Trans-Himalaya: Discoveries and Adventurers in Tibet. Vol. 1 (of 2)

CHAPTER XIV

IN THE LAND OF THE WILD YAK

We broke up our camp on the morning of October 29, after a night of 49 degrees of frost, at an early hour, so as to find water for our thirsty animals as soon as possible. A small lake and two springs we passed were frozen as hard as rock; beside one lay the skull of a yak, which had evidently had its throat cut with a knife; we also saw two fireplaces on the way, and at camp No. 50 a path, which, however, might have been worn by wild yaks. We therefore were no doubt coming near to other men, and we were always on the look-out for tents.

Next day the storm increased in strength, and it was only with the greatest effort of will that I could use my hands for map-sketching. We seemed paralyzed and could no longer think clearly. We were like the field-mice, which run from one hole to another seeking to find shelter from the wind and cold.

On arriving at a spring I slipped down wearily from my horse, and thought I should be frozen before the fire was kindled. Muhamed Isa, also, and four other men, were ill, and could not assist in setting up the tents. When my tent was ready, I crept into bed in my clothes, boots and all. While Robert and Tsering were covering me up with warm wraps I was seized with violent ague, my teeth chattered, and my head ached terribly. Robert, who had been trained in nursing in Dr. Arthur Neve’s school, now proved an excellent doctor, and took every care of me. As soon as we were under cover he plunged into the study of Burroughs and Wellcome’s medical instructions. The Tabloid Brand Medicine Chest stood open, as frequently happened, in my tent. Stanley, Emin Pasha, Jackson, Scott, and many other travellers have prized this ideal travelling dispensary as highly as myself. My case, a present from the English firm, had been filled with especial regard to the climate of Tibet.

At ten o’clock at night Robert and Tsering undressed me. There were 47.9 degrees of frost in the night, and the storm howled dreadfully. Robert took my temperature every two hours, and it rose to 106½°, high-fever mark. As he told me after, he pondered whatever he was to do if I remained for good at camp No. 51. I could not sleep, and Robert and Tsering watched beside my bed in turn; glowing lumps of fuel were brought in all through the night, and a burning candle was placed behind a box, where it was protected from wind and draught. I was constantly delirious and the men were much concerned, for they had never seen me ill before.

Next day the fever had slightly abated, when Muhamed Isa slipped gently into my tent to inquire how the Sahib was. He informed us that the wounded yak was dead, and that, in cutting it up, two Tibetan bullets had been found; also at three places hearths had been seen, which could not be more than two months old, for ashes still lay among the stones. So hunters had been here in autumn, and he was quite convinced that we should soon meet with the first nomads.

It was still as the grave, only the storm howled and moaned. All the men in the camp were afraid of disturbing me, but I gave orders in the evening that they should sing as usual. I could not lift an arm without help, and I lay hour after hour watching the curious lights in the tent. Within, the stearin candle emitted a dull light, and the yellowish-red blaze of the fire and the bluish moonlight penetrated from without. The singing sounded melancholy and wistful, and was accompanied by the howling of the storm.

On November 2 the storm still raged, having now continued to the sixth day. I had slept a few hours, though the cold sank to 52° below freezing-point. I was getting a little better, but I was still extremely weak. Robert, who was troubled because his horse had died in the night, read to me one of the novels we had stolen from Deasy’s depôt. Tsering and Rehim Ali massaged me in the Asiatic manner to restore my strength. And so we arrived at the fourth evening. I had been confined to my bed for four-and-eighty hours, the soil of Tibet seemed determined to keep me, and perhaps I should be allowed only to dream of the forbidden land at a distance.

Surely on November 3 the god of the winds must have said to the westerly storm, “Six days shalt thou labour—on the seventh thou shalt become a hurricane.” Dust and sand penetrated the thin canvas and covered everything in the tent. The men, who had led the animals to water, had rings of dust round their eyes, and their faces were ashy grey. For my part I felt like one of our poor worn-out brutes, which does not know whether he will reach the next camp. Then I decided to remain here with some of the men and some provisions, while Robert and Muhamed Isa went in search of natives, whom they might send to fetch me. But no; I would try to hold myself in the saddle, for I did not wish to remain in this miserable fever-camp. I wore a whole wardrobe of winter clothes: several trousers, my leather jersey, the ulster, fur coat, cap, and bashlik; it was a heavy weight for my weak, tottering legs as I walked to my horse and was lifted into the saddle.

We followed the shore of the small lake near our camp. But I soon perceived, after nearly falling again and again, that the exertion was too much for me, so we halted and lighted a fire. After a short rest we rode on, and were delighted when at length we saw the smoke of our caravan rising behind a hill, where it had camped by a source and had found fireplaces erected last summer, with skulls and horns of tame sheep around them. Yak dung was very plentiful; the source was, therefore, a watering-place of wild yaks. A third of the men were really ill, most of them suffered from headache, and all were more or less indisposed. Robert alone was in good health, and he nursed us.

On November 5 the tracks of men became more frequent. A yak’s skeleton lay beside a hearth, and the ashes piled up among the stones could not have been cold longer than the day before. We climbed up troublesome hills and then descended into a gully leading down to a large valley begirt with fiery red heights. A number of excavations, each with a heap of sand beside it, attracted our attention. The sand contained gold, so not ordinary nomads but gold-seekers had been here, probably every summer, to dig for gold.

In the lower part of the valley warm springs burst forth with a temperature of 57°, so that the water seems quite hot. A few yards farther, however, it forms a large sheet of ice.

In the next valley, a hollow between precipitous terraced slopes, a huge wild yak lay dead on the ground with twelve of our men standing round it. Tundup Sonam had surprised a whole herd which had come down into the valley to drink. The other animals had torn up the valley in headlong flight, but this one, struck by a bullet, had made for the hunter, and Tundup clambered up the edge of a terrace only just in time. The yak remained at the foot, uncertain what to do, and received a second shot in the heart.

I photographed him from several points of view before he was skinned. It was not easy to raise him into a suitable posture; the twelve men had to put forth all their strength. The raven-black coat of the beast formed a strong contrast to the red soil; his long side fringes serve him as a mattress when he lies down (Illustrations 68, 69).

On November 7 we skirted a lake; to the right we had steep mountains with disagreeable cones of sharp-edged débris. Two troops of fine Ammon sheep, numbering nine and five respectively, skipped with bold leaps over the smooth abrupt rocks. Large numbers of hares were seen, and frequently the holes of marmots where the inmates were still hibernating. Two Tibetan cairns proved to us that we were on the right way, that is, the one the gold-diggers use.

Now we leave this part of the mountains on the right, and proceed along the southern, open and extensive plain by the lake shore. There grazed a herd of perhaps fifty yaks. Twenty antelopes, probably frightened by the caravan, scampered away with elastic springs like the shadow of clouds moving over the earth. Soon the tents and all the details of camp No. 56 could be clearly distinguished, and we had only a few minutes’ march more, when even this short distance would have been too far for one of us, if fate had so willed.

For close beside the tents, near our animals, a large black yak appeared. Rehim Ali drew our attention to it, but we took no farther notice of it. I took my last bearing of the tent, and was in the act of laying down the ground on my map-sheet, when a shot cracked from Muhamed Isa’s tent, and the yak, evidently hit, rushed madly northwards. We followed him with our eyes, expecting to see him fall. But no; he turned and came running wildly towards us. Rehim Ali’s face was contorted with frantic fright, and he raised his hands to heaven, crying out, “Allah, Allah, we are lost!” The brute drew near in a cloud of dust, his fringes waved and flew about, and he lowered his horns for a rush. I did not move, for I thought that he had not seen us and would turn back again, but he held on his way and grew larger to the sight. Rehim Ali ran screaming to the tents, but suddenly turned round, and as our horses took fright and galloped off, he caught hold of the tail of Robert’s steed, hoping to follow us at a run. The wild chase swept quicker and quicker over the plain, and the yak changed his course and made a circuit towards us in a mad rage. His breath rose like clouds of steam from his nostrils, his muzzle almost grazed the ground—he was ready to catch his victim on his horns, toss him into the air, and stamp him to a jelly under his forefeet. Nearer and nearer I heard him, panting and gasping like a steam saw. Turning in my saddle I saw him about twenty yards off, his small, fierce eyes blazing with fury and madness and rolling so as to show the blood-stained whites. It was a question of a second. I rode straight to the right; my horse and I would be the first to be caught on the horns of the yak. Now the horses stretched their legs like bow-strings. I tore off my red bashlik and waved it behind me to attract the yak and stop him, but he did not look at it. Then I tore my belt off in order to take off my fur coat and throw it over the yak’s eyes and blind him, just when he was on the point of thrusting his horns into the belly of the horse and stiffening the muscles of his neck for the toss. A second more and the yak would hoist the horse, break my back, and trample on my chest—I seemed to hear the cracking and breaking of my ribs, and I well deserved it, for it was my fault alone that all the animals left behind us had to suffer so much. Then was heard a heart-rending cry of despair. As I turned quickly round, I saw Rehim Ali with uplifted arms fall senseless to the ground, and the yak turn and rush at him. He remained prostrate, a lifeless mass, and I saw the yak, with lowered horns, and his purple tongue hanging far out of his mouth, dash down upon him in a cloud of dust. Now all the horses made off, and I had some difficulty to keep my seat on my grey Ladaki. When I looked round again, a second later, the yak was running up the valley with his dust cloud about him.

“Turn back and see if there is still a spark of life in Rehim Ali, and if he can still be saved,” I called out.

“Master, it is too dangerous, the yak is still near, and may come back. Muhamed Isa and all the rest are running out of the camp to look after Rehim Ali.”

But I had already turned, and I rode to the fallen man. He lay dead on his face with arms outstretched—both Robert and I thought, at any rate, that he was dead. But when we had dismounted beside him he slowly turned his head, and with a look of horror waved his hand, as much as to say: “Do not trouble about me, I am dead as a mouse.” We could not repress a smile when, turning him over like a joint at the fire, we examined his bones and joints, and found that the fellow was still sound, though severely bruised. The yak had trodden upon the inner side of the left shank, where a bloody stripe showed the mark of his hoof.

Two strong men bore the fallen hero to Muhamed Isa’s tent, where he was well tended by Robert. He seemed stupefied for several days, and we feared that his adventure had affected his brain. He did not eat or speak, and had to travel on horseback, and one of his fellow-countrymen was told off to attend on him. After some time, when his head was clear again, he was able to tell us his impressions. When he saw the yak preparing to attack my horse, he turned round and threw himself flat on the ground. Perhaps irritated by the red and violet chapkan floating about in the air, the yak left me, made an unexpected change of front, and rushed with lowered horns on the fallen man. He had half unconsciously made a quick movement to one side, and the horns had struck the ground instead of entering his body, and so close beside his head that Rehim Ali felt the panting breath of the brute in his face. Then he lost consciousness, and did not revive till we came up, and then he thought that the yak was on him again. He had intended to save himself by this manœuvre, and thereby had become our deliverer. After the adventures he had taken part in lately he had an immense horror of Tibetan lakes and wild yaks (Illustrations 83, 84).

Temperature—16½° on the night of November 28. One would expect that the temperature would fall with the advance of winter, but it remains constant, owing in great measure to our progress southwards. Beyond a small pass we came to a new longitudinal valley, where the country was open towards the south-east. Game was abundant, spoors crossed one another in all directions, and two bold yaks awakened in us greater respect than before. At six places we saw large herds of wild asses, and antelopes grazed on the plains. We lost a mule here, and had now 16 animals of both kinds.

Another day’s journey across flat country. We were traversing the large white patch of unknown land, and were approaching Bower’s route at an acute angle, though we were still rather far east of it. A wild yak ran across our path, and we wondered if it were our enemy of the previous day. Where we pitched our camp, No. 58, we found some hearths which could not be more than a couple of days old. Our excitement and eagerness increased day by day; now the uttermost margin of inhabited Tibet could not be far distant. As I let my eyes rove over these red or black, snow-capped or bare crests, I could fancy I could perceive a whole host of dancing notes of interrogation, some in fantastic draperies, mocking us because we had ventured without an escort into the forbidden land, others motioning us onwards, but all doubtful and speculative. Step by step, day by day, with failing strength, we approached the solution of all these questions. Any moment a troop of mounted men might appear on the horizon, bringing orders from the Devashung that we must immediately evacuate the country and retire northwards.

I was still convalescent, went to bed at seven o’clock, and was not much the better for it, for I always felt terribly languid. Tsering was very despondent because I did so little honour to his cooking. “How can the Sahib regain his strength if he eats so little?” he used to remind me. He was a comical fellow, Tsering, as he marched day after day with his stick in his hand at the head of his detachment, self-conscious and pompous as a chanticleer.

Late at night we heard the dismal, long-drawn howling of wolves close at hand. We could tell from the wild complaining tone that hunger had made the brutes bolder and that the odour of fresh meat excited them. They were on the other side of the source, and Tundup Sonam stole off to scare them away by firing into the troop, though there was small chance of hitting one in the darkness. The brutes retired, but in the night chased our animals, which scampered off to the north as though there were a fire behind them. But the men followed their trail, and found them at dawn a good day’s journey from the camp.

On November 10 we had good ground again, and saw to the east-south-east a lake which looked like a bright white ring, the middle being deep blue. Near this day’s camp, No. 59, were clear traces of a man who had driven five tame yaks to the lake. The footprints were at most three days old, and excited a great stir in the caravan. We were undoubtedly close to human dwellings, and I thought with regret of the interval of nearly three months during which we had no cause to dread hostile tribes. We held a council of war: should we as long as possible avoid contact with men, and keep out of the way of their tents, so that we need not turn back until further progress became quite impossible? Or should we seek out the nearest nomads at once, and beg them for assistance? At this moment Tundup Sonam ran up out of breath. He had been scouting to the west and had descried a black tent. I immediately sent him to it with two other men, and gave them a handful of rupees. But the news they brought from this first meeting with human beings was not particularly interesting.

The tent was inhabited by a woman and her three children. She had come from the district of Gertse in the south-west, and had covered the distance in twenty-five short days’ marches. She had arrived seventeen days before with her two husbands, but both had returned a few days ago to Gertse, after they had filled the tent for her with wild-ass meat. She was daily expecting her parents, who were to keep her company for three months, during which time they would live on game—yaks, kiangs, and antelopes. She owned a few yaks and a small flock of sheep, which she and the oldest child tended and milked. The inside of the tent was very wretched, but a warm fire burned in the centre. She knew that four more tents were standing in a neighbouring valley. When Tundup Sonam told her that we were a party of Ladakis on a pilgrimage to the holy places, she replied that we had chosen a very bad route, and would have done better to take a more southern road where there were men. Her geographical knowledge was limited. The country in which we were now she called Gomo-selung. The gold placers we had passed lay in the La-shung country, and the lake at camp No. 55 she called La-shung-tso. My servants, who had already been in Tibet, held that this information was reliable, for they had heard the names before.

Now, then, the ice was broken. After seventy-nine days of complete isolation from the outer world, some of our men, at least, had seen human beings. But other connections would soon follow this lonely woman, this daughter of the wilderness, this real lady of the mountains, and again we discussed the line of policy we must adopt. The woman dwelt alone, and no news of our approach could be conveyed through her instrumentality to the south. We could, then, take the matter for the present quite coolly as heretofore, and when we were surrounded on all sides by nomads, among whom reports are rapidly dispersed, we must then think of hastening our movements.

We granted the animals a day’s rest, for the pasturage was good, and it was pleasant to spend this day under canvas. The storm whistled and howled through the grass and round the stones. Everything that was light and loose was blown away, and the ground was swept clean. The sky was cloudless and the air clear, the wild commotion was only in the layer of air close to the ground, and the important part played by the wind in the deformation of the surface was evident; in such a storm huge masses of material must be removed from their original position.

In the night the storm ceased all of a sudden, and it became so still all at once that I awoke. It was as though we had encamped by a waterfall which in an instant ceased to roar. One starts up and wonders what has happened, but one soon becomes accustomed to the stillness, and finds the absence of the noise and the draught a relief.

CHAPTER XV

THE FIRST NOMADS

Sad news again on the morning of November 12: two of our best horses were dead, and a third, which had carried two boxes, made in Stockholm, all the way from Leh, was at the point of death. All three had been sound on the preceding evening, and they died with exactly the same symptoms. They became giddy, lost control of their legs, fell down, and were unable to get up again. I hoped to rescue the remnants of my caravan, and was already thinking of the time when I could lead the poor beasts to mangers in Shigatse full of sweet-smelling clover, and now those that we had reckoned the strongest had broken down. Now only 13 horses were left, and the loads would soon be too heavy for the survivors.

But it had not come to that yet, for this day, which commenced so sadly, brought us joy before the sun went down. Following the track of the caravan we rode among hills, and saw below us camp No. 60 in a deep valley. I had just entered my tent when Muhamed Isa announced that Tundup Sonam was coming from the upper valley in the company of two Tibetans, one mounted, the other on foot. Timorous, and doubtful whether Tundup Sonam had allured them to a robber band, the Tibetans laid their long clumsy guns on the ground and came forward cautiously. Tundup had needed all the fascinations of his eloquence to induce them to come with him. He had told them that we were pilgrims accompanying an eminent lama from Ladak to the holy places: Then they had answered that they would come and show their reverence for His Holiness, and bring with them a sheep’s stomach full of butter, and another with goat’s milk, as a testimony of their deep respect. Muhamed Isa, who was accustomed to deal with Tibetans, allayed their fears, taking them into his tent and talking and joking with them. Then they were brought to me, and they laid their presents on the ground, fell on their knees, put out their tongues, and made a low obeisance. Instead of a holy man they found a European, but seemed by no means displeased with the change. Muhamed Isa acted as interpreter. They must first give us information on the geography of the country and the character of the land through which our route lay. The information received from the lady of the mountains was confirmed in every respect, and they told us that we should meet with no men for several days, but after that should pass black tents daily.

Our guests might be fifty and forty years old respectively. The elder was quite a typical specimen, more like an ape than a man; the younger looked as though he had already met with many adventures, and he would have passed very well for a robber chief (Illustrations 85, 86).

The conversation now commenced may have little intrinsic interest, but to us in our condition it was as exciting as a tale—our salvation was involved.

“How long is it by the nearest way to Shigatse?’’

“Four long, or five short, days’ march.”

“Will you guide us?”

“Yes, if we are paid to do so.”

“How much do you want?”

“That the Bombo Chimbo (great chief) shall decide himself.”

“Have you any horses you can sell us?”

“We have two, but we will not sell them.”

“Have you any yaks for sale?”

“Yes, we will sell five, if we get 20 rupees for each.”

“Will you give us some of your sheep?”

“You may have six, if you will pay 4 rupees a head.”

“Good. Bring all the animals you are ready to sell, and if we are satisfied with them you shall be well paid.”

“The Bombo Chimbo must remain here till to-morrow if we are to do this.”

It was then agreed that we should remain. But I knew the Tibetans, and was aware that they promise much and perform little. We therefore kept the fellows with us for the night, and they slept in Muhamed Isa’s tent. In the evening they were enraptured by the tones of our flutes, and felt so much at home that their tongues were loosened, and rattled like praying-mills. I heard their cackling until I went to sleep.

And this night I slept well. After eighty days of complete solitude we again had men as guests in our tents; we had obtained fine, rich goat’s milk, and next day we should feast on well-fed mutton; we had received information about the country and the marches before us on the way to our far-off destination. And what was best of all, our veterans, our caravan animals, would get help. And this help was a boon from heaven; for this day, after we had lost three more horses at once, and when Rehim Ali must unfortunately be reckoned among the baggage, the loads had become too heavy for the animals. The future seemed more promising. Certainly the ridge of the Samoma-sakcho mountains did not exhibit a more purple colour in the evening light than the mountains which we had seen glowing in a grand display of colours on many a lonesome night; the blue smoke of the camp-fires danced a fairy dance on the steppe grass just as before, and the night came down just as dark and cold over the mountains to the east, but all around us to-day inspired us with cheerfulness and hope.

The new day had hardly broken when our two Changpas set out homewards with some of the Ladakis, to make preparations for the great business transaction. Two hours later we were the fortunate owners of five fine yaks, which, the Tibetans affirmed, could easily carry four boxes each, whereas our horses and mules had carried only two. One of the yaks was to take over the boat, and the horse which had carried it from Lake Lighten was relieved of the work. I breathed freely again when I saw the faithful animal without anything to carry. Then we bought four sheep at 4 rupees each, and exchanged our last three sheep for two fresh ones, paying 2 rupees in addition. At the Gomo lake our last eight goats obtained their well-earned rest, being exchanged for as many Tibetan and a money payment of 1 rupee a head. In the evening I had three times as much milk as usual, and richer and better than our exhausted goats had supplied. Both parties were thoroughly satisfied with the bargain (Illustration 88).

Good old Changpas! The wandering cavaliers of the wilderness came to us, looking picturesquely savage with their black coarse hair hanging down over their shoulders and back, and making their furs greasy, with long, dark matchlocks on their shoulders, clumsy sabres and knives in their belts, and mounted on small, tough, long-haired horses. Though wild and dirty, they were yet kindly, friendly and good-tempered, and were certainly not cold in their old dingy fur coats. The elder wore a small round fur cap, the younger a bashlik of fur, which covered his whole head except the face. They had their provisions and all kinds of other articles they wanted on their journey stuffed into their fur coats in front, and from the belts which held their fur coats together, hung knives, awl, flint and steel, pipe and tobacco pouch, which swung and knocked together at every step. They wore felt boots, originally white, but now black and worn-out, but had no trousers—it must be far too cool to sit trouserless in the saddle with 36 degrees of frost.

As they came from Gertse, the country to the south-west, they had hardly any knowledge of the region through which we were to travel, but they thought that we should require at least fifty days for the journey to Shigatse. They pass the winter in the Gomo district, living on the game there. They could easily serve a little breakfast with which the most exacting gourmand might be satisfied. Is not the following menu tempting?

Their taste is in general very different from ours. When they have killed a wild ass, they cut it up and keep the pieces in the tent, piled up around it as far as possible from the fire. The longer it has lain there, the better it is supposed to taste. The Changpas prefer to eat their meat raw, hard, dry, and old. They take out from the recesses of their fur coats a yak’s rib, which looks more like a piece of blackened wood than anything edible. Then the knife is brought out, and the hard meat is removed in strips or lumps from the bone. Chinese brick-tea is their greatest luxury, and the thicker and dirtier it is, the better they like it. They stir it up with a piece of butter.

Like the wild geese, they have learned by traditional experience where the best camping-grounds are. One may be sure that their tent is always pitched at places where there is little or no wind; that there is good pasture at hand for their tame yaks, sheep, goats, and horses, if they have any; that good hunting-grounds are to be found not far from the tent, and that water is always to be had. At the Gomo lake they have excellent table-salt cost free. When their domestic animals have eaten up the grass around, and the game has been frightened away, they transfer their camp to another district. The tents are set up at the same spots where their forefathers have pitched them for innumerable generations, and where frequently old votive cairns have been erected of loose stones to propitiate the spirits that rule over mountain and dale.

To the Changpas, or “inhabitants of the north,” who spend the winter in the north, the chase is the chief resource, and cattle-breeding is of secondary importance. The Tibetans in Gertse and Senkor, on the Bogtsang-tsangpo, or in Naktsang, who own large herds, do not move northwards in winter, for with them hunting is an occasional occupation. The hunting tribes pursue the yak, the kiang, and the antelope. In hilly country they stalk them against the wind. Constant life in the open air has wonderfully sharpened their intelligence. They know the peculiarities and habits of the yak as well as he does himself, and know how far they may go without overstepping the limits of his acuteness. They know that his senses of sight and hearing are not particularly well developed, but that he soon scents the huntsman, so that the attack must be made from the lee side. Though he goes on the chase in his thick fur coat, the huntsman creeps as noiselessly and as lithe as a panther till he approaches within range of his prey. Then he lays his gun on the rest, strikes fire from the flint with his steel, catches it in tinder, sets light to the end of the match, and sees that the hammer brings the fire at the right moment into the touch-hole. All is done so quietly, so deliberately and carefully, that the hunter has every prospect of bringing down the game.

Another time he watches for hours together behind a wall which he or his forefathers, perhaps his great-great-grandfather, has built beside a spring, and waits with angelic patience for a troop of wild asses, which come at sunset to quench their thirst. But the antelopes, wild sheep, and gazelles are too wide-awake to be caught by the most skilful hunter. Yet the antelopes do not always succeed in escaping his cunning toils. He lays nooses for them on the old established antelope paths; among the hunting nomads in the interior of Tibet, the quantities of antelope meat garnishing the sides of the tents are astonishing.

While the men are away, the women look after the yaks and sheep, and when the hunter returns at sunset he sees the former chewing the cud in front of the tent, while the latter are shut up in a pen-fold of stone. The yaks remain at night near the tents, and hence the dung, the only fuel of the nomads, has not to be carried far. When it is dark, all gather round the fire on which the tea-kettle boils. Then they talk of the monotonous incidents of their life, of the day’s bag, the condition of their herds, and the work of next day. One mends his soles with sinew and an awl, another dresses a yak hide with his hands, and a third cuts straps from the skin of a wild ass. Their life seems void and uneventful, but they have no wants—they know nothing better. They have a severe struggle for life in this unproductive corner of the world, which is called the Chang-tang, or the north plain, where it has been their fate to be born. Amidst poverty and danger they live victorious in God’s free Nature; the awful storms are their brothers, the lordship of the valleys they share with the wild beasts of the desert, and at night the everlasting stars twinkle over their black tents. If they were given comfortable huts down south in the shade of walnut trees, they would always be longing for the grand solitude of the mountains, for the icy cold, the drifting snow, and the moonlight of the peaceful winter nights in Tibet.

Then Death comes one day and looks in through the tent door; in vain is the constant prayer “Om mani padme hum” repeated; vain are all attempts to conjure or propitiate the evil powers that are inimical to the children of men. Bent, wrinkled, and grey the old hunter finishes his course, and is borne on strong shoulders to some shallow cleft near the mountain crest, and there abandoned to the wolves and birds of prey. When his grandchildren are grown up, they do not know whither he has been taken; in life he had no abiding dwelling-place, and after death he has no grave. And no one asks where the bones of the dead are bleaching, for the place is haunted by evil spirits.

November 14. Calm! In the night there were again 49 degrees of frost, but it was fairly warm riding southwards towards the sun. The two horses of the Tibetans had stampeded. But if this were a trick contrived to give them an excuse for making off themselves, it did not succeed this time; for I sent off one of them with two of my men to look for the horses, while the other had to accompany me and tell me the names of the places we passed. We did not know our men yet, and therefore did not dare to let them out of our sight, or they might have despatched mounted messengers to give information to the authorities in Gertse. Then we should have been ordered to halt sooner than it suited us. Now we could feel easy, at least till we came to the next tent. But the horses were recovered, and the old man stumped after us leading them by the bridle. Then we rode together between the hills and over small passes. Here, too, gold occurred in two places. Men come every summer, dig up the sand, throw it into the air, and collect the grains of gold on a cloth spread out on the ground. If the output is abundant, the number of gold-diggers is doubled the following summer.

In camp No. 61, also, the Tibetans showed no desire to desert us; they were friendly and attentive, helped us in unloading and setting up the tents, collected fuel, and undertook to be answerable for the horses. They seemed not to have the slightest suspicion that the country was forbidden to us, and not an echo of any especial orders had reached them from the south. I could not learn how matters stood. The plan of my journey had been alluded to in the Indian press, and there was nothing to prevent tidings being carried to Lhasa through Darjiling or Pekin; and I knew also from experience how soon an order against a European is handed on among the nomads. I had counted on hurrying on, like a thief in the night, as soon as possible after the English mission to Lhasa, and appearing on the scene before the Tibetans had quite made up their mind about the political state of affairs. But perhaps I was wrong, perhaps stricter regulations than ever had been passed.

The western shadows move over the plain; only in the east are the hills deep crimson, in the west they show a pitch-black outline. Another night spreads out its dark-blue pinions, and rises up to the zenith, driving before it an expiring reflexion of the setting sun. When the stars begin to shine we are out of doors examining the animals, which rejoice at being more lightly loaded on the march. At seven o’clock I am massaged and go to bed. At nine o’clock Robert comes with the hypsometer, and we talk for an hour. Then the light is allowed to burn till it flickers out. I lie a long time awake, watching the shadows come and go, as the wind shakes the canvas. I gaze at them till they turn into monsters and wild yaks, dancing mockingly round my prison. Now it is striking midnight in the towns of Siberia and India which lie on our meridian, and at length comes the deliverer sleep and drives away the shadow-pictures: they melt away and vanish on the horizon, which recedes more and more into the distance, no longer bounded by the thin web of the tent. Now a low murmur seems to call to mind forests, meadows, and small rocky islands. I dream that a strong hand leads me to a parting in the ways. It points to a road, and a voice tells me that this will lead me to a land of peace, hospitality, and summer, while the other leads to dangers and privations among dark lofty mountains. When Tsering brought the brazier in the morning, I was glad that I had in my dream chosen the latter road without hesitation.

We penetrated further and further into this mysterious Tibet. During the next day’s march we passed a succession of deserted fireplaces, and in some places saw rows of stone cairns to entice the antelopes into snares. Then we ascended a valley, in which a small strip of ice gradually expanded into a cake, filling all the space between the firm slabs of greenstone. The Seoyinna came in sight—a dark mountain to the south, which would remain visible for a couple of days longer.

Our Tibetans are already as intimate with us all as though we had been friends from childhood, and say that they have never met with such decent people. The elder is called Puntsuk, the younger Tsering Dava. We sit for hours together at Muhamed Isa’s fire and talk pleasantly, and I take notes as they describe to me in detail all the routes in Tibet they are acquainted with. Tsering Dava has accomplished the pilgrimage to Tso-rinpoche, or the holy lake Manasarowar, which I long to reach, and which has been the subject of my dreams for many a day. The two men were to accompany us only three days more; they had left their yaks and sheep to the care of their wives and children, and wolves were extraordinarily numerous; otherwise they would have travelled any distance with us. They had arrived from Gertse nineteen days before, and intended to stay six months; forty or fifty parties come every year from Gertse to this country.

They told us that the Tokpas, or gold-diggers, when they go up to the goldfields for two or three months, take as provisions meal and meat, which are carried by their sheep and yaks. When the provisions are consumed they return home, passing the salt lakes, where they load their animals with salt, which they barter in inhabited districts for barley. Thus they make a twofold profit on their journey, and can live the rest of the year on their gains.

In the evening a dead horse, emaciated and wretched, lay on the ice in our valley. I had procured him for 70 rupees from a dealer in Leh, who in December 1901 had bought my last nine camels. Next morning a mule died just as unexpectedly. He looked brisk and sound, and allowed himself to be loaded as usual, but had not gone a hundred paces when he fell dead. The two small Tibetan horses, which travel with us, take a great interest in their fellows; but they do not seem quite sure that the animals, so thin and wretched, are really horses. At this day’s camp, No. 63, we saw them run up to their masters for two large pieces of frozen antelope flesh, which they eagerly ate out of their hands like bread. They are just as fond of yak or sheep’s flesh, and the Tibetans say that this diet makes them tough and hardy. We cannot help liking these small shaggy ponies, which live to no small extent on the offal of game, are at home in the mountains, and bear rarefied air with the greatest ease; their lungs are as well adapted to it as those of the wild asses. The cold does not trouble them in the least: they remain out all through the night without a covering of any sort, and even a temperature of −22.7°, which we had on the night of November 17, does not affect them. Though they are not shod, they run deftly and securely up and down the slopes, and the men on their backs look bigger than their horses. We notice with great amusement how heartily they greet each other at every camp. Puntsuk, who shows Muhamed Isa the way, rides a small bay pony, which is already grazing when we appear. As soon as the pony catches sight of his grey comrade with Tsering Dava he neighs with delight, cocks his ears, and runs up to him; and the grey one exhibits just as much satisfaction. This is very different from the conduct of our dogs, which fight wildly as soon as they see each other.

Now we passed the Seoyinna mountain; one flank was dotted over by numerous wild yaks engaged in feeding, and Tundup Sonam shot two. My men took the best joints with them, the rest of the meat our guides would fetch on their way home. They were evidently much impressed by Tundup Sonam’s skill, but Dava Tsering declared that he had shot more than three hundred yaks in his lifetime, which was probably no exaggeration, seeing that these men live on the products of the chase.

Now we ascend rapidly to the Chak-chom-la pass. Tsering Dava rides in front. His little pony trots up the ascent. When we have still a good distance to cover, we see the profile of the man and his horse on the summit, sharply defined against the sky. There stands a cairn of granite blocks, and many trails of gold-diggers run at a height of 17,825 feet. Sitting beside a fire, rendered necessary by the cold and the wind, we gaze southwards over a vast extent of country, a chaos of yellow, reddish, and black crests. No plains appear between them, and we suspect that we have troublesome ground before us. Near at hand, towards the south-south-east, a flat basin with a small lake occupies a large expanse. We ride down a very steep path to the camp where the Tibetans proposed a day’s rest on behalf of the yaks we had purchased.

In the course of the day we settled accounts with our guides, who had been so friendly and helpful, and who now wished to return to their bare cold mountains where the winds and wolves howl in rivalry. They received each 3 rupees a day as recompense, and a sheath-knife from Kashmir, and a whole heap of empty tin cigarette-boxes, which seemed to please them more than the money. And then they vanished, swiftly and lightly as the wind, behind the nearest hills, and we were alone again.

With 36 degrees of frost our nine Mohammedans celebrated their “Aid” after Ramazan with flute, dance, and song, and with a freshly slaughtered sheep. In the night the thermometer fell to −23°. The ink was always freezing in my pen, even when I sat bending over the brazier; after a few minutes my washing-basin contained only a mass of ice.

After a few hours’ march we descried from a pass 22 grazing horses, 300 sheep, and some evidently tame yaks, and these were near a tent. Farther to the west 500 sheep and a number of yaks were feeding. Five more tents were pitched in a sheltered place in a deep valley, and a troop of snarling dogs ran out to meet us. Men, women, and children turned out to see what was the matter. The caravan encamped near, on the western shore of the lake Dungtsa-tso, and presently received a visit from four Tibetans. These, too, came from Gertse, had arrived ten days previously, and intended to stay three months. The six tents contained 40 inmates, who possessed together 1000 sheep, 60 yaks, and 40 horses. The oldest of our new friends was a lame man of fifty-three years of age, and was named Lobsang Tsering. He presented to me a dish of sour milk and a bundle of joss-sticks, such as are used in temples. He was willing to sell us three large yaks for 23 rupees, and we took them without a moment’s hesitation.

When the caravan had set out next morning two other Tibetans presented themselves, very eager to sell us two more yaks. When I told them that our money was on in front, they asked permission to go with us to the next camp, where the purchase might be completed. That evening, then, we were the fortunate owners of ten excellent yaks, and Tundup Sonam was appointed to be their chief and leader. Our remaining mules and horses now carried only very light loads, and I was rejoicing that I could keep them all alive. But at this very spot another mule was frozen to death; true, there were 59.2 degrees of frost.

Our day’s march ran round the lake and into a broad valley extending in a south-easterly direction. Some 150 kulans were peacefully grazing among the tame yaks of the nomads. A youth acted as guide to the caravan, and old Lobsang Tsering rode like a herald before me, mounted on a fine yellowish horse, which he would not sell at any price. As he rode he muttered prayers at an incredible pace—it sounded like the buzzing of a swarm of midges about a lime tree on a summer evening. I myself rode my dapple-grey from Yarkand again, in order that my small white Ladaki might have a couple of days’ rest.

The camp was pitched beside a pool of fresh water, where the most wonderful sounds were emitted from the firm ice all night long. It cracked and clappered, gurgled and snorted like camels and yaks, and one might fancy that a bevy of water-nymphs were dancing under the icy roof. The dogs barked furiously at the ice till they at last perceived that this noise must be put up with like everything else.

At the evening fire Lobsang Tsering asked Muhamed Isa whether we had met with Changpas at the Gomo. But Muhamed Isa had promised Puntsuk and Tsering Dava not to betray them. Then Lobsang winked an eye and said that Islam Ahun had already told him that we had not only seen nomads, but had bought yaks from them and had taken them as guides for several days. Muhamed Isa tried to turn the affair into a joke, and answered laughing that Islam Ahun had concocted the story himself. But the old man was sharp; he smiled cunningly, and seemed to regard the first version as the more probable. It was a great advantage to us that we had first come into contact with Gertse nomads, who were themselves strangers in the country we passed through. They had received no orders from Lhasa concerning us, and were beyond all comparison better disposed and more friendly than the eastern Tibetans, who on my former journey had sent off messengers at once to the south. But we now found that the Gertse nomads were afraid of one another; the first had begged us to tell no one that they had helped us, and had turned back at the right moment in order not to be seen by their fellow-tribesmen from Gertse.

Lobsang Tsering did not seem to be of a timid disposition; he led us to other tents, gave us instructions about the way to Bogtsang-tsangpo, and was able to give us much interesting information. He told us, for instance, that nearly four thousand sheep and several hundred yaks are yearly employed in transporting salt from the lakes we had lately passed, and that the salt was carried to Shigatse and Lhasa. From these towns came most of the gold-diggers, and in the north were many other gold-placers which we had not seen.

We soon perceived that Lobsang was a man of importance, for all showed him the greatest respect, and we could see from his camp that he was rich. He spoke with dignity, and with an educated, refined accent. In his appearance he reminded me of a decayed actor, without a trace of beard, and with an animated expression in his dirty, copper-coloured face. Unlike the rest, who wore sheepskin caps, he sported a red turban, and his fur coat was trimmed with red woollen stuff. In the front of his coat all sorts of things were stuffed, among them a vile pocket-handkerchief—a thick, coloured, square rag, constantly in use, but never washed. There also he kept his snuff-horn, which he could handle even in a wind with a certain dexterity. The fine yellow snuff was scooped up on the tip of the forefinger under the protection of the thumb-nail, and conveyed to its destination somewhat noisily.

Every evening Muhamed Isa made his report. This time he presented himself with the following statement: “Sahib, Rehim Ali is still bad, and he begs permission to offer a sheep to Allah.”

“Very well, if he will be any the better for it.”

“Oh yes, certainly, Sahib.”

“I think it is all humbug, but it will do him no harm and the Mohammedans will get an extra meal. I will give the sheep then.”

“No, Sahib, that will not do; then the sacrifice would have no effect.”

“Indeed. Can I have the kidneys for dinner to-morrow?”

“No, Sahib, only Mohammedans may eat of a sheep offered in sacrifice.”

“Just so; of course in your opinion I am a kaper” (heathen).

He laughingly protested, but changed the subject. “Now we have 13 mules and 11 horses, or 27 animals altogether, of the original caravan.”

“Thirteen and eleven make only twenty-four,” I replied.

“Oh! then I must count them again,” said my conscientious caravan leader, and he gave himself much unnecessary trouble to make the figures agree. At last it proved that we had still twenty-five animals beside the yaks.