, and had
just pitched our camp at the source of the brook draining the Kung-lung
valley, three riders with guns suddenly appeared, who were making for
the same spot, and behind them came a dark group, perhaps soldiers.
Probably they were about to arrest us here, at the first camp in
Naktsang. No; another false alarm. They were simply peasants from the
Bogtsang-tsangpo, who had been to Naktsang to barter salt for _tsamba_
(parched meal) and barley, and were now on their homeward journey. The
troop consisted of members of several tent villages, among which the
goods would be distributed. The _tsamba_ and the barley were carried by
yaks, horses, and sheep, and seemed sufficient to last many households
all the winter.
Here I heard for the first time of the lake Shuru-tso, but I little
thought that I should bivouac on its shore next spring. The range on the
north, in which the Keva is the highest summit, is the water-parting
between the Dagtse-tso and the Kung-tso, a lake visible to the east. On
the south we had the range which we had first seen at the
Dangra-yum-tso, and which afterwards skirts the south side of the
Tang-yung-tso.
In the night the continued westerly storm increased to a hurricane,
which blew down my tent. It was fastened up again, but at dawn I was
awakened by a report like a gunshot, for one of the strained tent ropes
broke, and another tore itself out of its iron cap, which fell with a
sharp clatter against the tent. A shower of stones and coarse sand beat
about my airy dwelling, so that it required a certain amount of
resolution to issue forth in weather worse than we had experienced in
Chang-tang.
"How much longer will the storm last?" I asked our guide, as he joyfully
and thankfully pocketed his 18 rupees after he had handed us over to
another guide of the Naktsang tribe.
"Six months," he replied.
We marched eastwards, gradually diverging to the south, and thus passed
round the chain which had hitherto lain on our right. On the way we
found Adul in a hollow, and asked him how he was.
[Illustration: 90. NEAR THE DANGRA-YUM-TSO. IN THE VALLEY BELOW IS SEEN
THE LITTLE LAKE TANG-YUNG-TSO.
Sketch by the Author.]
"I am dying," he answered, without moving a muscle. I sent one of his
comrades and a horse from the camp to bring in his corpse, but next
morning he was as lively as a cricket. Such weather is certainly not
enjoyable, but it is no use to complain of wind and weather. My horse
staggers about as if he had drunk too much. At the opening of every
lateral valley we may be sure of a buffet that will make us reel in our
saddles. We bend sideways against the wind to help the horse in
maintaining his equilibrium, and we draw ourselves together so as to
present a smaller surface to the wind--indeed, we are like a sail that
must always be set according to the direction of the wind, and we
have to trim ourselves just as one would handle a sailing-boat in a high
sea. We rested awhile in the shelter of a rock, to recover our breath,
and when at length we reached the camp in Nadsum we had suffered as much
as we were able to bear. To the north-east, beyond the mountains, lies
the Dagtse-tso, which Bower, Dutreuil de Rhins, Littledale, and I have
visited; on the way thither a lake is passed, called the Goang-tso.
On the 22nd we took our way to the south, where a range of considerable
height bars the road to the Ngangtse-tso. We followed the river
Sertsang-chu upwards; a little water still bubbled and trickled down
under its thick covering of ice. In the evening we received a visit from
eight Tibetans, two of whom had lost all their yaks by a kind of
cattle-plague. We ascended the same valley for another day's journey,
and found five tents in an expansion of the valley which was called
Torno-shapko; at several spots we saw large flocks of sheep guarded by
dogs as snappy and impudent as the nomads themselves. Some of these
fellows came into our camp and used very rude language, daring even to
say that we must not remain here but must pack off with all speed. To
buy milk and butter was out of the question. Muhamed Isa drove them away
and threatened to report their conduct to the Governor of Naktsang. Our
guide, a boy of fifteen, was frightened, but was persuaded to accompany
us a day longer.
December 24. When I woke an old mendicant lama sat singing before my
tent. He had a little withered woman with him, and their small light
tent was pitched quite close to us. In his hand he held a staff bedecked
with coloured strips and with brass plates, coral, shells, tassels, and
other ornaments, which he made to spin round as he sang. The old man had
in his lifetime wandered far and wide, begging his way from tent to
tent, but when I asked him to accompany us and to bring in the Christmas
festival with song at our camp at night he declared he was too tired.
The road led us higher up the same valley, soon leaving the sources
behind. We passed two _manis_ with prayers inscribed on the slabs, one
of which was 23 feet long. Two tents stood at a spot where two large
valleys converged. The unfriendly men we had met yesterday had gone on
before us and had warned the people not to sell us anything if we asked
them. Two of our men tried to trade, but met with a refusal, whereupon
Muhamed Isa laid his riding-whip smartly across the backs of the
mischief-makers. Then the whole company fell on their knees, became
remarkably civil, and brought out at once all the butter and milk they
had on hand.
Our valley now runs eastwards, and at last rises in a south-easterly
direction to a pass. Evidently no great road runs over it, for there is
no cairn on the summit. It turned out later that the youth had led us
astray, omitting to turn aside through a southern valley to the pass
Gurtse-la. However, it was of no consequence, for the view from our pass
was grand, and below us lay a lake not marked on Nain Sing's map. The
valley descending from the pass is so deeply eroded that we had to keep
for some distance to the heights on the right side. Islam Ahun led my
tall dapple-grey, which was weak and sickly; he took only a few steps at
a time, but he could still graze. We had made a long march, and the camp
could not be far distant, so he would perhaps reach it. I therefore only
stroked him as I passed, while he held his nose to the ground and
plucked up the grass. But when I left him to his fate and rode on, he
raised his head, sighed heavily, and gazed after me. I was deeply
grieved afterwards that I did not remain with him. He had carried me
faithfully on the long dreary journey from our departure from Leh until
his back became one great sore; then he was not worked till his back was
healed. Afterwards he was degraded to a pack-horse, but when our caravan
was reinforced with yaks, he was exempted from work of any kind.
Latterly we had had abundance of barley for the animals, but he had
shown no signs of recovery. This day, however, he had managed to climb
the pass, and would surely be able to get over the short remaining
distance. But Islam Ahun came into camp alone. The horse had stumbled on
a very steep descent, rolled over several times in the débris, and then
remained lying. Islam, who had received strict orders to be careful of
the dapple-grey, stood and waited, but the horse did not move again, and
died where he was. Why did I not understand him when he so plainly said
a last good-bye? I was much grieved at it, and for a long time could not
forget the troubled expression of his eyes as he saw me ride away. The
remembrance haunted me when it grew dark at night and the winter storm
howled in cold dreary Tibet.
Down below in the valley basin lay the Dumbok-tso asleep under its ice
mantle, out of which rose a small rocky ridge, the Tso-ri or "Lake
Mountain." Up above the heights were still bathed in sunshine. The
Dumbok-tso was the most important discovery of the day. The watch-fires
burned in front of the tents and threw a yellow light on the
surroundings.
Then the day's notes were filled in, and Robert, as usual, labelled the
rock specimens we had collected. "Dinner is ready," says Tsering, as he
brings in fresh fuel, and the _shislik_ and sour milk are served and
placed on the ground before my bed. Then I am left alone with a thousand
memories of Swedish Christmas feasts, and the words: "Christmas is now
under every roof," and "Frozen is the limpid lake, it waits for the
winds of spring," from the poet Topelius' Christmas song, rings in my
ears. The Christian community in our camp consisted only of Robert and
myself, but we determined to celebrate the Christmas festival so that
the heathen also might have their share in the enjoyment. For some time
we had kept all the candle ends, and now had forty-one pieces of various
lengths. We set up a box in the middle of my tent, and arranged the
candles on it so that the largest stood in the middle, and the others
became smaller and smaller towards the corners. That was our
Christmas-tree. When all the candles were lighted we threw back the
flaps of the front of the tent, and the Ladakis, who meanwhile had
assembled outside, gave vent to a murmur of astonishment. They sang
softly in rising and falling tones. I forgot for a time the solemnity of
the moment, and gazing into the flickering flames of the candles let the
minutes of the holy night glide slowly by. The sentimental air was now
and then interrupted by a thundering _khavash_ and _khabbaleh_ in which
all joined, howling like jackals. The flutes performed the
accompaniment, and a saucepan served as a drum. Lamaist hymns at a
Christmas festival under the constellation of Orion! Dimly illuminated
from the tent, and flooded by the silvery light of the moon, my men
presented a weird appearance as they turned themselves round in their
native dance, keeping time to the noise of the saucepan. The Tibetans of
the neighbouring tents perhaps thought that we had all gone mad, or
perhaps that we were executing an incantation dance, and had lighted
sacrificial lamps to propitiate our gods. What the wild asses, grazing
on the lake shore, thought of it, no one can tell.
Our young guide, who had been placed in the middle of the tent door,
caused us much amusement. He stared, now at the lights, now at me,
without uttering a sound, sat like a cat on the watch with its fore-paws
on the ground, and did nothing but gaze. He would have wonderful stories
to tell his fellow-tribesmen, which would certainly lose none of their
effect by the embellishments added by himself and amplified in the
course of repetition. Perhaps the memory of our visit still survives in
the country, in a legend of singular fire-worshippers who danced and
bellowed round an altar adorned with forty-one burning candles. When the
youth was asked how he liked the illumination, he made no answer. We
laughed till our sides ached, but that did not disturb him; he continued
to glare with eyes full of astonishment. When he had somewhat recovered
his senses next morning, he told Tundup Sonam in confidence that he had
had many experiences, but that he had never met with anything so
extraordinary as the evening's entertainment. He would not sleep with us
that night, but went off to the tents of his people, and on the first
holiday he begged permission to return home.
The lower the candles burned down, the brighter the stars of Orion shone
into the opening of the tent. The corner lights had long gone out, and
only a couple in the middle continued to flicker. Then I distributed a
small sum of money among the men, beginning with Robert and Muhamed Isa.
That was the only Christmas present. After this the men retired to
their fires, which had in the meantime gone out. Two had to stay behind
to explain to me one of the songs in which the word Tashi-lunpo had
repeatedly occurred. It was more difficult than I expected to translate
the song. In the first place, the men did not know it well themselves,
and, secondly, they did not know the meaning of some of the words it
contained. Other words they understood well enough, but they could not
translate them into Turki or Hindustani. First we wrote out the hymn in
Tibetan, then Robert translated it into Hindustani, and I into Turki,
and finally from the two translations we concocted an English version
which had no sense or meaning. But by repeatedly taking the song to
pieces and analyzing it, we at last made out what the subject was--it
was a glorification of the monastery Tashi-lunpo, which was the goal of
our hopes. The learned who happen to be acquainted with ancient Tibetan
hymns will be very much amused if they take the trouble to read the
following translation. It certainly has the merit of forming a record in
poetic license.
Now rises the sun shining in the east,
From the eastern lands over the heights of the east.
It is now the third month that the sun mounts up,
Pouring forth floods of heat.
First fall the beams on the temple,
The house of the high gods, and caress
The golden battlements of Tashi-lunpo,
The roof of the venerable cloister temple,
And with threefold brilliance glitter the pinnacles in the sun.
On the highest meadows of the temple vale
Shy antelopes graze in thousands.
Hard is its crumbly soil, but still
Rich is the vale and green and lovely,
And grass thrives on its poor land,
And brooks ripple down with cool water.
The highest, ice-covered mountains glitter
Like transparent glass. The nearer summits
Rise like a row of lofty _chhortens_,
And close at their feet beat the blue waves
Of the Yum-tso, playing on the holy strand.
Take water from the lake and fill
The sacrificial bowls of the holy idols,
Moulded of brass. Then decorate with silk cloths
Of every kind and colour, which from Pekin come,
And adorn also with veils the tall golden images of the gods,
And fill the temple halls with hanging standards.
Take _kadakh_ cloths, holy and dear,
Of best silk from the town of Lhasa,
And lay them on the forehead of Buddha's image.
So ended our Christmas Eve in the wilderness, and while the glow of the
Christmas fire sank down in the ashes I read the old Bible passages
relating to this day, put out my light, and dreamed of Christmas
festivals in the north, and of Tashi-lunpo down in the south behind the
mountains, the goal towards which we had been struggling amid suffering
and privation all through the cold winter, and which was still far off
and perhaps even beyond our reach.