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

CHAPTER XX

ONWARDS THROUGH THE FORBIDDEN LAND

January 13. Again this ominous number, which is regarded by so many people as unlucky, and is surrounded by a cloud of superstition! Would the 13th be unfortunate for us also?

The sun had scarcely risen when Hlaje Tsering sent to announce a visit. Accompanied by his private secretary, the lama Lobsang Shunten, and all the rest of his retinue, His Excellence the Governor of Naktsang came to my tent on foot. They took their seats on the cushions, and Hlaje Tsering opened the conversation with the following remarkable declaration:

“Hedin Sahib, we have, neither of us, time to stay here for weeks and months, waiting for an answer from Gyangtse. I cannot help you in your correspondence with Gyangtse. I have thoroughly considered the situation, and have discussed it with my secretaries, who, like myself, are responsible to the Devashung. We are of the opinion that all you can do is to pass southwards into the territory of the Labrang (Tashi-lunpo). I beg you to set out the day after to-morrow.”

What did this most unexpected change of front mean? Yesterday I was not to be allowed to take a single step southwards, and to-day I was requested to start as soon as possible to the forbidden land. Had Hlaje Tsering received secret orders from Lhasa? Had he been informed that the Tashi Lama was really expecting me? He said nothing on the subject, and I cautiously refrained from asking him. Or were we the victims of a ruse, and when we had been induced to travel with all speed to Gyangtse, should we be compelled to return thence to India through Darjiling? For there the Devashung could appeal to the terms of the treaty, in which it is emphatically stipulated that only those who are in possession of a passport from Lhasa have a right to travel about the country, and so my journey would be speedily ended.

Might it not be better to make for the unknown country west of the Dangra-yum-tso, which after all was the main object of my journey? Hlaje Tsering’s change of front was so absolutely at variance with my former experiences in Tibet, that I had some misgivings, and wondered whether I was about to fall into the jaws of the English, Chinese, and Tibetan authorities, and should shortly be delivered unconditionally into their hands.

But this opportunity must on no account be lost. Between the Ngangtse-tso and Shigatse stretches the eastern part of the great white patch north of the Tsangpo, which no European, no pundit, has trod, the land of which not even hazy and uncertain reports at second-hand have ever found their way into geographical text-books. Even if I had an opportunity of making only a single traverse over it, my labour would not be in vain. Nain Sing has two rivers on his map, which flow east and north-east to the Kyaring-tso, and their upper courses he places in the country south of the Ngangtse-tso. At present I knew nothing of them, but I should learn everything if I accepted Hlaje Tsering’s proposal. But I had already perceived that the mountains on the south side of the lake were quite fanciful and arbitrary as inserted in Nain Sing’s map. At any rate, I must not now betray my satisfaction, so I answered very calmly and thoughtfully:

“Well, I will march southwards the day after to-morrow if you will provide me with horses by then.”

“I have sent men into all the valleys in the neighbourhood with orders that all the available horses are to be brought here. Two roads lead from here to Shigatse. If you travel by the west side of the lake you will be in four days in the territory of the Labrang, but by the east side you will reach it in two days. You may choose yourself which way you will take, but I shall be better pleased if you decide on the eastern, for with me the main thing is that you should clear out of my province as quickly as possible.”

“No, I will fix on the western road, that I may be able to make an excursion to the Dangra-yum-tso; for I wish to see the lake, and also I must go there because I have given it as my postal address, and the messenger of the Tashi Lama is awaiting me there.”

This was a very undiplomatic utterance. I ought to have avoided disclosing my plans. Hlaje Tsering bristled up at once and exclaimed: “To the Dangra-yum-tso? Never! The lake is holy; the mountain Targo-gangri on its southern shore is holy, and there lies the great monastery Sershik-gompa, in which influential intriguing monks dwell. Your visit to the lake would lead to complications. No, if such is your intention, I will leave only one road open to you, namely, that along the eastern side of the Ngangtse-tso. I cannot and will not compel you, but I implore you to give me your word of honour that you will not go to the Dangra-yum-tso.”

Thus I lost the holy lake a second time; but I gave my word of honour, that I might not lose the important route still open to me. My premature candour vexed me at the time, but I was soon to have reason to be thankful for it. Had I gained an opportunity of visiting the holy lake at this time, I should certainly have been arrested on its shore; but that is another story which will be related in a later chapter.

“Tell me, Hlaje Tsering, do you think that I shall be stopped in the territory of the Labrang?”

“As you have not been arrested here, in Naktsang, probably you will not be there. I do not know how I shall get on, but I have been Governor for seven years, and my term of office expires in five months, so it is of no consequence if I lose my post. The Devashung has plundered me so thoroughly that I have few cattle and little other property left. Now, for instance, I am travelling in my province at the expense of the people; the nomads have to provide me with baggage animals and provisions for the whole time.”

“The Devashung must be a nice institution. How glad you must be that your time of service will soon expire.”

“Yes, but I must settle down in some place where I can live cheaply.”

“Does the Devashung know that I am here?”

“I have not heard anything from it up to the present, but I despatched another report on your affairs yesterday by express messenger. How they will treat you I do not know; I have gone as far as I could for old friendship’s sake.”

After that we again paid him a return visit. Some of Hlaje Tsering’s men had seen us engaged in rearranging our baggage, and this caused him to ask me if he could have an empty chest. Four of the best were given him, and also all kinds of other superfluous articles.

January 13 was a memorable day in our chronicles, and the 14th was to bring with it still more wonderful incidents. Our life during the past months had passed rather monotonously, but now the facts of our daily experience were stranger than fiction. The alt-azimuth had been placed on its tripod near my tent, and I had the chronometer, an aneroid, and a thermometer close at hand. There I stood for fully three hours, observing the phases of the eclipse of the sun. About nine-tenths of the sun’s disc were obscured. Shortly before the maximum the temperature of the air was 16.7°, and soon after the maximum 11.5°. The violet line of the thermograph fell sharply, and a slight breeze swept along the earth’s surface. Some Tibetans had betaken themselves to Muhamed Isa’s tent to sell us horses, but when the singular darkness fell, they shook their heads and returned to their tents. The Ladakis are outside, sitting at their fire and murmuring prayers. The ravens are quiet and do not move. An eagle circles with heavy pinions close above the ground. Our sheep come in of their own accord from the pastures, just as they are wont to do in the evening, and yet the vanishing sun stands at its mid-day altitude. The puppies break off their play, creep timidly into the tent, and lie down on my bed. Only the horses graze on and display no surprise that the day is so short. All is strangely still and quiet.

But then the small sickle of the sun, which has not been extinguished in interstellar space, increases again. It becomes lighter, and the shadows that have just before shown a double outline, become sharp again. The sheep stand a moment irresolute and then go slowly back to the pasture. The dogs return to their play, and the Tibetans, one after another, peep out of their tent doors. The ravens shake themselves and fly off croaking to a hill. The prayers of the Ladakis are heard no more, and the eagle is borne aloft by swishing beats of his wings to the sun, which again shines out in all its splendour.

Then old Karpun came to visit us, and was given some tea, tobacco, and a piece of cloth.

“Does the Bombo Chimbo remember that I tried to detain him five and a half years ago with a large levy?”

“Yes, on the north shore of the Selling-tso (Zilling-tso). I gave you a great deal of trouble then, and you could not induce me to stay.”

“The trouble is all forgotten, and I am very glad to see you again in good health and brisk.”

“We did not expect then that we should meet again. You, too, are looking well. But tell me why you are come just now.”

“I have brought a message to the Governor from Shansa-dzong. The officials remaining there have ordered me to call out the people. Now all the militia must stand under arms to——”

“You surely do not intend to detain me again?”

“By no means. But news is come from the black tents on the middle course of the Bogtsang-tsangpo that a large band of robbers has pillaged ten tents and driven off all the owners’ cattle and all the flocks of sheep.”

“When?”

“A few days ago.”

“Then we may thank our stars that we did not fall into their hands, for we passed along the middle course of the Bogtsang-tsangpo for five days, and we have a large quantity of silver money in our boxes.”

“The Bombo Chimbo is a friend of the gods. No harm can befall you.”

“In which direction have the robbers retired with their booty?”

“They are still in the territory of Naktsang. We shall pursue them, catch them, and cut off their heads.”

Then I visited Hlaje Tsering with the corner pillars of my caravan. He sat at his lacquered table drinking tea, and had his long Chinese pipe in his mouth.

“Why is it that it has just been so dark?” I asked him. “The gods of the Dangra-yum-tso are angry because you will not allow me to visit their lake.”

“No, certainly not. A big dog roams about the sky and often conceals the sun. But I and the lama Lobsang have prayed all the time before the altar, and have burned joss-sticks before the images of the gods. You have nothing to fear; the dog has passed on.”

“Very fine,” I cried, and made a desperate attempt to explain the phenomenon. Robert held up his saucer to represent the sun, and I took two rupees to represent the earth and moon crossing each other’s orbit. Hlaje Tsering listened attentively to Muhamed Isa’s translation of my demonstration, nodded approvingly, and finally expressed his opinion that all this might do very well for us, but that it did not suit Tibet.

At this moment the flap of the tent was thrown back, and Rabsang entered panting and calling out to me:

“The post is here!”

Muhamed Isa and Robert jumped up as though there were fire under their feet, and exclaimed, “We must be off.” I sat quite still, and thrust my feet against the ground so as not to show that I was trembling with excitement. Was it possible? Letters from home, from India, from Gyangtse, and perhaps from the Tashi Lama!

“Who has brought the mail?” I asked, as if nothing had happened.

“A man from Shigatse, accompanied by two others,” answered Rabsang.

“Where is he? Let him bring the mail-bag.”

“We have already told him to come, but he replies that he has strict orders to hand over the letters to the Sahib himself in his own tent. He refuses to do so in the tent of the Governor.”

“What is the matter?” asked Hlaje Tsering, astonished at the general commotion.

“I have news from the Tashi Lama,” I returned very coolly. It was now Hlaje Tsering’s turn to look disconcerted. The news made a very deep impression on him. He quickly gave an order, two men hurried out and returned with a confirmation of my statement. Then he gave me a friendly clap on the shoulder and said, smiling:

“Hedin Sahib, this news is of much greater importance to me than to you. It is of no consequence what kind of tidings you receive, but the arrival of the post from the Tashi Lama is, in itself, a proof that His Holiness is actually expecting you, that Labrang is open to you, and that I acted rightly when I told you that you might continue your journey. If I had not already granted you permission yesterday, I should do so now.”

“I have always said that I should receive my letters from the Tashi Lama.”

“That is true; but now I have for the first time tangible proof, now I am perfectly satisfied, and do not intend even to wait for your departure. I shall travel back to Shansa-dzong the day after to-morrow.”

Now I could no longer curb my impatience. I took leave and hurried to my tent, whither the post-messenger was summoned. He was a young powerful Tibetan, a servant of Kung Gushuk, one of the highest officials in Shigatse, and younger brother of the Tashi Lama. Lieutenant Bailey, who had taken the place of Major O’Connor, absent on furlough, had, according to orders from India, sent the carefully packed post-box to the Tashi Lama with a request that he would forward it to me. The forbidden Dangra-yum-tso appeared in the Tibetan address also. By command of the Tashi Lama the man was furnished with an open passport from the Labrang, the Vatican of Tashi-lunpo, which empowered him to demand horses and provisions along the route. The men with him were the nomads who had last supplied him with horses at the Dangra-yum-tso, and now that they were sure of tips would not leave him. He had taken eighteen days to travel to the holy lake, and had looked for us there for three days, when he heard by chance that we were encamped on the Ngangtse-tso. Then he had hastened to us in order to execute his commission. But why was he so late? I had arranged for November 25. Yes, but Kung Gushuk had let the box lie for forty days, and Kung Gushuk is a blockhead. But this was a piece of good luck. Had Kung Gushuk done his duty, the post would have arrived at the right time, while I only reached the place agreed upon at the end of December. A higher providence had overruled the whole affair, and everything turned out well (Illustration 98).

Now the box was broken open. What excitement! It contained packets of letters from my home, from the Government House in Calcutta, from Colonel Dunlop Smith, and many other friends. I first ascertained from the last letter that all were well at home, and then read all the letters in chronological order with the most eager interest. The letters were the more welcome that they contained nothing but good news. I received a quantity of Swedish newspapers; they were old as the hills, but I should now have no lack of reading on my way to Shigatse.

The caravan did not see much of me that evening. I lay on my bed engaged in reading, and made my men heat the tent well. The Ladakis, too, were merry, kindled a large fire, danced and sang. I was invited to go and look on at their merry-making for a moment, and availed myself of the opportunity to make a short speech, in which I told them that they had all served me well and faithfully, and that hitherto we had met with good fortune. Now the road to Tashi-lunpo was open to us, and they would attain their wish of making a pilgrimage to the holy town. There they would rest after their exertions. Then I returned to my letters, and read on till the day dawned in the east, till long after the brazier had grown cold, and there were 45 degrees of frost in my tent. But I was well wrapped up in furs and did not feel the cold. Near my tent a troop of wolves made such a noise that Tsering had to go out and silence them with a few shots.

On the 15th I still lay down and read. On the 16th Hlaje Tsering paid me his farewell visit. We talked very pleasantly together, joked, and wondered whether fate would ever bring us together again. Then I attended him to his horse, which was snowy white, had a crimson saddle-cloth, and was bedecked with ornaments of shining brass and a chest-cloth with jingling bells. He mounted into the saddle, gave me both his hands at parting, and disappeared with his small retinue behind the hills. Then I again went back to my letters, but I felt a dull void now that the amiable Governor of Naktsang was gone (Illustration 97).

January 17. What did it matter if the day were gloomy, if freshly fallen snow veiled the surrounding mountains, and heavy greyish-blue clouds rolled over the lake as though to hide it from our sight at the moment of our departure? To us everything seemed bright, cheerful, and smiling. A powerful governor had come to prevent us from travelling further, and yet the route to the south was as free to us as the uninhabited Chang-tang had lately been. But now we were much better off. We should pass black tents daily, be able to buy all we wanted, and have no cause for alarm because we had provisions for only five days longer. We enjoyed unlimited freedom, and had not a single man with us as escort or watchman. Before us lay a country which might be said to be the most interesting in the world from a geographical point of view, and in which every day’s journey might lead to discoveries of the highest importance. What did we care if the air was raw and cold? Spring must come sometime. We could count on warmer weather for three reasons: we were advancing to more southern climes, we should soon reach districts at a lower level, and the spring was daily approaching. And for three reasons the Ngangtse-tso would ever be memorable in the diary of my reminiscences: there freedom of movement had been unexpectedly accorded to us, there connection with the outer world had been again established, and there I had an opportunity of determining the depth of the lake by a complete series of soundings, and of drawing its contours in a map.

We had obtained three new horses fairly cheaply, on which Robert, Muhamed Isa, and Tsering rode, while I kept to my small Ladak white. Accompanied by the post-messenger and his two comrades, we rode in a south-easterly direction down to the lake, and along the eastern shore to the southern part, where we bivouacked near two black tents. Kiangs and wolves were frequently seen. A kiang had been torn in pieces by the wolves, and the white puppy and the Pobrang dog remained by the body to enjoy a good feast. We were terribly starved during the long march of 13.2 miles, and in the night the thermometer marked 61.9 degrees of frost, the worst cold of the whole winter.

The next day’s march took us up a transverse valley of the mountains which rise on the south shore of the Ngangtse-tso. It was rather narrow, and a small source murmured under its covering of ice. We followed a plainly marked path, leaving a couple of tents behind us, and passed sheepfolds, grassy plots, and dark spots where tame yaks had lain and worn off the grass; everything was black, the tents, the Tibetans, the half-naked children, and the dogs. At length the gully turned westwards; just at the bend was a waterfall congealed into milky white ice. Far up the valley we encamped on a plateau, where we had a very interesting view to the north-east. We could see almost the whole of the lake which Nain Sing left at some distance to the south of his route, and which he called Daru-tso. I cannot dispute its correctness, but none of the Tibetans whom I questioned had ever heard this name for the lake; they called it Marchar-tso, and it now figures in my map under this name. It often happens that a lake has different names among different nomad tribes. In camp No. 109 it lay just below us as on a map; its form is not so simple as on Nain Sing’s map, but abounds in peninsulas and bays, and it is extremely narrow in the middle. The isthmus between the Ngangtse-tso and the Marchar-tso is only a few miles broad; at the highest point the old shore terraces of the two lakes touch one another. At the time when the water stood higher the two lakes were therefore connected. The Marchar-tso is said to be as salt as its neighbour, but its ice was smooth and blue, and we saw no fields of free salt on its surface.

We had seen nothing of the white puppy and the Pobrang dog after we had left them behind, so I sent the Hajji back to the lake. But he came back without having found any sign of them. We never saw them again, and I sorely missed the white puppy, who had been a faithful friend in the tent and on the march. Either they had had a fight with wolves and got the worst of it, or they had lost our track and had been adopted by nomads. The former was the more probable, for the Hajji when he came to the lake saw a troop of wolves careering over the ice.

On the 19th we surmounted the neighbouring pass, the Chapka-la (17,474 feet), on which a stone pyramid is erected in honour of the gods. As a watershed it is only of secondary importance, for the water from both sides flows to the Ngangtse-tso. The valley leading down makes a curve to the south; in the Lamblung valley we had eleven tents as neighbours, and were able to provide ourselves with all we needed for several days. The country was still in the Naktsang territory, but the nomads were subjects of the Labrang, and paid their taxes to Tashi-lunpo.

We remained here two days, which we ought not to have done, and we would not if I had properly considered the matter. It was not the furious snowstorm which caused us to waste forty-eight hours, but Ngurbu Tundup, the postman. I had intended to keep him with us as long as possible, for it would evidently be an advantage to us, and would increase our dignity, to have with us a servant of one of the highest officials of Shigatse. He was our living passport; if he were not with us, we might perhaps again be regarded as freebooters, and be ordered to stop by some despotic chief. But Ngurbu Tundup was deaf to our entreaties, and declared that he had strict orders to return immediately his task was accomplished, and give in his report. He had already disobeyed his orders and had lost several days, but he consented to remain with us if we would rest in the Lamblung valley. I had great need of the time to get all my huge correspondence ready. On January 20 I wrote for sixteen hours, and by noon of the 21st the mail was ready and packed up. Ngurbu received a present of 82 rupees for his excellent service, and if he handed over the packet of letters to the British commercial agent in Gyangtse he was to receive further especial reward, when we met again at Shigatse. But he was to make all speed, changing his horse several times a day. If he loitered and covered only 18 miles a day, that is, reaching Gyangtse in ten days, he was to expect only 10 rupees. If he completed the journey in nine days, he was to receive 20, and if he accomplished his task in eight days, I would give him 30 rupees, and so on, at the rate of 10 rupees for every day saved. He actually arrived in eight days. I really committed a blunder in making this arrangement, for I gave notice of our approach to the south, and it might have happened that the Tibetans might have conceived evil designs against us. Nay, had the Chinese received news of our march, we should most certainly have been very soon stopped.

When Ngurbu had ridden off over the hills, we were again cut off from contact with the outer world, and were left to ourselves.

The following morning we ascended eastwards along the valley in which we had encamped, and where some mani cists stand, the longest of which measures 33 feet, and is covered with slabs of sandstone bearing the holy formula in incised letters. Continual snowstorms and huge masses of cloud with or without snow—that was the characteristic weather in January.

The Pongchen-la (17,621 feet) is a low threshold, like the preceding of secondary importance. On its summit stands a votive stone heap, with a bundle of rods, on which pennants, cloth rags, and ribands flutter. Smaller cairns radiate out from it. Here we had a last glimpse of our dear old Ngangtse-tso, and to the north-east a valley ran down to the Marchar-tso. To the south-east rose a dark range with several snowy peaks, which is called Pabla. The valley we traversed is broad and open, and is enclosed in low mountains. We saw no tents all the day, but numerous traces of summer encampments. Namgyal, however, who is a quick intelligent man, spied out two tents in the neighbourhood of our camp No. 111, which was pitched in a district called Namachang, and there bought some sheep, parched meal, barley, milk, and sour milk. He also brought a young Tibetan with him, who was good-looking, honest, and gentle, and did all we asked him willingly and pleasantly. His accent was so soft and refined that it was a pleasure to hear him speak. He gave me a quantity of credible information and promised to accompany us a day’s journey.

It snowed so thickly all night and the following day that I frequently could not see Rabsang, who marched with the Tibetan guide just in front of my horse. The snow enveloped us, whirled about us, and piled itself into small drifts on the sheltered side of every stone, grassy hillock, and hollow. The valley slopes gently to the south-east, and its frozen river is called Buser-tsangpo, and is a tributary of the Tagrak-tsangpo, which debouches into the south-western corner of the Ngangtse-tso. We are therefore still in the basin, of which the lake occupies the lowest part, and of which the border on the north-west and east lies close to the lake, but on the south is removed many days’ journey from it. The camping-ground this day is called Kapchor; eastwards extends an open longitudinal valley, through which runs the road to Shansa-dzong; on the north side also of the Ngangtse-tso and Marchar-tso a road runs thither, and by this Hlaje Tsering had reached our camp in twelve days. This road is known from Nain Sing’s journey in 1873-74.

On the morning of the 24th we were nearly blinded on going out of our tents, so brilliant was the reflexion from the thousands of small facets of the snow crystals which had spread their white cloak over hill and valley in a thick continuous sheet. The sky was clear, and blue as the purest turquoise from Nishapur, but the wind swept bitterly cold over the snowfields a night old. Our route ran south-eastwards to the exit of the narrow valley where the Tagrak-tsangpo, now frozen to the bottom, rested mute and motionless in the arms of winter. We followed the river, the largest watercourse that we had seen since the Chang-chenmo, upwards. At some places small nomad communities had their winter pastures, and there large herds of yaks and flocks of sheep roamed over the slopes. The name of the valley is Kayi-rung, of the spot where camp 113 was pitched Kayi-pangbuk, and of the district Tova-tova. Nain Sing’s Dobo Dobá Cho, from which he brings the river Para-tsangpo to the Kyaring-tso, was not known to the inhabitants. The Pundit makes the water drain eastwards, but as a matter of fact it runs westwards and north-westwards to the Ngangtse-tso. This is due to his not having been here himself, for the statements of the natives are usually very unreliable.

Immediately beyond the camp we crossed on the 25th a small saddle, where we obtained an instructive insight into the lie of the land. The eyes swept unhindered over all the wide plain, with the three streams forming the Tagrak-tsangpo meandering over the level ground in capricious curves and bends like silver ribands in the brown and grey country. Close to us on the south-east is the Kesar-tsangpo, which receives the Naong-tsangpo at the foot of our gap, and then cutting through our mountain begins its course in the Kayi-rung valley. Farther off to the north-east the Naong-tsangpo has already absorbed the waters of the Kung-tsangpo, and with them makes its way to the Kayi-rung valley and the Ngangtse-tso. The great plain is enclosed by moderately high, rounded mountains and hills.

After crossing the Kesar-tsangpo we follow the right bank, upwards as far as Toa-nadsum, where we bivouac. A quadrangular wall of earth marks the spot where the bombo, or chief of the district, usually erects his tent; now he is in Tashi-lunpo to pay his tax. In the adjoining valleys there are at the present time twenty-two tents, but only four near our camp, and in these beggars are wintering in great poverty. The country is said to be noted for its cold, raw climate even in summer. It rains in June and July, but the fall varies very much from year to year. If it rains hard for a long time, all the rivers swell, draining water from a thousand valleys, and the Tagrak-tsangpo is then sometimes unfordable.

When we started on the following day in a twilight caused by heavy clouds, the poor natives came up holding out their hands for tsamba or money, and each received a coin. Our way ran to the east-south-east, to the Naong-rung valley, traversed by the Naong-tsangpo, now frozen to the bottom. We now ascended gradually, and at camp No. 115 found ourselves at a height of 16,844 feet.

Two large black nomad dogs fell in love with the brown puppy, and followed us as though they belonged to the family. One limped, having at some time hurt his leg; he was old and shaggy, and was received with stones and abuse. Yet he clung to us faithfully, and put up with hard words from the men and the offal from slaughtered sheep. He was at last admitted a member of our travelling company, and hobbled, with drooping head and tongue hanging out, over lofty passes and through deep valleys, and answered to the name of “Cripple.” As he was old he often lagged behind, but in spite of his slow pace he always turned up and took his place before Muhamed Isa’s tent. He was the grand dog of our tent court, and was much concerned about us when danger threatened. Naturally he became a friend of us all, was allowed to eat as much as he liked, and acquired a position in the caravan. Then we would gladly have forgotten we had had the heart to beat him, and to greet him with stones and whips—he, our Cripple, who had come to us of his own accord to defend us and guard our tents, only asking free board in exchange; for free lodging of course he had under the everlasting stars in great desolate winterly cold Tibet.

CHAPTER XXI

OVER THE TRANS-HIMALAYA

January 27. Storm as usual. We march in a south-easterly direction, guided by the river system of the Tagrak-tsangpo, which branches off into smaller and smaller ramifications, and no one interferes with us or takes the slightest notice of our advance. From a small pass we look down on the two tributaries of the Naong-tsangpo, the Pupchung-tsangpo, and the Kelung-tsangpo, and follow the latter. It conducts us to a second saddle with a stone cairn and prayer streamers; from a pole in the middle strings radiate out to the four cardinal points, bearing rags and ribands, and fastened to the ground by small stones. From a third watershed of secondary rank the guide points out a pass of the first order in the Pabla mountains which we shall cross to-morrow. We now find ourselves in a high alpine region without herbage; only moss grows among the pebbles. Camp No. 116 is pitched in the valley of the Pupchung-tsangpo. The brook descends from the Pupchung-ri, a part of the main crest. To the south-east we see the two mountains Tormakaru and Sangra covered with snow. Here nomads never encamp, for the elevation is too great. Only when officials from Tashi-lunpo travel here on duty are the nomads living nearest obliged to set up tents for them.

The wind sank in the evening, and the sound of the flutes echoed clearly and sweetly in the valley. The moon rose high, and poured down its light over the peaceful wondrous land. The night advanced cold and silent, and the thermometer fell to −29°. At such a temperature there is no need of draughts through the chinks to cool the sleeping-tent. The cold wakes me up, and I have to wrap myself more closely in my blankets.

January 28 was a great day in our records. We knew that we had a trying way before us, and therefore we made an early start. The horse that bore the number 22 on the label attached to his mane lay before my tent frozen hard, with his legs stretched out; he had served us faithfully for nearly half a year. Seven horses and a mule were left. They carried nothing but the cloths that protected them from cold in the night. The new Tibetan horses were in splendid condition: they were fat and sleek compared to our old horses, which had passed through the winter on the Chang-tang.

Even at ten o’clock the wind is icy cold, and not the smallest cloud floats over the earth. Dull weather is much better if the air be still. Now the sun looks down sneeringly on our sufferings and makes no attempt to lighten them. We march towards the east-south-east, over an endless, slightly undulating plain, where the ground consists of troublesome moss-grown stones and sharp débris. On our right is the Sangra peak and other parts of the Pabla crest, whence short transverse valleys descend, and are continued over the plain in insignificant furrows of erosion. To the left the land is undulating, where the affluents of the Naong-tsangpo wind among softly rounded hills. Higher hills and ridges, lying to the north of the right bank of the Naong-tsangpo, intercept the view in this direction.

So we mount slowly up till a deeply eroded valley suddenly and unexpectedly appears on the right side of our route. It is not included in the Ngangtse-tso basin. I am about to leave the isolated hydrographic region, and puzzle my head about the surprises that await me. The valley is called Sangra-palhe, runs south-eastwards, and receives the southern transverse valleys of the Pabla, which are just as deeply excavated. To the south-east we see the dark extremity of a spur of the Pabla, round which the great main valley and its stream bend towards the south and pass on—but whither? On this point the guide could give us no information; we were to find out later. Farther on we reach a valley running in a northerly direction, and therefore connected with the Naong-tsangpo. Northwards the country slopes gently, but steeply, to the south, and we ascend to the low pass forming the watershed. Immediately beyond the hill Sereding we march up a steep ascent towards the conical mountain Serpo-tsunge, which we afterwards leave close on the right of our road. From its western and eastern sides, and also from the gap where we now stand, a number of deep erosion valleys run down to the Sangra-palhe. To the left of our route a valley, which still belongs to the system of the Naong-tsangpo, slopes to the north-west. We are therefore on the water-parting ridge. The Serpo-tsunge is a geographical boundary pillar, and marks where the domain of the Ngangtse-tso ends. The whole configuration is singularly complicated.

Here we left one of our yaks, which could not be induced by coaxing or scolding to move a step farther, but lowered his horns and rushed at those who attempted to drive him on. He was abandoned, the second animal of his kind. He had here abundance of yak-moss, snow, and fresh air, and would probably fall into the hands of the nomads some time or other.

A little higher and we stood on the very summit of the pass, marked by a pole with streamers, which flap and flutter in the wind. It was quite time that we made a small fire, for we were half dead with cold. It was not easy to make the hypsometer boil. Robert sat on the ground and improvised a tent round the instrument with furs and a rug, while I lay on my stomach on the lee side and read the thermometer through a small opening. The temperature was 15°, with a west-south-west wind No. 8, that is, half a gale. The valley leading down, the Sele-nang, lay now, at mid-day, in dark shadow. Through its opening appeared a vast sea of rigid mountainous undulations, steep cliffs, and deep valleys, no level stretches, no vegetation, only a labyrinth of mountains, a much bolder, more marked, and wilder relief than we had seen in Chang-tang. The nearer parts of the Pabla ridge intercepted the view to the west.

The pass, where we now were, is called the Sela-la, and attains the great height of 18,064 feet above sea-level. I perceived clearly that it must be situated in the main chain, which, farther east, bears the well-known peak Nien-chang-tang-la on the south shore of the Nam-tso or Tengri-nor, and has been crossed by a few Europeans and pundits. It is one of the greatest and grandest watersheds of the world, for from its northern flank the water flows down to the undrained lakes of the plateau, and from its southern flank to the Indian Ocean. The course of this watershed and the configuration of the mountain system crossed by our route between the Ngangtse-tso and Yeshung on the Tsangpo was till this January of 1907 as unknown to geographers of European race as the side of the moon turned away from the earth. On the other hand, the seas and mountains seen in the full moon have been known from ancient times much better than the region of the earth’s surface whither it is my good fortune to be able to conduct my readers. I venture to describe this geographical problem that I have succeeded in solving as one of the finest, perhaps the most striking, of all problems connected with the surface of our earth that awaited solution.

But on the Sela-la we crossed the immense watershed only at a single point. I will not anticipate events. We must first muster our acquisitions in order, and then we will draw our conclusions from the material collected. And now we will continue our arduous passage through the unknown world of mountains which still separates us from the great river.

After I had hastily sketched the panorama with hands turned blue with cold, inserting the names the guide was able to give me, we hurried down the slopes of detritus, partially covered with snow, on the south side of the pass. In the valley bottom, with its patches of ice, we mounted our horses again, and met three mounted Tibetans driving before them eight loose horses. As soon as they caught sight of us they turned aside and made a great detour to avoid us. We supposed that they belonged to a band of robbers, who wished to escape with their booty by untrodden paths.

It was delightful this evening to sit at length in the warmth of the camp-fire. In silent meditation my eyes swept from the rocky crests, brightly lighted by the moon, down to the dark shadowy depths of the valley, where there were only wolves crouching in their holes. It seemed as though all belonged to me; as though I had marched into this land a conqueror at the head of victorious legions, and had crushed all opposition. Oh, what splendid legions! Five-and-twenty ragged fellows from Ladak, ten lean jades, and about twenty worn-out yaks. And yet I had succeeded! Marius could not have been prouder of the triumphs he achieved in the war against Jugurtha than I was when I had won my first victory over the “Trans-Himalaya” at the Sela-la, that Sela-la which, now bathed in moonlight, seemed to us the extreme outpost on the limits of boundless space.

Our march on January 29 was pleasant. We were sheltered from the wind in the deep valley, travelled towards the sun, and felt the first touch of the approaching spring. We rode at first towards the east-south-east, but gradually made a curve round to the south. Just at the bend the valley Tumsang runs in, and in the background we again caught a glimpse of a part of the great range we crossed at the Sela-la. Innumerable valleys such as ours must descend from the crest more or less parallel to it. The valley becomes broader, and the ice strip of the Sele-nang winds along the middle. We see no tents, but places where they are pitched in summer, and some manis are erected for the edification of travellers. Camp No. 118 is pitched in an expansion of the valley called Selin-do.

During the past days we had often remarked how desirable it would be if we could hire some yaks from the nomads. Our own were exhausted and kept us back, and in the high country with its abundant detritus, where we were now travelling, their hoofs became sorer every day. As long as the land lay open before us we must make all haste we could. Delay might be dangerous, but the yaks marched as though they had a log at their heels. We saw no tents in Selin-do, but Namgyal came in the evening with two Tibetans he had met in a side valley. They were willing to provide us with 25 yaks, if they were paid a tenga (about 5½ d.) for every day’s march, and they reckoned eight days’ march for the journey to Yeshung on the Tsangpo. They would accompany us themselves only for one day, and insisted that other men should take their place when they turned back. We could not do any better; we should spare our own animals, make longer marches, and obtain good guides as well.

In the evening we received a visit from seven well-armed riders in search of a band of robbers who had stolen several horses from them. We informed them of the party we had met the day before and they rode off, thanking us warmly, up the valley.

January 30. In the morning our new friends turned up with the yaks; when all was in order we found that we possessed only eighteen loads of the heavy baggage with which we set out from Leh. Our last two guides were paid, and immediately set out for the Sela-la.

Immediately below camp No. 118 the Selin-do valley unites with the Porung valley, along which we again ascended to the south-east. I was surprised that our guides tramped up to higher ground again, but they followed a plainly marked path, while the valley that we left on the right seemed to slope down to the west-south-west and south-west. They said that it debouched into the valley of the My-tsangpo, a northern tributary of the Yere-tsangpo (the upper Brahmaputra). I had afterwards an opportunity of ascertaining that their statements were correct. But now, on first crossing the country, the arrangement of the mountain ranges and watercourses was ill-defined and confusing to me. At every camp I interrogated Tibetans who seemed reliable, and made them draw small maps with their fingers in the sand, which I copied into my diary. But the map changed every day, even if the chief lines remained the same.

From the point where we began to ascend again a desolate chaos of mountains is visible towards the south-west. On the right bank of the Porung several warm springs well up from the pebble bed, containing sulphurous water at a temperature of 127.9° and filling basins in which the hot steaming water simmers and bubbles. The place is called simply Tsaka-chusen, or “The Hot Salt Water.” The terraces of the valley indicate powerful erosive action. Side valleys run in on both sides; sometimes we cross the frozen stream, sometimes pass over steep mountain spurs. At a bend in the way we meet a party of armed riders who are on the way to Chokchu, a country west of the Dangra-yum-tso.

We come to an expansion in the valley, a very important spot, for here several valleys converge to a gigantic focus of erosion in this sea of wild mountains. The largest is the Terkung-rung, which, joined by a whole series of side valleys, descends from the main crest of the Pabla in the north-east. The track through the valley passes several large summer pastures. I made a long halt on a broad rocky projection with a mani to get my bearings in this extremely interesting country. Here, too, we met a mounted party, which was in pursuit of a freebooter who had eloped with another man’s wife—just as with us. The injured husband was in the party and looked very furious. Then we met a caravan of 55 yaks laden with great bales of Chinese brick tea from Lhasa, which they were carrying to the Chokchu province. A dozen dark bare-footed men followed the animals, singing and whistling, spinning woollen thread with the help of vertical rotating spools, or engaged with their prayer mills. They hired their yaks, and were to exchange them for fresh animals at Selin-do. They had also 50 sheep with them, carrying small loads of barley. The farther we advanced the more lively became the traffic.

Small footpaths from the side valleys join our road, which is now broad and shows signs of considerable traffic. All our guides tell us that this is the great highway to Shigatse, and is also a section of the main road connecting Chokchu with the capital of the country. The road is a collection of parallel footpaths, and where it crosses slopes and steep declivities appears like stripes on the ground.

We continue our ascent in a south-south-easterly direction, and find ourselves about 100 feet above the valley bottom, which is occupied by a huge ice-belt of uniform breadth resembling a great river; we could fancy ourselves transplanted to the Indus valley in its winter dress as seen from Saspul. But the resemblance is only apparent, for after we have passed some rather large side valleys we reach the abundant springs of Mense-tsaka with warm freshwater at a temperature of 118°, which farther down forms pools where small fishes dart about among slimy weeds. The water gradually cools down and forms ice, and runs down over it farther and farther until, as now in the end of January, it has filled the whole valley bottom from the foot of one flank to the other.

From the great meeting-place of the valleys we have passed four manis, in general not more than 10 feet long, but covered with unusually well-dressed slabs of red, white, or green sandstone and slate. On the former, the letters in the weathered crust stand out bright red against the chiselled intervals with their white surface. We are tempted to take away some specimens, but we shall probably have later opportunities of committing sacrilege.

In front of us stands the trough up to the pass; surrounded by the concave crest, where the caravan is seen on the top, the pass seems unpleasantly steep. Above the valleys Shib-la-yilung and Chugge-lung the ascent is difficult, and the horses often pause on the slopes of detritus. At last, however, we are up at the votive cairn with its streamer pole amongst smaller pyramids of stones. This is the Shib-la, which has a height of 17,549 feet. The view is magnificent and is free on almost all sides, for no summits in the foreground obstruct it. Down in the valleys we were sheltered from the wind, but up on the summit it sweeps unhindered over the agitated sea of crests.

The guide points south-westwards to the next pass we have to cross. Between it and the Shib-la stretches a deep boldly eroded ravine, sloping to the west-south-west. Its river, or rather its ice-belt, unites with all the watercourses we have crossed this day—with all, indeed, that we have met with since the Sela-la. We have therefore crossed a number of tributaries, but the main stream, which receives them all, lies to the west of our route and is not visible from any point. It is the river called My-chu, My-tsangpo, or My-chu-tsangpo.

We had still a fairly long march to the camp. It grew dusk. We descended the steep slope on foot, stumbling over the rubbish and the mouse-holes. Darkness came on, but a white streak was seen in the valley, the ice of the river. The light of the camp-fire looked tempting in the cold and darkness. But nothing is so deceptive as a blaze of light in the darkness; you go on and on, but the fire seems no larger. At last, however, tired and starved, we arrived at the camp and sat as close as possible to the glowing argol, and the conversation with Muhamed Isa began—cheerful and animated, as usual.

Four of our spare yaks were thoroughly exhausted and must have a day’s rest. Had I known what was coming behind in our track, I would have left them and hurried off next morning. But we knew nothing, and spent the last day of January quietly in camp No. 119. The thermometer fell to −29.9°: the third time we had recorded the same reading.

I spent the leisure day in studying the maps I had drawn, and endeavouring to form a clear conception of the mountains and valleys among which we had been wandering. This much was evident, that the great watershed between the isolated lake basins of the Chang-tang and the Indian Ocean ran along the main Pabla range, and that this was the immediate western prolongation of the mighty chain Nien-chen-tang-la. We had crossed the Pabla mountains at the Sela-la, and were now in the wide-stretching intricate river system of the My-chu. Nearly parallel to the My-chu flows farther east the Shang-chu, and along its valley the Pundit Krishna (A. K.) travelled in the year 1872 and Count de Lesdain in 1905. Between the My-chu and the Shang-chu there must therefore be a secondary watershed and a considerable mountain elevation, which is really nothing else than an offshoot from the main range of the Pabla. All the watercourses we had crossed from the Sela-la onwards flow westwards, and the secondary watershed, where they take their rise, lies to the east of our route. It is, however, possible that between the My-chu and the Shang-chu another, or perhaps several valleys lie, equal in importance to the valleys of these rivers.

The Pabla is only a part of the main chain of the “Trans-Himalaya,” and the Trans-Himalaya is not only a watershed of the first rank, but is also a geographical boundary of exceptional importance. I have now and then wandered through mountain regions of awful grandeur, but have never seen anything to equal the country to the south of the Trans-Himalaya. In Chang-tang the predominating lines of the landscape are slightly undulating and horizontal; now we had reached the peripheral regions, having a drainage to the sea, and immediately vertical lines came into prominence. On the south side of the Trans-Himalaya the valleys are much more boldly excavated in the rock masses than in any part of the plateau country. And why? Because the precipitation from the monsoon clouds is incomparably more abundant on the south side of the Trans-Himalaya than on the northern flank. It is the same in the Himalayas, where the south side, facing the west monsoon, catches the lion’s share of the precipitation, and is irrigated by much more abundant and more continuous rains than the northern. Now we found springs, brooks, and rivers in every valley, while not very long before we were always in danger of finding no water. In climatic relations, then, the Trans-Himalaya is a boundary line equalled in magnitude and importance by few on the earth’s surface.

My excitement and expectation were constantly increasing; every day I saw plainer indications of the proximity of a religious metropolis—votive cairns, manis, travellers, caravans were all signs of it. My Ladakis were inspired by the same feeling of exultation which the pilgrims of Islam experience when they approach the Arafat mountain, and remember that from that elevation they will behold for the first time the holy Mecca.

Early in the forenoon fresh men with fresh yaks presented themselves to take over our loads on February 1. I could not understand why the nomads were ready to serve us without the slightest suggestion. Certainly the highway is divided into stages, and fresh yaks are kept in readiness for the transport of baggage and goods, but these advantages are intended only for Tibetans, not for a European caravan, which had not even a passport. At any rate Ngurbu Tundup had done us no harm; on the contrary, it was known everywhere that I was coming, and that he was a messenger sent to me by the Tashi Lama. At every halting-place we were told how many days ago he had passed through the place. The readiness of the nomads to provide us with yaks was due in no small degree to the good pay and kind treatment they received. Now our own yaks travelled without loads, and also the seven Ladak horses and the last surviving mule. But we were prepared for any emergency. We had agreed that if we could not at any time find transport animals, I, with Muhamed Isa and Namgyal, would ride on our three Tibetan horses in forced marches to Shigatse, while the caravan would follow slowly under Robert’s command.

We had 58½ degrees of frost in the night, and the morning was horribly cold, dull, and stormy. We ascended to the next pass along a new valley. We had not gone far before we were half dead with cold; Robert wept, he was so frozen. When it was warmest, there were still 27½ degrees of frost, and a biting wind blew in our faces. Our faces, and especially our noses, would have been frost-bitten if we had not constantly put them in the openings of our long fur sleeves, where, however, the breath turned so quickly to ice that the sleeve froze on to the moustache. It is not easy to do map work under such circumstances. Before I have taken my observation and looked at the watch my left hand is dead; and, however much I hurry, I have not recorded the result before my right hand has lost all feeling. It is impossible to march on foot in face of the storm up a steep ascent and in the rarefied air if one has the least respect for one’s heart. We crept into a cave and crouched down on the sheltered side; we thrust our hands between the horse and the saddle-girth to thaw them; we stamped our feet, and looked intensely miserable when the muscles of our faces were so benumbed that we could hardly speak. “Let us ride on; we will light a fire up above.” And so we struggled painfully up through sharp-edged detritus and among stones.

At last we are up on the flat arch of the Chesang-la at an absolute height of 17,599 feet. This pass is therefore a little higher than the Sela-la, but nevertheless it is only a pass of the second rank, for it separates two of the affluents of the My-chu. When we came up, there were three large grey wolves on the pass, but they quickly took to flight. Here the storm raged in uncontrolled freedom, and we could scarcely keep on our feet. Robert and I crouched on the ground on the sheltered side of the large cairn, while Rabsang and our Tibetan guide collected dry yak-dung. We set it alight with the help of flint and steel, and then we all four cowered over the fire. We opened our fur coats to let a little heat penetrate our clothes and took off our boots to warm our feet, but we sat an hour and a half before we felt anything like human beings again. Then we hastened down in a south-south-westerly direction and encamped in the Sham valley near some wretched stone huts.