ANOTHER DISASTER
Everything promised well when, with my reduced party, I started toward
the north-east, first skirting the lake for three and a quarter miles,
then ascending over the barren hill ranges in an easterly direction for
a distance of twelve miles. The journey was uneventful. My four men
seemed in the best of spirits. We descended to a plain where water and
grass could be found. Having come upon a camping-ground with a
protecting wall, such as are usually put up by Tibetans at their
halting-places, we made ourselves comfortable for the night,
notwithstanding the high wind and a passing storm of hail and rain,
which drenched us to the skin. The thermometer during the night went
down to 34 deg.
At sunrise I started to make a reconnaissance from the top of a high
hill wherefrom I could get a bird's-eye view of a great portion of the
surrounding country. It was of the utmost importance for me to find out
which would be the easiest way to get through the intricate succession
of hills and mountains, and I also wished to ascertain the exact
direction of a large river to the north of us, which discharged its
waters into the Mansarowar. I started alone. A three and a half miles'
climb brought me to the summit of a hill, 16,480 feet, where I was able
to ascertain all I wished to know. I returned to camp, and we proceeded
on a course of 73 deg. 30', crossing over a pass 16,450 feet high. Then
we found ourselves in front of a hill, the summit of which resembled a
fortress, with flying-prayers flapping in the wind. At the foot of the
hill were some twenty ponies grazing.
[Illustration: A NATURAL CASTLE]
With the aid of my telescope I made sure that what at first appeared to
be a castle was nothing but a work of nature. Apparently no one was
concealed up there. The ponies, however, indicated the presence of men,
and we had to proceed with caution. In fact, rounding the next hill, we
discerned in the grassy valley below a number of black tents, two
hundred yaks, and about a thousand sheep. We kept well out of sight
behind the hill. We went a long way around it, and at last descended
into an extensive valley. The river described a semicircle through this
valley, close to the southern hill range, and it was joined by a
tributary coming from the south-east. This tributary at first appeared
to me larger than what I afterward recognized to be the main stream. I
followed its course for four miles, but found that it was taking me in a
more southerly direction than I wished, and had to retrace my steps
along a flattish plateau.
Meeting two Tibetan women, I purchased, after endless trouble, a fat
sheep out of a flock they were driving before them. These two females
carried rope slings in their hands. The accuracy with which they could
fling stones and hit the mark at great distances was really marvellous.
For a few coppers they gave an exhibition of their skill, hitting any
sheep they liked in their flock, even at distances of thirty and forty
yards. I tried to obtain from these dangerous creatures a little
information about the country, but they professed absolute ignorance.
"We are servants," they said, "and we know nothing. We know each sheep
in our flock, and that is all. Our lord, whose slaves we are, knows all.
He knows where the rivers come from, and the ways to all Gombas. He is a
great king."
"And where does he live?" I inquired.
"There, two miles off, where that smoke rises to the sky."
The temptation was great to go and call on this "great king," who knew
so many things. We might probably persuade him to sell us provisions. As
we had none too many, they would be of great assistance to us. Anyhow
the visit would be interesting. I decided to risk it.
We steered toward the several columns of smoke that rose before us, and
at last we approached a large camp of black tents. Our appearance caused
a commotion. Men and women rushed in and out of their tents in great
excitement.
"_Jogpas! jogpas!_" (Brigands! brigands!) somebody in their camp
shouted. In a moment their matchlocks were made ready, and the few men
who had remained outside the tents drew their swords, holding them
clumsily in their hands in a way hardly likely to terrify any one.
To be taken for brigands was a novel experience for us. The war-like
array was in strange contrast to the terrified expressions on the faces
of those who stood there armed. In fact, when Chanden Sing and I walked
forward and encouraged them to sheathe their steels and put their
matchlocks by, they readily followed our advice, and brought out rugs
for us to sit upon. Having overcome their fright, they were most anxious
to be pleasant.
"_Kiula gunge gozai deva labodu_" (You have nice clothes). I began the
conversation, attempting flattery, to put the chieftain at his ease.
"_Lasso, leh_" (Yes, sir), answered the Tibetan, apparently astonished,
and looking at his own attire with an air of comical pride.
His answer was sufficient to show me that the man considered me his
superior. Had he thought me an equal or inferior he would have said
_lasso_ without the _leh_.
"_Kiula tuku taka zando?_" (How many children have you?) I rejoined.
"_Ni_" (Two).
"_Chuwen bogpe, tsamba, chon won i?_" (Will you sell me flour or
_tsamba_?)
"_Middu_" (Have not got any) he replied, making several quick
semicircular movements with the upturned palm of his right hand.
This is a most characteristic gesture of the Tibetan, and nearly
invariably accompanies the word "No," instead of a movement of the head,
as with us.
"_Keran ga naddoung?_" (Where are you going?) he asked me, eagerly.
"_Nhgarang ne koroun!_" (I am a pilgrim!) "_Lungba quorghen neh
jelghen_" (I go looking at sacred places).
"_Gopria zaldo. Chakzal wortze. Tsamba middu. Bogpe middu, guram middu,
die middu, kassur middu_" (I am very poor. Please hear me. I have no
_tsamba_, no flour, no sweet paste, no rice, no dried fruit).
This, of course, I knew to be untrue. I calmly said that I would remain
seated where I was until food was sold to me. At the same time I
produced one or two silver coins, the display of which in Tibet was
always the means of hastening the transaction of business. In small
handfuls, after each of which the Tibetans swore that they had not
another particle to sell, I managed, with somewhat of a trial to my
patience, to purchase some twenty pounds of food. The moment the money
was handed over they had a quarrel among themselves about its division,
and they almost came to blows. Greed and avarice are the most marked
characteristics of the Tibetans. Tibetans of any rank are not ashamed to
beg in the most abject manner for the smallest silver coin.
The men of the party were picturesque. They had flat, broad noses, high
cheek-bones, and small, slanting (mere slits), piercing eyes. Their hair
was plaited in long pig-tails ornamented with pieces of red cloth, discs
of ivory, and silver coins. Nearly all wore the typical dark-red coat,
with ample sleeves hanging over the hands, and pulled up at the waist to
receive eating-bowls, snuff-box, and other articles of daily use. All
were armed with jewelled swords.
They stood at a respectable distance, studying our faces and watching
our movements with apparent interest. I have hardly ever seen such
cowardice as among these big, hulking fellows. To a European it scarcely
seemed conceivable. The mere raising of one's eyes was sufficient to
make a man dash away frightened. With the exception of the chief, who
pretended to be unafraid, notwithstanding that he was trembling with
fear, they one and all showed ridiculous nervousness when I approached
them to examine the ornaments they wore round their necks, such as the
charm-boxes that dangled prominently on their chests. The larger of
these charm-boxes contained an image of Buddha, the others were mere
empty brass or silver cases.
When night came I did not consider it safe to encamp near the Tibetans.
We moved away, driving our yaks before us and dragging the newly
purchased sheep. We marched two and a half miles, and then halted in a
depression (16,050 feet), where we had a little shelter from the wind,
which blew with great force. To our right was a short range of fairly
high mountains stretching from north to south. Through a gorge flowed a
large stream. At that time of the evening we could not hope to cross it,
but an attempt might be made in the morning, when the cold of the night
would have checked the melting of the snows, and therefore lowered the
level of the water in the river. Heavy showers had fallen during the
day. The moment the sun went down there was a regular downpour. We had
pitched our little shelter-tent, but we had to clear out of it a couple
of hours later, the small basin in which we had pitched it having turned
into a regular pond. There was no alternative for us but to come out
into the open. Where the water did not flood us the wind was so high and
the ground so moist that it was not possible to keep our tent up. The
pegs would not hold. The hours of the night seemed long as we sat
tightly wrapped in our waterproofs, with feet, hands, and ears almost
frozen. At dawn there were no signs of the storm abating. We had not
been able to light a fire in the evening, nor could we light one now.
We were cold, hungry, and miserable. The thermometer had been down to
36 deg. Toward noon, the rain still pouring down in torrents and there
being no sign of its clearing, we loaded our yaks and entered the gorge
between the snow-covered mountains. With difficulty we crossed the
tributary we had so far followed, and then proceeded along the right
bank of the main stream.
We were so exhausted and wet that when near the evening we came to an
enormous cliff, on the rocky face of which a patient Lama sculptor had
engraved in huge letters the characters, _Omne mani padme hun_, we
halted. The gorge was very narrow here. We found a dry spot under a big
bowlder, but as there was not sufficient room for all five, the two
Shokas went under the shelter of another rock a little way off. This
seemed natural enough. I took care of the weapons and the scientific
instruments, while the Shokas had under their own sheltering bowlder the
bags containing nearly all our provisions except the reserve of tinned
meats. The rain pelted all night, the wind howled. Again we could not
light a fire. The thermometer did not descend below 38 deg., but the cold,
owing to our drenched condition, seemed intense. In fact, we were so
chilled that we did not venture to eat. Crouching in the small dry space
at our disposal and without tasting food, we eventually fell fast
asleep. I slept soundly for the first time since I had been in Tibet.
It was broad daylight when I woke up.
[Illustration: CAMP WITH GIGANTIC INSCRIPTIONS]
Taking advantage of the storm, the men Nattoo and Bijesing had escaped
during the night with the loads intrusted to them. I discovered their
tracks, half washed away, in the direction from which we had come the
previous night. The rascals had bolted, and there would have been
comparatively little harm in that, if only they had not taken with them
all the stock of provisions for my two Hindoo servants, and a quantity
of good rope, straps, and other articles, which we were bound to miss at
every turn, and which we had absolutely no means of replacing.
Of thirty picked servants who had started with me, twenty-eight had now
abandoned me. Only two remained faithful: Chanden Sing and Mansing the
leper!
The weather continued horrible. No food for my men and no fuel! I
proposed to the two Hindoos to go back also and let me continue alone. I
described to them the dangers of following me farther, and warned them
fully, but they absolutely refused to leave me.
"Sir, we are not Shokas," were their words. "If you die, we will die
with you. We fear not death. We are sorry to see you suffer, sir, but
never mind us. We are only poor people, therefore it is of no
consequence."
This last disaster should, I suppose, have deterred us from further
progress. It somehow made me even more determined to persist than
before. It was no light job to have to run afield to capture the yaks,
which had wandered off in search of grass; and having found them and
driven them back to our primitive camping-place, to tie upon their backs
the pack-saddles, and fasten on them the heavy tin-lined cases of
scientific instruments and photographic plates. This task was only part
of the day's work, which included the writing up of my diary, the
registering of observations, sketching, photographing, changing plates
in cameras, occasionally developing negatives, surveying, cleaning
rifles, revolver, etc. The effort of lifting up the heavy cases on to
the pack-saddles was, owing to our exhausted condition, a severe tax on
our strength. The tantalizing restlessness of the yaks forced us to make
many attempts before we actually succeeded in properly fastening the
loads, particularly as the Shoka deserters had stolen our best pieces of
rope and the leather straps. One of the remaining pieces of rope was
hardly long enough to make the final knot to one of the girths. Neither
Chanden Sing nor Mansing had sufficient strength to pull and make it
join. I made them hold the yak by the horns to keep him steady while I
pulled my hardest. I succeeded with a great effort, and was about to get
up when a terrific blow from the yak's horn struck me in the skull an
inch behind my right ear and sent me rolling head over heels. I was
stunned for several moments. I gradually recovered, but the back of my
head was swollen and sore for many days after.
We proceeded along the right bank of the river between reddish hills and
distant high snowy mountains to the north-west and east-south-east of
us, which we saw from time to time when the rain ceased and the sky
cleared. The momentary lifting of the clouds was ever followed by
another downpour. Marching became unpleasant and difficult, sinking, as
we were, deep in the mud. Toward evening we suddenly discovered some
hundred and fifty soldiers riding full gallop in pursuit of us along the
river valley. We pushed on, and having got out of their sight behind a
hill, we changed our course and rapidly climbed up to the top of the
hill range. My two men with the yaks concealed themselves on the other
side. I remained lying flat on the top of the hill, spying with my
telescope the movements of our pursuers. They rode unsuspectingly on,
the tinkling of their horse-bells sounding pleasant to the ear in that
deserted spot. Thinking that we had continued our way along the river,
they rode beyond the spot where we had left the path. Owing to their
haste to catch us up, they did not notice our tracks up the hillside.
Rain began to fall heavily again, and we remained encamped at 17,000
feet, with our loads ready for flight at any moment. The night was spent
none too comfortably. I sat up all night, rifle in hand, in case of a
surprise, and I was indeed glad when morning came. The rain had stopped,
but we were now enveloped in a white mist which chilled us. I was tired.
Chanden Sing was intrusted to keep a sharp watch while I tried to sleep.
"_Hazur, hazur, jaldi apka banduk!_" (Sir, sir, quick, your rifle!)
muttered my servant, rousing me. "Do you hear the sound of bells?"
The tinkling was quite plain. Our pursuers were approaching, evidently
in strong force. There was no time to be lost. To successfully evade
them appeared impossible. I decided to meet them rather than attempt
flight. Chanden Sing and I were armed with our rifles, Mansing with his
Gourkha knife. We awaited their arrival. There came out of the mist a
long procession of gray, phantom-like figures, each one leading a pony.
The advance-guard stopped from time to time to examine the ground;
having discovered our footprints only partially washed away by the rain,
they were following them up. Seeing us at last on the top of the hill,
they halted. There was a commotion among them. They held an excited
consultation. Some of them unslung their matchlocks, others drew their
swords, while we sat on a rock above and watched them attentively.
After hesitating a little, four officers signalled to us that they
wished to approach.
"You are a great king," shouted one at the top of his voice, "and we
want to lay these presents at your feet." He pointed to some small bags
which the other three men were carrying. "_Gelbo! Chakzal! Chakzal!_"
(We salute you, king!)
I felt anything but regal after the wretched night we had spent, but I
wished to treat the natives with due deference and politeness whenever
it was possible.
I said that four men might approach, but the bulk of the party must
withdraw to a spot about two hundred yards away. This they immediately
did--a matter of some surprise to me after the war-like attitude they
had assumed at first. They laid their matchlocks down in the humblest of
fashions, and duly replaced their swords in their sheaths. The four
officers approached, and when quite close to us, threw the bags on the
ground and opened them to show us the contents. There was _tsamba_,
flour, _chura_ (a kind of cheese), _guram_ (sweet paste), butter, and
dried fruit. The officers were most profuse in their salutations. They
had removed their caps and thrown them on the ground, and they kept
their tongues sticking out of their mouths until I begged them to draw
them in. They professed to be the subordinates of the Tokchim Tarjum,
who had despatched them to inquire after my health, and who wished me to
look upon him as my best friend. Well aware of the difficulties we must
encounter in travelling through such an inhospitable country, the
Tarjum, they said, wished me to accept the gifts they now laid before
me. With these they handed me a _kata_, or "the scarf of love and
friendship," a long piece of thin silk-like gauze, the end of which had
been cut into a fringe. In Tibet these _katas_ accompany every gift. A
caller is expected instantly on arrival to produce a _kata_ for
presentation to his host. The High Lamas sell _katas_ to devotees. One
of these scarves is presented to those who leave a satisfactory offering
after visiting a Lamasery. If a verbal message is sent to a friend, a
_kata_ is sent with it. Among officials and Lamas small pieces of this
silk gauze are enclosed even in letters. Not to give or send a _kata_ to
an honored visitor is considered a breach of good manners, and is
equivalent to a slight.
I hastened to express my thanks for the Tarjum's kindness, and I handed
the messengers a sum in silver of three times the value of the articles
presented. The men seemed pleasant and friendly, and we chatted for
some time. Much to my annoyance, poor Mansing, bewildered at the sight
of so much food, could no longer resist the pangs of hunger. Caring
little for the breach of etiquette and likely consequences, he proceeded
to fill his mouth with handfuls of flour, cheese, and butter. This led
the Tibetans to suspect that we must be starving, and with their usual
shrewdness they determined to take advantage of our condition.
"The Tarjum," said the oldest of the messengers, "wishes you to come
back and be his guest. He will feed you and your men, and you will then
go back to your country."
"Thank you," I replied; "we do not want the Tarjum's food, nor do we
wish to go back. I am greatly obliged for his kindness, but we will
continue our journey."
"Then," angrily said a young and powerful Tibetan, "if you continue your
journey, we will take back our gifts."
"And your _kata_!" I rejoined, flinging first the large ball of butter
into his chest, and after it the small bags of flour, _tsamba_, cheese,
fruit, etc., a minute earlier prettily laid out before us.
This unexpected bombardment quite upset the Tibetans, who, with powdered
coats, hair, and faces, scampered away as best they could. Chanden Sing,
always as quick as lightning when it was a case of hitting, pounded away
with the butt of his rifle at the roundest part of one ambassador's
body, when in his clumsy clothes he attempted to get up and run.
Mansing, the philosopher of our party, interrupted in his feed, but
undisturbed by what was going on, picked up the fruit and cheese and
pieces of butter scattered all over the ground, mumbling that it was a
shame to throw away good food in such a reckless fashion.
The soldiers, who had been watching attentively from a distance the
different phases of the interview, considered it prudent to beat a hasty
retreat. Mounting their steeds with unmistakable despatch, they galloped
in confusion down the hill, and then along the valley of the river,
until they were lost to sight in the mist. The ambassadors, who had been
unable to rejoin their ponies, followed on foot as quickly as possible
under the circumstances, with due allowance for the rarefied air and
rough ground.
Their cries of distress, caused by fear alone, for we had done them no
real harm, served to strengthen the contempt in which my men by now held
the Tibetan soldiers and their officers.
The scene was truly comical. We laughed heartily.
When the Tibetans were out of sight, Chanden Sing and I pocketed our
pride and helped Mansing to collect the dried dates, apricots, the
pieces of _chura_, butter, and _guram_. Then, having loaded our yaks, we
marched on.