FIRST WHITE MAN IN THE SACRED PROVINCE
The Maium Pass (17,500 feet), as far as which no white man had ever
penetrated, is a great landmark in Tibet. Not only does one of the
sources of the great Tsangpu, or Brahmaputra River, rise on its
south-east slopes, but it also separates the immense provinces of
Nari-Khorsum (extending west of the Maium Pass and comprising the
mountainous and lake region as far as Ladak) from the Yutzang, the
central province of Tibet, stretching east of the pass along the valley
of the Brahmaputra and having Lhassa for its capital. The word _yu_ in
Tibetan means "middle." It is applied to this province because it
occupies the centre of Tibet. To the north of the Maium lies the Doktol
province.
I had taken a reconnoitring trip to another pass to the north-east of
us, and had just returned to my men on the Maium Pass, when several of
the Tibetan soldiers we had left behind rode up toward us. We waited for
them. Their leader, pointing at the valley beyond the pass, cried: "That
yonder is the Lhassa territory, and we forbid you to enter it!"
I took no notice of his protest, and driving before me the two yaks, I
stepped into the most sacred of all the sacred provinces--"the ground of
God," as they call it.
We descended quickly on the eastern side of the pass, while the
soldiers, aghast, remained watching us. They were a picturesque sight as
they stood among the _obos_ against the sky-line, the sunlight shining
on their jewelled swords and the gay red flags of their matchlocks.
Above their heads strings of flying-prayers waved in the wind. Having
watched us for a little while, they disappeared.
A little rivulet, hardly six inches wide, descended among stones in the
centre of the valley we were following, and was soon swollen by other
rivulets from melting snows of the mountains on either side. This was
one source[8] of the great Brahmaputra, one of the largest rivers in the
world. I must confess that I felt somewhat proud to be the first white
man who had ever reached these sources, and there was a certain childish
delight in standing over this sacred stream, which, of such immense
width lower down, could here be spanned by a man standing with legs
slightly apart. We drank of its waters at the spot where it had its
birth, and then, following a marked track to the south-east, we
continued our descent on a gentle incline along a grassy valley.
The change in the climate between the west and south-east sides of the
Maium Pass was extraordinary. On the western side we had nothing but
violent storms of hail, rain, and snow, the dampness in the air
rendering the atmosphere cold even during the day. The soil was
unusually marshy, and little fuel or grass could be found. The moment
the pass was crossed we were in a mild, pleasant climate, with a lovely
deep-blue sky over us. We found plenty of grass for our yaks and low
shrubs for our fires. After all our sufferings and privations, we felt
that we had indeed entered the land of God. I expected great trouble
sooner or later, but I was not sorry I had disobeyed the soldiers'
orders and had marched straight into the most forbidden province of the
forbidden land.
There is always satisfaction in doing what is forbidden.
The Brahmaputra received three small snow-fed tributaries descending
from the steep mountains on either side of us. Where the main stream
turned sharply south, a fourth and important tributary, carrying a large
volume of water, came down through a gorge from the north-north-east.
We encamped near the junction of these rivers, on the right bank of the
main stream, at an elevation of 16,620 feet. From the Maium Pass a
continuation of the Gangri chain of mountains stretched first in a
south-easterly direction, then due east, in a line almost parallel to
the higher southern range of the Himahlyas. Between these two ranges was
an extensive plain intersected by the Brahmaputra. On the southern side
of the river were minor hill ranges between the river course and the big
range of majestic snowy peaks. Although no peaks of considerable
elevation were to be found along the range north of the Brahmaputra, yet
it was of geographical importance, as its southern slopes formed the
northern watershed of the holy river as far as Lhassa.
The valley enclosed between these two parallel ranges was the most
thickly populated part of Tibet. Grass was abundant, and fuel easily
obtainable. Thousands of yaks, sheep, and goats could be seen grazing
near the many Tibetan camps along the Brahmaputra and its principal
tributaries. The trade route of caravans from Ladak to Lhassa followed
this valley. As I had come to Tibet to see and study the Tibetans, I
thought that, although I might run greater risks, I could in no part of
the country accomplish my object better than by going along this thickly
populated track.
We slept little. We expected the soldiers to attack us during the night
to try and stop our progress, but all was quiet and nothing happened.
Our yaks got loose, and we had difficulty in recovering them in the
morning. They had swum across the stream, and had gone about a mile on
the other side.
The night had been very cold, the thermometer dropping as low as
32-1/2 deg. We did not pitch our little tent, as we wanted to be ready
in case of attack. We were tired and cold after the long march of the
previous day. There was a south-westerly breeze blowing. It was hard
work to have to cross the river, chase the yaks and bring them back to
camp; then, exhausted as we were, to get the loads on them.
We followed the stream on the right bank. It wound in and out between
barren hills, afterward flowing through a grassy valley three-quarters
of a mile wide and a mile and a half long. It then went through a narrow
passage and farther through an undulating grassy valley two miles wide.
We were caught in a terrific thunder-storm, with hail and rain. This was
an annoying experience. We were now before a large tributary of the
Brahmaputra. The stream was so swollen, rapid, and deep that I was much
puzzled as to how I could take my men across. They could not swim, and
the water was so cold that a plunge in it would give a severe shock.
There was no time to be lost. The river was visibly rising, and as the
storm was getting worse, difficulties would increase every moment. We
took off our clothes and fastened them, with our rifles, etc., on the
pack-saddles of the yaks, which we sent into the water. These animals
were good swimmers. The current carried them more than a hundred yards
down-stream, but to our satisfaction they scrambled out of the water on
to the opposite bank. Notwithstanding the faith that Chanden Sing and
Mansing had in my swimming, they really thought their last hour had come
when I took each by the hand and led them into the stream. We had hardly
gone twelve yards, with water up to our necks, when the inevitable took
place. We were all three swept away. Chanden Sing and Mansing, in their
panic, clung tight to my arms and dragged me under water. I swam my
hardest with my legs. We came to the surface several times and then sank
again, owing to the dead weight of my helpless companions. At last,
after a desperate struggle, the current washed us on the opposite bank,
where we hastily scrambled out of the treacherous river. We were some
two hundred yards down-stream from the spot at which we had entered the
river, and such was the quantity of muddy water we had swallowed that we
all three became sick. This left us much exhausted. As the storm showed
no signs of abating, we encamped, at an elevation of 16,320 feet, there
and then on the left bank of the stream. Though we sadly needed warm
food, there was no possibility of lighting a fire in such torrential
rain. A piece of chocolate was all I ate that night. My men preferred to
eat nothing rather than break their caste by eating food prepared by
European hands.
We were asleep under our little tent, the hour being about eleven, when
there was a noise outside as of voices and people stumbling against
stones. I was out in a moment with my rifle, and shouted the usual
"_Palado!_" (Go away!) I could see nothing, owing to the darkness, but
several stones flung from slings whizzed past me. One of these hit the
tent. A dog barked furiously. I fired a shot, which had the good effect
of producing a hasty retreat of our enemies. The dog remained barking
all night. In the morning, when I gave him food and caressed him in
Tibetan fashion, with the usual words of endearment, "_Chochu, chochu_,"
he rubbed himself against my legs as if he had known me all his life,
and eventually lay down by the side of Mansing, to whom he took a
particular fancy. From that day the dog never left our camp, and
followed us everywhere until harder times came upon us.
The river was turning too much toward the south. I decided to abandon it
and strike across country, especially as there were faint signs of a
track leading over a pass to the east-south-east of our camp. I followed
this track. Along it I detected marks of hundreds of ponies' hoofs, now
almost entirely washed away. This was evidently the way taken by the
soldiers we had met on the other side of the Maium Pass.
Having risen over the pass, 17,750 feet high, we saw before us an
extensive valley with barren hills scattered upon it. To the south we
observed a large plain some ten miles wide, with snowy peaks rising on
the farther side. In front was a hill and a _mani_ wall. This latter
discovery made me feel quite confident that I was on the highroad to
Lhassa. About eight miles off to the north-north-west were high snowy
peaks, and as we went farther we discovered a lofty mountain range, with
still higher peaks, three miles behind it. We had travelled half-way
across the waterless plain when we noticed a number of soldiers' heads
and matchlocks popping in and out from behind a distant hill. After a
while they came out in numbers to observe our movements, then retired
again behind the hill. We proceeded. When we were still half a mile from
them they abandoned their hiding-place and galloped away before us,
raising clouds of dust. From a hill 16,200 feet high, over which the
track crossed, we perceived a group of very high snowy peaks about eight
miles distant. Between them and us stood a range of hills cut by a
valley, along which flowed a river carrying a large volume of water.
This we followed, and crossed it at a suitable fording-place where the
stream was twenty-five yards across. The water reached up to our waists.
We found here another _mani_ wall with large inscriptions on stones. As
the wind was high and cutting, we used the wall as a shelter for the
night. We could see in the distance the snowy Himahlyan chain. Lower
hill ranges were not more than three miles from camp. The river we had
just crossed flowed into the Brahmaputra. We were at an elevation of
15,700 feet. We saw plainly at sunset a number of black tents before us.
We counted about sixty, and we calculated them to be two miles distant.
Near them were hundreds of black yaks.
At sunrise the next morning, much to our surprise, the tents and yaks
had vanished; nor, on marching in the direction where we had seen them
the previous night, were we able to find traces of them. It must have
been an effect of mirage. Some fourteen miles away, in a grassy plain at
the foot of the range extending from north-west to south-east, and with
lofty snowy peaks in a direction of 72 deg. (bearings magnetic), we came
upon a very large Tibetan encampment of over eighty black tents. We were
then at an elevation of 15,650 feet. The tents were pitched on the banks
of another tributary of the Brahmaputra, which, after describing a wide
curve in the plain, passed west of the encampment. To the north-west,
north, and north-east stood the chain of mountains which I had observed
all along. The elevation of its peaks became gradually lower and lower,
so much so that the name of "hill range" would be more appropriate to it
than that of "mountain chain," that is to say, if the elevation of the
plateau on which it stood were not taken into account. Behind it,
however, towered loftier peaks with snowy caps.
We needed food, and so made boldly for the encampment. Our approach
caused a commotion. Yaks and sheep were hastily driven away before us,
while men and women rushed in and out of their tents, apparently in a
state of great excitement. Eight or ten men reluctantly came forward,
and entreated us to go inside a large tent. They said they wished to
speak to us, and offered us tea. I would not accept their invitation,
distrusting them, but went on across the encampment, halting some three
hundred yards beyond. Chanden Sing and I proceeded afterward on a round
of calls at all the tents, trying to purchase food, and also to show
that, if we had declined to enter a particular tent, it was not on
account of fear, but because we did not want to be caught in a trap. Our
visit to the different _golingchos_ or _gurr_ (tents) was interesting
enough. The tents themselves were cleverly constructed, and admirably
adapted to the country in which they were used. The tents, black in
color, were woven of yaks' hair, the natural greasiness of which made
the cloth quite waterproof. They consisted of two separate pieces of
thick material, supported by two poles at each end. There was an oblong
aperture above in the upper part of the tent, through which the smoke
escaped. The base of the larger tents was six-sided. The roof, at a
height of six or seven feet above the ground, was kept tightly stretched
by means of long ropes passing over high forked poles and the ends of
which were pegged to the ground. Many wooden and iron pegs were required
to keep the bottom of the tent close to the ground all round, so as to
protect its inmates from the cutting winds of the great plateau. Outside
each tent stood four long poles with white flying-prayers--one for each
point of the compass. Around the interior of the larger tents there was
a wall from two to three feet high for protection against the wind,
rain, and snow. These walls were constructed of dried dung, which, as
time went on, was used as fuel. There were two apertures, one at either
end of the tent. The one facing the wind was always kept closed by means
of loops and wooden bolts.
The Tibetan is a born nomad, and shifts his dwelling with the seasons,
wherever he can find grazing for his yaks and sheep. He knows how to
make himself comfortable. For instance, in the centre of his tent he
makes himself a _goling_, or fireplace of mud and stone, some three feet
high, four or five feet long by one and a half wide, with two, three, or
more side ventilators and draught-holes. By this ingenious contrivance
he manages to increase the combustion of the dried dung, the most trying
fuel from which to get a flame. On the top of this stove a suitable
place is made to fit the several _raksangs_ (large brass pots and
bowls), in which the brick tea, duly pounded first in a stone or wooden
mortar, is boiled and stirred with a long brass spoon. A portable iron
stand is generally to be seen somewhere in the tent, upon which the hot
vessels are placed when they are removed from the fire. Close to these
is the _toxzum_ or _dongbo_, a cylindrical wooden churn, used for mixing
the tea with butter and salt.
The wooden cups or bowls used by the Tibetans are called _pu-ku_,
_fruh_, or _cariel_. In them _tsamba_ is eaten after tea has been poured
on it, and the mixture worked into a paste by more or less dirty
fingers. Lumps of butter are mixed with this paste, and even bits of
_chura_ (cheese). The richer people (officials) indulge in flour and
rice, which they import from India and China, and in _kassur_, or dried
fruit (dates and apricots) of inferior quality. The rice is boiled into
a kind of soup called the _tupka_, a luxury only indulged in on grand
occasions, when such other cherished delicacies as _gimakara_ (sugar)
and _shelkara_ (lump white sugar) are also eaten. The Tibetans are fond
of meat, but few can afford to eat it. Wild game, yak, and sheep are
considered excellent food. The meat and bones are boiled in a cauldron
with lavish quantities of salt and pepper.
The inhabitants of this encampment were polite and talkative, but I was
suspicious of their friendliness. They refused to sell us food, on the
plea that they had none even for themselves.
Women and men formed a ring round us. I was particularly struck, not
only in this encampment but in all others, by the small number of women
to be seen in Tibet. This is not because they are kept in seclusion. On
the contrary, the ladies of the Forbidden Land seem to have it all their
own way. They are actually in a minority, the proportion being, at a
rough guess, backed by the wise words of a friendly Lama, from fifteen
to twenty males to each female in the population. All the same, the fair
sex in Tibet manages to rule the male majority, playing constantly into
the hands of the Lamas.
The Tibetan female, whether she be a lady, a shepherdess, or a
brigandess, cannot be said to be prepossessing. In fact, it was not my
luck to see a single good-looking woman in the country, although I
naturally saw women who were less ugly than others. With the
accumulated filth that from birth is undisturbed by soap, scrubbing, or
bathing; with nose, cheeks, and forehead smeared with black ointment to
prevent the skin cracking in the wind; and with the unpleasant odor that
emanates from never-changed clothes, the Tibetan woman is, at her best,
repulsive to a European. After one has overcome one's first disgust, she
yet has, at a distance, a certain charm of her own. She walks well, for
she is accustomed to carry heavy weights on her head. Her skull would be
well-set upon her shoulders were it not that the neck is too short and
thick to be graceful. Her body and limbs possess great muscular
strength, and are well developed, but generally lack firmness. She is
heavily built, and inclined to stoutness.
The Tibetan woman is superior to the Tibetan man. She possesses a better
heart, more pluck, and a finer character than he. Time after time, when
the men, timid beyond all conception, ran away at our approach, the
women remained in charge of the tents, and, although by no means cool or
collected, they rarely failed to meet us without some show of dignity.
In the Tibetan encampment, when all were friendly, the women seemed less
shy than the men, and conversed freely and incessantly. They even
prevailed upon their masters to sell us a little _tsamba_ and butter.
When a Tibetan young man wishes to marry, he goes, accompanied by his
father and mother, to the tent of the lady of his heart. There he is
received by her relations, who have been previously notified of the
intended call, and are found seated on rugs and mats awaiting the
arrival of their guests.
[Illustration: TIBETAN WOMEN AND CHILDREN]
After the usual courtesies and salutations, the young man's father asks,
on behalf of his son, for the young lady's hand. If the answer is
favorable, the suitor places a square lump of yak butter on his
betrothed's forehead. She does the same for him, and the marriage
ceremony is over, the buttered couple being man and wife.
Where there is a temple close by, _katas_, food, and money are laid
before the images of Buddha and saints, and the parties walk round the
inside of the temple. Where there is no temple, the husband and wife
make the circuit of the nearest hill, or, in default of a hill, of a
tent, always moving from left to right. This ceremony is repeated with
prayers and sacrifices every day for a fortnight, during which time
libations of wine and general feasting continue. After that the husband
conveys his better half to his own tent.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 8: I visited the other source of the Brahmaputra River on the
return journey.]