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

CHAPTER XXII

TO THE BANK OF THE BRAHMAPUTRA

The Sham valley narrows like a pear, and at the entrance of this funnel huts stand at three different spots, and large herds graze on the mountain slopes. A mani, 148 feet long by 5 feet high, was covered with clods to protect the upright stones sculptured with prayers. At length the Sham valley enters a large valley coming from the east, which occupies a prominent place in this river system. It is traversed by the Bup-chu-tsangpo, the largest river we have yet seen. Immediately below the place where the two valleys unite is the confluence of a third river, which is called Dangbe-chu and flows from the south-east. Thus three considerable streams meet in this small expansion of the valley. The explanations of my guide made this complicated river system of the My-chu-tsangpo clear to me. The sources of the Bup-chu-tsangpo lie two long days’ march to the east, and are of course to be found in the great offshoot of the Pabla which forms on the east the watershed of the My-chu-tsangpo. From the confluence where we now stood the Bup-chu-tsangpo continues its course for two short days’ journey south-westwards, and then at the monastery Linga-gompa enters the My-chu-tsangpo, which has its source in the main range of the Pabla.

The Bup-chu-tsangpo was at this season converted into a huge sheet of ice, but had an open water channel. We crossed dry-footed at a place where the ice formed a bridge all across the bed of the stream, and then marched in a south-easterly direction through the narrow Dangbe valley.

At camp No. 121, on February 3, we left Tundup Sonam and Tashi behind with our own yaks, which were so exhausted that they could be driven only very slowly. The men were given money for their keep, and were ordered to move on towards Shigatse at a very slow pace. The rest of the caravan set out early, in good weather and at a minimum temperature of only 11.3°.

Our course is south-south-east and afterwards east. All the valleys are full of ice, which we strew with sand as the caravan passes. The pass to-day is the Dangbe-la, decorated, as usual, with a cairn and streamers; its height is 17,224 feet, or much less than that of the preceding pass. It is interesting, as lying on the watershed between the Bup-chu (My-chu) and the Rung-chu. The latter river does not unite with the My-chu, but takes its own course direct to the upper Brahmaputra. When I asked why we could not descend the Rung valley to avoid the two passes in front of us, I was told that the valley is very narrow, is confined by precipitous mountains, and is filled with ice. There is, however, a path used in summer which runs sometimes along the slopes, sometimes over the valley bottom, but is hard to follow after rain, for then large volumes of water pour down the valley, thundering over falls and rapids.

We bivouacked in a locality called Ngartang in the Rung valley, where twelve tents remain standing all through the year. The valley is considered cold, whereas the Sham is reputed warm. Indeed, we had found there some juniper bushes, and were so delighted at seeing them that we had adorned the inside of our tents with branches. It never snows in summer in the Sham valley, but it does in the Rung valley. In many years there is much rain in both valleys.

As though to prove the truth of the Tibetans’ assertions, the thermometer again fell in the night to −19.1°. We were prepared for a long day’s journey and a difficult pass, and therefore it was still dark when I heard the yaks being driven into the camp. After we have left the Ma-lung river behind us we ride up hills consisting of firm soil overgrown with moss, and an inextricable entanglement of mountains is displayed to our view. We ride steeply upwards along the valley coming down from the pass, passing over detritus and among boulders, with votive cairns here and there. A stretch of almost level ground follows, and then at last the path rises steeply to the pass, which is strewn with innumerable blocks of grey granite. This is the Ta-la or “Horse Pass,” and its absolute height is 17,835 feet.

If the ascent among the boulders is troublesome, and both horse and rider have to twist their bodies in all kinds of acrobatic feats, the pilgrim is richly rewarded when he stands at the top of the Ta-la beside the streamer-decked cairn; for anything grander and more overpowering I have never yet seen, unless it were on the top of the Chang-lung-yogma. The panorama to the south-east and east-south-east is so fascinating that we almost forget to dismount. We command a somewhat limited portion of the horizon, for two peaks of the Ta-la crest, like the portal of a great temple, close in the landscape in front of us. Below is a zone of reddish-brown, dome-shaped hills, behind them a nearly black spur, intersected by numerous short transverse valleys, and farther in the background a dark grey ramification. All seem to run westwards and from the watershed, which we have supposed to lie to the east of our route since we crossed the Sela-la. Such scenery as this we had gazed upon time after time. But high above the dark-grey ridge rises a world of mountains which seems to belong to the heavens rather than the earth, so lightly and airily is it poised above the rest of the earth under a canopy of white clouds. It is so far from us that the individual contours are indistinguishable, and it rises like a wall of a universal light blue hue, which, however, is a little deeper than the colour of the sky. The boundary between the two expanses of blue is sharply marked by an irregular bright white line; for what we see before us is the snow-covered crest of the Himalayas, and behind it lies India with its eternal summer. These are the most northern chains of the Himalayas, on the frontier between Tibet and Bhotan. Between them and the dark grey crest, comparatively near to us, yawns an abyss, a huge fissure on the earth’s crust, the valley of the Brahmaputra or Tsangpo. The river itself is not visible, but we feel that we are now not far from our destination. Ah, you fearful ranges and passes which we have surmounted in the Chang-tang, where dead horses mark the miles and show in which direction we travelled, at last we have you behind us, and only a single mountain system, the Himalayan, separates us from India! This view strikes us dumb, and it seems wonderful to me that I have succeeded in forcing my way so far.

Tsering and Bolu now reach the pass with the small caravan. They fall on their knees before the heap of stones and recite their prayers, and Tsering tears a strip off his ragged coat to tie as an offering on to one of the strings. We all feel as though we were on a pilgrimage. The Tibetans who let their yaks on hire see after the loading and unloading, gather fuel, and relieve the Ladakis of many of their duties. The older men of our own people are allowed to ride. They have easier work in every way, but still they are pilgrims on the way to one of the greatest centres of Lamaism. Old Tsering holds his cap in his hand as he goes over the pass, and cannot turn his eyes aside from the dreamy light-blue mountains which gleam in the distance among the clouds. He reminds himself that they rise far beyond Tashi-lunpo and that we have not to cross them to reach our longed-for destination.

But we must leave this grand pass, the never-to-be-forgotten Ta-la. Down we go on a break-neck descent among boulders, between steep cliffs, over landslips and spurs, and the Himalayas gradually vanish from sight. Now we see only the line of the crest tipped with eternal snow; after we have descended a couple of slopes, it also is concealed by the dark grey ridge, and our horizon is bounded by its sharp outline. Kabbalo is a village of two tiny stone cabins in the Permanakbo-tang valley where we encamp. Several Tibetans are out of doors and stare at us; for dinner I have butter and radishes, and see no more of the perpetual mutton.

On February 5 we made a short march down the same valley, which is called Dokang, where we set up our camp No. 124. Forty Tibetans stood at the camp-fire. When I rode up they all thrust out their tongues as far as they would go, and their bright red colour formed a strong contrast to the dirty faces. Those who wore caps took them off with the left hand and scratched their heads with the right—another form of salutation. When we spoke with them they repeatedly shot out their tongues, but only from politeness and friendliness; they could not do enough to show their goodwill. Near the camp are the ruins of a dzong, or fort, which is called Dokang-pe, and a deserted village called Arung-kampa testifies that the valley was formerly more densely populated than now.

The march on the 6th is one I shall never forget; for now we rode down the gigantic staircase, the edge of the Chang-tang, into the Ginunga gap which we had seen from the Ta-la, and in the depths of which flows the upper Brahmaputra. From the camp we marched towards the south-south-east, leaving our river on the right, which, cutting through the mountains in a deep ravine, flows to the Rung-chu. At the entrance of the narrow valley stands a small temple, the Chega-gompa. A pack of wolves howled dismally in a gorge. The ascent to the pass La-rock (14,567 feet) is short and easy, and before we were aware we were up at a great cairn amid smaller heaps of stones, where the tarpoche (votive pole) stands grey and cracked, and much worn by wind and weather (Illustration 100). Several blocks of stone lying in heaps on the east side of the pass were white-washed on their upright sides. We had to cross over two more smaller ridges before we had a free and uninterrupted view. The scene is grand, and reminds one of the landscape seen from the palace at Leh. The northern ranges of the Himalayas were distinctly visible, but heavy clouds rested like a canopy on their peaks. Mount Everest, therefore, the highest mountain of the world, could not be seen. The Tsangpo appeared as a very small bright riband, still at a considerable distance. Below us flowed the Rung-chu, which we could see from the place where it emerges from the mountains. Most imposing are the colossal offshoots and ramifications of the mountains lying to the east and west of our position, which fall suddenly to the valley of the Brahmaputra like an endless row of tiger’s claws.

The plain stretched out before us is a very large expansion of the Brahmaputra valley, and is named Ye, or Yeshung, while the river is here called the Yere-tsangpo. It is densely peopled; the great number of dark specks are all villages. To the right, at the foot of a mountain spur, stands the large monastery Tashi-gembe, which with its numerous white-washed houses has the appearance of an Italian coast town. Thence a road runs to the famous monastery Sekya. A fine line meandering towards the south-east is the great highway to Shigatse, Tashi-lunpo, and Lhasa.

From the last platform the path plunges down headlong, so we descend on foot these steep slopes of grey granite rounded by wind and weather. Where loose material fills up the interstices the path is sunk in to the depth of a yard. Many pilgrims, horses, and yaks have passed here before the path became so small. Sometimes we have abysses beside us, sometimes we slide down over the sheets of granite, sometimes we step down as on a staircase, but down we go, ever downwards, and we rejoice to think that every step brings us nearer to warmer, denser air, where we can breathe more easily. Here and there tower up great round granite blocks on a pedestal of loose rubbish, like glacier tables; rain and wind have sculptured out these singular forms.

At last we are down on the great plain into which all the valleys open. We ride past barley-fields, poplar groves, farms and villages with white houses, where blue and red pennants and flags decorate the roofs. We leave the monastery Tugden on our left; a little farther, at the foot of a mountain spur, Muhamed Isa had made a halt. About a hundred Tibetans of all ages and both sexes, exceedingly black and dirty, but very friendly, surrounded the tents. They sold us sheep, fowls, milk, radishes, and malt beer (chang), and our tired animals were supplied with plenty of hay and barley. Women with a round arch on their necks by way of ornament, carried wicker baskets of dung to the fires, and were never tired of sitting with us, astonished at us and our wonderful occupations. Here Ngurbu Tundup presented himself and gave me the welcome information that his master, Kung Gushuk, would forward my correspondence. He received only a part of his reward at present, and the remainder would be paid him as soon as I had news that the letters had actually reached Gyangtse. He handed me a kadakh, or cloth of welcome, from his master, and said that he was ordered to accompany us and assist us on the way to Shigatse. This was most important news. It signified that we should meet with no obstructions.

Here the absolute height was 12,956 feet, and the air was warm and pleasant. At nine o’clock we had only 5½ degrees of frost, and therefore the tent flap was left open. I held a long consultation with Robert and Muhamed Isa. Should we spend ten days instead of only one in this delightful locality, where there was all we wanted and where the animals could recover their strength, while I visited the curious monasteries perched like storks’ nests on rocky promontories, or glittering white at the mouths of valleys? No; we knew nothing definite about the reception that awaited us; it was only eleven days’ journey to Lhasa, and we could reach our destination, Shigatse, in three days. We had heard nothing from the Government, but we were expected in Shigatse. Any moment might bring a change unfavourable to us. We would not therefore lose a single precious day, but would start early in the morning, and hurry on as long as the road was open to us.

Our excitement was becoming acute. After all the severe trials and adventures we had experienced should we succeed in reaching our goal? At night the Ladakis sang their Tashi-lunpo hymn more softly and earnestly than ever. At midnight they were singing still, and I listened attentively, though I had so frequently heard the song on the Chang-tang.

Then the fires went out in our first camp in the valley of the Brahmaputra. The crowd collected before the tents on the morning of the 7th was a very mixed one. Horses, mules, and cows were to carry the luggage, for there were no yaks here. A south-west storm blew when I started fully an hour later, and the whole population of the neighbourhood collected to witness our departure. Just as I was mounting into the saddle three emissaries appeared from a certain Cheppa Deva, a friend of Kung Gushuk. They brought me a present from him consisting of a whole slaughtered sheep, a thick sweet cake, with figures in relief and preserved fruits on the top, three large lumps of butter, and thirty eggs. I could not send any present in return, for the caravan was already gone on, but I gave them 15 bright rupees and begged them to convey my hearty greeting to the unknown Cheppa Deva. Then the chief of the three said: “We must hand over this money to our master, and therefore it would be well if the Bombo Chimbo would give us an extra tip.” This was a cute, sensible speech; they received an additional sum of money and went away contented.

A number of other people accompanied us, giggling and chattering, as far as the highroad to Shigatse. The attractive monasteries on the right and left of the road passed out of sight, and we rode through part of the village Dzundi, inhabited by smiths, and past a warm medicinal spring, over which a bath-house is erected—unfortunately it was just then occupied by a patient, and we could not enter; white clouds of steam issued through the roof, windows, and doors. And further proceeds our picturesque party, through more villages and barley-fields, past fresh monasteries, rocky cliffs and valley openings, till the road winds over a barren plain more and more to the south, towards the Brahmaputra, just as one approaches the Indus from Leh, and, as there, loose stones have been removed from the road and lie along the sides.

Where the valley contracts we have the large monastery Tarting-gompa on its rock to the left, and on the right or southern bank of the river the village Rokdso with its ferry; and now we reach the first granitic spur, which extends to the neighbourhood of the river. Beyond the village Karu with its cornfields and small gardens we ride through a hollow way 13 feet deep, a corridor in the yellow löss; here and there the banks are broken through by rain gutters, and through the gaps, as from the windows of a gallery, we have a glimpse of the great side valley So, which drains from the south into the Tsangpo. The rain has modelled the loam into pyramids, sometimes as much as a yard high, like a forest of gigantic mushrooms. We meet dark bare-headed peasants, driving before them laden horses and mules, and women and children with baskets on their backs, containing fuel or roots. An old woman sat astride on her mule and rose in her saddle with the step of the animal; a man of higher position, on horseback, accompanied his wife; some country people whistled as they followed their cows laden with hay; a party of men and women in picturesque costumes of blue, red, and yellow were making a pilgrimage to the New Year’s festivities in Tashi-lunpo, which my Ladakis had long hoped to attend. All the traffic was making eastwards, and we met only men who were going on business from one village to another.

The road now runs over low land which is flooded in summer, so that those who pass this way are then obliged to travel along the flanks of the mountains. Even now the Tsangpo is an imposing stream, and we rest for a while on its bank, which our road touches for the first time. For the first time in my life I drink of the holy water of the Brahmaputra. Bluish-green and almost perfectly transparent, it flows slowly and noiselessly in a single bed to the east, while here and there fishes are seen rising. Only a very thin crust of ice confines the water at the margin, but a bright clump of ice, like a mountain crystal, frequently sweeps past us. A raft laden with barley floats down on the way to the great market in Shigatse, and soon vanishes round the next corner, where the steersmen with their long poles must keep a good look-out—a sight reminding me vividly of my voyage on the Tarim in the year 1899.

To the east of this point the soil is sandy and rises into barren dunes 6 feet high. One can tell at the first glance how they are formed, especially on a day like this, when the westerly storm sweeps the drift-sand before it in clouds, often hiding completely the steep rocky walls on the right bank of the river. During high-water the river deposits quantities of mud and sand on the shallows, which are exposed and dry up in winter. The west wind carries away the silted material to pile up dunes farther east; where these lie low enough, the next high-water clears them away, and when it has fallen the process is repeated. Thus in the valley of the Tsangpo a continuous displacement of solid matter from west to east is going on. It is not alone that the river excavates the bed with its own weight, and loads its water with masses of mud; but also the material deposited at the banks is borne away by the wind which comes to the help of the water. Wind and flowing water work together in harmony to the same end, washing out this gigantic drainage channel deeper and deeper. They have laboured at the work for untold thousands of years, and the result is the Tsangpo valley as we see it to-day.

After a ride of eight hours we came to a small village composed of thirty houses, called Rungma (Illustration 104), where the tents were set up in a garden among poplars and willows. How pleasant it seemed to us, who had passed a whole half-year on the desolate Chang-tang plateau, to hear the wind soughing again through the leafless branches of the trees! Now the fires were no longer fed with dried dung; dry faggots crackled between the tents and threw a bright light on the trees and the Tibetans.

On February 8 we had another long ride. Ngurbu Tundup complained that his mule had run away, so that he must stay behind, and begged me to pay him the remainder of the reward I had promised. But this trick was too transparent.

We suspected that the letters had not reached Gyangtse after all. However, we were not far from the village when Ngurbu came riding after us on a borrowed horse with jingling bells. When we had pitched our camp, Ngurbu was immediately sent off as a punishment to Shigatse, to inform Kung Gushuk that we should arrive the next day, and that I wished to have a good house prepared for me. That was a thoughtless step, for if Kung Gushuk had told what he knew to a Chinaman, we should have been stopped at the last moment before reaching the town.

The winding highway runs further and further eastwards along the northern bank of the Tsangpo, past fields laid out in terraces and watered by the river. It is astonishing to find in Tibet so much cultivable land, and such a number of inhabited villages with solid stone houses and gardens.

At Lamo-tang the river washes the mountainous foot of the left bank, and here a narrow break-neck path runs in zigzags up the slopes. But it need not be used except when the water is high. Now we travel along the embankment beside the river. The river has quite a different appearance to-day: its surface is half covered with porous ice-blocks, but then at night there were 33.8 degrees of frost. Leaping and clattering they drive downstream and graze the fringe of ice attached to the bank, piling up on it small white walls of ice. They keep in the line of the strongest current, and often remain stranded on sandbanks which show a reddish-brown tinge amid the clear green water. A grand landscape under a blue sky and among ponderous fissured mountain masses! In the afternoon the drift-ice had decreased in quantity, and in the evening, before our camp, had disappeared altogether (Illustration 101).

Upwards over the extreme point of a rocky projection by a stony staircase where we prefer to go on foot. Then we descend again to the level valley-bottom, past more villages and monasteries, always surrounded by chhortens and manis, and often, like the Tikze-gompa in Ladak, perched on rocks. Tanak-puchu is a great valley coming down from the north, and its river irrigates the fields in Tanak. I could not obtain a clear description of this valley: all I heard was that it came from a pass to the north; so I do not know whether it comes from the Trans-Himalaya, like the My-chu and Shang-chu valleys. If such is the case, however, then the eastern watershed of the My-chu is a hydrographic boundary between it and the Tanak-puchu, not the Shang-chu. The question can only be solved by future investigations on the spot.

In the Tanak (“The Black Horse”) valley we encamped in a pretty garden (Illustration 105), where a small house with a gaily painted verandah is occupied by the Tashi Lama, when the prelate pays his annual visit to the temple Tashi-gembe. The garden is situated on a terrace of detritus, which descends sheer down to the river and affords a magnificent view of the Tsangpo. The river is here called Sangchen, or sometimes Tsangpo-Chimbo, that is, the great river. The Tsangpo is the river of Tibet par excellence. According to Waddell this name is sometimes so written that it is a strict translation of the name Brahmaputra, which means “Son of Brahma.” We have already mentioned the name Yere-tsangpo, and farther westwards we shall meet with other names. In the lower part of its passage through the Himalayas it is called Dihong, and it assumes the name of Brahmaputra only when it emerges from the mountains to water the plains of Assam.

CHAPTER XXIII

DOWN THE TSANGPO BY BOAT—ENTRY INTO SHIGATSE

The 9th of February dawned, the great day on which our caravan of yearning pilgrims would reach the goal of their dreams. The day before had been stormy, and in the evening a strange reddish-yellow light spread over the valley in consequence of the dust that floated about in the air; the mountains were indistinct, and the horizon to the east was quite invisible. But the morning was beautiful and the day was calm. Early in the morning Sonam Tsering and some Ladakis went on board two boats with part of the baggage, while Muhamed Isa and Tsering kept along the road with the caravan. That was a stratagem we had devised. If any one appeared at the last moment ordering us to halt, the prohibition would only affect Muhamed Isa and the caravan, while I should slip into Shigatse by water unnoticed.

All the others were on the way when Robert, Rabsang, and I made our way from the terrace down a steep gully, and stepped on board the excellent boat that was to bear us down the holy stream. These Tsangpo boats are both simple and practical. A skeleton, or rather framework, of thin tough boughs and laths is tied fast together, and is covered with four yak hides sewed together, which are attached to a rim of wood forming the gunwale—and the boat is ready. It is very dumpy, of a long rectangular shape, but somewhat smaller in front than behind. It is not heavy, being only an ordinary load for a man. All the boats now descending the river with pilgrims going to the New Year festival, and the boats which convey country produce or fuel to Shigatse and Tashi-lunpo, will be carried back by the owners along the river-bank. A large proportion of the inhabitants of Hlindug-ling, the part of Tanak where we had encamped, gain their living by such transport. These boats are very buoyant; there were four men in mine, and it could have borne a much heavier load.

The rower sits on a thin board and rows continuously, but faces forwards, for he must be able to see the waterway downstream. The blades of the oars are divided like a fork, and a piece of leather is sewed between the prongs like the web of a duck’s foot. Our boatman is a self-confident fellow, and receives my advice with a smile of superiority when I venture to air my experience in river navigation. The current does most of the work, but the oars are in constant use to keep the boat under control.

At first we glided along slowly till we came to the village Segre, with white, clean, and neat houses standing picturesquely on the left bank, and a short distance beyond, to where the river washes the foot of a steep mountain spur. But then the velocity of the boat increased, amounting on an average to 4 feet a second. I was able to look down the river, note the intervals of time, take my bearings, measure the velocity, and draw a map of the river’s course, just as I had before done on the Tarim. We passed no cataracts, but the water formed small rapids in narrow contracted reaches, and seethed round the bends. It was a splendid voyage, the most delightful that I have experienced. The last day’s journey could not have passed more pleasantly. In Tibet, where hitherto Nature had only placed obstacles in our way, we were now borne along by one of Nature’s forces. During half a year we had worked our way through Chang-tang with constant losses, and now the gates stood wide open and I glided as smoothly as on oil to my destination. One of the greatest erosion valleys of the world displayed its wonderful panorama, the air was so still that not the slightest ripple ruffled the surface of the Tsangpo. Undisturbed by the winds of heaven, the emerald-green water gives itself up to the sport of silent eddies, which, coming into existence at cliffs and projecting points, dance rapidly downstream in ever wider circles, and finally vanish altogether. They are born and die, come and go, and the same tongue of land calls forth new ones to life, but every new vortex whirls its spirals in other water of the holy river, which has for thousands of years pursued its course to the mysterious narrows of the Dihong.

What an intoxicating pleasure to be borne along eastwards by the Tsangpo! Is the river one of the forbidden paths of Tibet? If they come now and stop me I shall return: “I am not in Tibet; I am on the holy river of the Hindus; let me alone.” The view changes with quite perplexing frequency: we have a dark wall of rock in front of us; at the next turn it has disappeared, and another comes into sight on the opposite side of the stream. We often wonder what above and below mean here; we seem to remain motionless while the panorama revolves round us. Robert is plunged in thought, looks over the gunwale, and, misled by the water and ice-blocks about us, exclaims with astonishment: “Why, Master, surely we are not moving.” “Look at the sandbank yonder on the left,” I reply, and he is puzzled at seeing it move upstream. And where the river is shallow and the bottom can be seen, it seems as though the gravel, rounded stones, and sandbanks were all passing upwards underneath the boat.

We fall into reverie on this fairy-like voyage. A thought occurs to me: shall we travel on to the mouth of the Ki-chu and thence go up to Lhasa on foot? We can travel by night, and hide ourselves during the day; and Tibetan is Rabsang’s mother-tongue. But it passes away as quickly as the eddies beside the boat. In Lhasa I could add nothing to the knowledge acquired by Younghusband’s expedition two years before; my hopes were fixed on the friendship of the Tashi Lama. On the Sela-la I had conceived a great fancy for the Trans-Himalaya, and no geographical problem on earth had greater attractions for me. All my future enterprises should have the object of making as thorough a scientific investigation of the Trans-Himalaya as could possibly be accomplished by one man in a single journey. Yes, this task was so tremendous that my former longing for Lhasa died away like the red of even in the Tsangpo valley, this gigantic colonnade of granite, this royal highway of Buddha, which, breaking through the mountains and becoming hazy in the far east, leads direct to the mouth of the Lhasa valley, while we now glide along on its floor of liquid emerald to the holiest town of Lamaism. Fascinating and attractive as fairy dances the current carried my thoughts eastwards, but it also prompted new plans of campaign in districts which had hitherto lain outside my sphere of interest. In the valleys which pour their water to the My-chu, I had heard more than once of Nain Sing’s Raga-tsangpo, which some Tibetans had described as quite as important as the Tsangpo itself. Was, perhaps, the Raga-tsangpo the main stream? Had it, perchance, tributaries deriving their water from the heart of the mysterious country to the north? Not an evening had passed during the whole winter when I had not studied attentively Ryder’s and Nain Sing’s maps. Was it certain where the source of the Brahmaputra lay? Had I not here a task before me much more profitable than following in the steps of Tommy Atkins to Lhasa? The sun-lighted waters bearing our boat brought me intelligible messages from distant ravines, from the melting margins of perpetual fields of firn, from bluish glaciers and green ice grottoes in the heaven-kissing crest of the Himalayas, nay, a sonorous echo from the valley where the source of the Brahmaputra bursts out from the rock.

But we must not forget the demands of the present amid dreams of the future. The golden gods of Tashi-lunpo expect us at their festival. Sometimes the river contracts and deepens, and the bottom ceases to be visible, sometimes it spreads out and the velocity decreases. Below the village Pani, where a valley opens out, the river makes a bend to the south-east, but quickly turns eastwards again, where it traverses the great bed which in summer lays almost the whole breadth of the valley bottom under water. We seldom pass a high, clearly defined bank covered with grass, which is not flooded at high-water. From time to time the river sends out a side channel, which, however, soon rejoins the main bed. Wild-geese stand on the bank and scream as we pass by; black and white ducks, herons and other waterfowl, are fearless and trustful, as though they well knew that it is strictly forbidden in Tashi-lunpo to quench the light of life in any living thing.

Just as we were leaving Tanak a dozen boats passed the village; some were tied together in couples so that they could not capsize. The passengers were pilgrims from farther up the river on their way to the New Year festival. There women sat in their most elegant holiday attire, with necklets of coloured glass beads from which little silver boxes containing images and relics or silver coins were suspended, and with high arched frames at the back of the neck covered with red woollen material and adorned with turquoise and coral. There sat greybeards, men, and boys, and a couple of lamas in their red togas had joined the party of laymen. Most of the boats carried small prayer streamers on rods tied to the gunwale, and small reliquaries hung over it to bring a blessing on the boat journey. In some boats sand was laid on the bottom and slabs of stone, where a fire could be kindled and tea infused. They took little notice of us, but talked and gossiped continually and seemed very merry. Evidently the passengers of some boats were well known to one another, and were travelling together from the same village. All the boats on the river were engaged on a day like this, and a continuous succession of pilgrims streamed down the water highway to the holy monastery. Where the banks were low these small black points could be seen both up and down stream (Illustrations 106, 107).

We float past a sandbank, where some blocks of ice are stranded, warning us of danger. The boat only twice grazes the bottom, for our boatman is watchful and steers well. He knows the way, too, and here it is not so easy as it looks to find the course; for the river splits into arms, and only a boatman acquainted with them all can choose the best and shortest. Sometimes he guides us into a narrow channel where the water rushes swiftly.

Now the river turns towards the right, southern side of the valley, where a mountain falls sheer to the water, leaving only sufficient room on the bank for a road buttressed up with stone blocks. There a dozen boatmen are carrying their skin boats on their backs, and, seen from behind, resemble a row of gigantic beetles. And in the other direction caravans of mules laden with firewood are being driven to Shigatse. Here begins a succession of views of inconceivable grandeur, picturesqueness, and wildness. One cliff after another falls steeply to the river, and is washed by the water murmuring at its foot. Often a block of ice is tilted up in a whirlpool, rises above the surface, brightly glistening in the sun, and then falls back again.

We waited for an opportunity of landing, but the current was too strong. At length the boatman succeeded in getting us into a backwater, and I got out on to a promontory just as a party of pilgrims were passing by, and was in time to take them with my camera. They could not make out what I was doing, and they ceased talking; they seemed relieved, and breathed freely again, when they found that they had got off with a whole skin, and that my camera was not a firearm. Wherever I turned my eyes new subjects presented themselves and invited me to stay sketching all day long. But there was no time; it was my last day, and I had ventured on too great a game to let everything depend on a single card. “It is still far,” the skipper said, pointing at starting to a point behind which lay the Shigatse valley, a considerable distance off (Illustration 103).

When we come again into the middle of the valley the river becomes as broad as a lake, is smooth as a mirror, grand and majestic, flows slowly as oil, and reflects the forms of the mountains and the boat. The spurs and cliffs of the mountains on the northern bank have a rosy hue, the water, usually green, shines blue from the reflexion of the sky, and all is solemnly quiet and peaceful. Robert and Rabsang sleep in a corner, but I grudge to lose a minute of this pilgrim voyage. Here and there stands a cairn with a streamer-decked rod—these are the places where routes cross the river. At one ferry a large caravan of yaks were halting, and their loads of sheep’s wool were piled up in a wall on the bank. The black men stood out sharply against a background of yellow sand dunes. Farther down Tsering was engaged in getting his detachment into a boat, while his horses were being driven on to another by coaxing and scolding. Here the great road from Tanak crosses the river, and Tsering shouted to us as we shot rapidly past that Muhamed Isa was far ahead. Fishermen in two boats were at work with their net in a bay of the river, trying to drive the fish into the net by throwing stones; they had a poor catch, but promised to bring us fish for sale in the morning to Shigatse. We again make a bend to the south-east and approach the mountains of the southern side, at the foot of which we pass the villages Chang-dang, Tashi-gang, and Tang-gang, prettily situated among gardens. The river now flows slowly in a single channel, as though it must be careful in passing the mouth of a valley leading to a monastery.

There is much life and movement at the foot of the next promontory; many boats laden with barley, straw, firewood, and dung are on the point of putting in, and from others the cargo is being cleared amid shouts and singing. Rows of boats are drawn ashore, and lie turned upside down like large hairy toads. The boatman who has conveyed us to the mouth of the Nyang valley receives four times the usual pay, and can scarcely believe his eyes. He will be able to give himself a day’s rest to-morrow.

At this singular landing-stage Guffaru is waiting with our horses. I mount my small white Ladak horse and Robert his Tibetan bay, and while the sun is setting we ride up the Nyang valley with Rabsang as outrider. We soon plunge into a labyrinth of hollow ways and fissures in yellow loam. But we do not need a guide, for several travellers and mule-drivers are on their way, and give us instructions, and none is uncivil. A little to the left of our road flows the Nyang-chu, the river of Gyangtse, one of the largest southern tributaries of the Tsangpo, with several villages on its banks. Twilight falls; I feel my heart beating; shall we succeed? It becomes dark; a large white chhorten stands like a ghost close on the right of our way. Rabsang asks a belated wanderer how far it is, and receives the answer: “Follow the road and you will come soon to a lane.” On the right rises a hill, and on its summit the outlines of the Shigatse-dzong, the Council House, are faintly seen against the sky. Now we are between white houses and follow a narrow lane, in which it is still darker. In an open place some Chinese stand and stare at us. Snappy dogs come out of the houses and bark at us. Otherwise the town is asleep, and no popular assembly witnesses our entry. But where are our men? We do not know where they are quartered. Ah! there stands Namgyal, waiting to show us the way, and he leads us to a gate in the wall behind which Kung Gushuk’s garden lies.

Here Muhamed Isa and all the other men meet and greet us, as though they would offer me their congratulations on a great triumph. We dismount, and cross the court to the house which Kung Gushuk has placed at my disposal. But it is cold and cheerless, and I prefer my tent set up under the poplars of the garden. While we are waiting for Tsering we sit by a large fire of brushwood, whither also several Tibetans gradually gather. I pay no heed to them; I am too much engaged with my own thoughts. I had been fortunate, and after a six months’ journey through Tibet had reached my first goal. It was late at night when my dinner was ready; it was very welcome, for we had had no provisions on the boat. Then I had two hours’ good work at the notes I had made during the day. But I was disturbed by a gentleman who belonged to the secular staff of the Tashi Lama. He said that he was not acting upon orders, but that he had been told that an unusual visitor had arrived, and he begged me to furnish him with particulars. Then he wrote down the names and nationality of us all, and the size of the caravan, and inquired by which way we had come, whither we intended to travel, and what was the object of my visit to Shigatse. He was exceedingly polite, and hoped that we had not suffered too severely in the cold of Chang-tang. He was, he said, an official of too low a rank to venture to address the Tashi Lama, but he would communicate the information he had obtained to his superiors. I never heard anything more of him. Seldom have I slept so well as on this night—yes, perhaps, when I had fortunately completed my college course.

When the next day passed without any one, lay or spiritual, giving himself the least trouble about us, I sent Muhamed Isa up to Tashi-lunpo. Its golden roofs shone fierily in the rays of the evening sun on a slope in the west close to our garden, which was situated in the southern suburb of Shigatse. My excellent caravan leader sought out a lama of high position, who answered that he would send some one next day to inquire particularly about my intentions and he would then communicate with me further. At the same moment a Chinaman of high rank named Ma paid me a visit. He introduced himself as the commander of the lansa, or detachment of 140 Chinese soldiers, which, it seems, garrisons Shigatse. Ma, who was a Dungan and a follower of Islam, became my particular friend from the first moment, and smirked with good temper and cheerfulness. He had arrived from Lhasa five days previously, and was to stay until the Amban, the Governor-General, Lien Darin, recalled him.

“It is inconceivable,” said Ma, “how you have contrived to get through to Shigatse without being stopped.”

“Yes, to speak frankly, I had expected all kinds of annoyances, if not sooner, at any rate a couple of days’ journey from here.”

“I did not hear a word of your coming; if I had known that you were approaching the town, it would have been my duty to stop you.”

“Then it is fortunate for me that you are strange here.”

“Yes, but the worst is, that I shall come off badly as soon as the Amban hears that you are living here, in Shigatse. But now it is too late; I cannot help it now.”

“Tell me, Ma Daloi, do you think that the Tashi Lama will receive me?”

“I doubt it. Immediately on my arrival I begged for an audience with the Grand Lama, but he has not even condescended to give me an answer. And yet I am a Chinese officer.”

This was little encouraging to me, a stranger, who had come from the north without permission, and of whom no one knew what spirit he was. And then next day was the New Year festival, which I could not attend without some understanding, especially as the Tashi Lama himself would be present. But he must know something about me, or how could Ngurbu Tundup’s arrival at Ngangtse-tso with the letters be explained?

Meanwhile we awaited the course of events, and went out with a paper lantern to inspect one of the horses which had died in his stall and must be removed. Why could he not remain alive now, when the mangers were so full of barley, straw, and chaff, and the animals stood against a wall which sheltered them from cold and wind, and had an idle time before them? Five of the veterans and the last mule from Poonch were still living, the last six of the splendid caravan which had set out from Leh six months before. All the rest lay in Chang-tang and the storms roared above them. These six should be cherished as the apple of my eye and be well cared for. Their sore backs should be washed and rubbed, their flanks groomed, at night they should sleep in cloths, and of barley and chaff they should have abundance. The ground beneath them should be strewn with straw, and they should be led to water at regular times. I stroked my small grey, but he bit and kicked as usual. He, of all the veterans, was in the best condition, and Guffaru declared that he could cross the Chang-tang again if necessary.

We were very comfortable in the garden. To right and left of my tent stood Robert’s and Muhamed Isa’s, and that of the Ladakis a little farther off, and huge fires burned as usual before the latter two. A man and woman of Kung Gushuk’s household lived in a wretched hut in the entrance gate, and procured for us anything we wanted. The woman was old and infirm, and her face was bedaubed with black, but she was exceedingly friendly. She was always coming to my tent, bowing, giggling and grinning out of pure goodwill.

On February 11 I was awaked at half-past six with the news that two men wished to speak to me at once. The brazier and warm water were brought, I dressed in great haste, the tent was swept and put in order, and then I sent to invite my guests to enter. The one was a tall lama of high rank, named Lobsang Tsering, and he was a secretary of the Tashi Lama; the other, Duan Suen, was a Chinaman, with handsome and refined features. Both were extremely polite and had polished manners. We talked for two hours on all kinds of subjects. Singularly enough, my arrival in Shigatse seemed to be a complete surprise to both gentlemen. They inquired my name, the route by which I had come, and my intentions, and, of course, had never heard of poor little Sweden; but they wrote down the Swedish, English, and Chinese names of my country.

“I intend to be present to-day at the New Year festival,” I said. “I cannot leave Shigatse without witnessing one of the greatest church feasts.”

“A European has never attended our festivals, which are intended only for Tibetans and pilgrims of our faith, and permission will never be granted to witness them.”

“The Panchen Rinpoche (the Holy Teacher, the Tashi Lama) must have been informed of my coming some months ago. His Holiness also knew from which direction I should come, or he could not have sent my mails to the Dangra-yum-tso.”

“The Panchen Rinpoche never meddles with worldly matters; these are looked after by his brother, the Duke (Kung Gushuk).”

“Still, I must see His Holiness, for I know that he expects me.”

“It is vouchsafed only to a small number of mortals to appear before the face of the Holy One.”

Now the letter of the Raja of Stok and the Chinese passport came into my mind. The letter made no impression on them; but the young Chinaman, when the passport with its blue border and red stamp was unfolded before him, became very interested, and opened his eyes wider the farther he read. He read it once through, and then translated it slowly to Lobsang Tsering.

“Why,” they then both asked, “did you not show us this paper at once? It would have saved us all discussion.”

“Because the passport is made out for Eastern Turkestan and not for Tibet,” I answered truthfully.

“That does not matter, now that you are here. You have an excellent Chinese passport, and therefore are under Chinese protection.”

The young Chinaman took the passport and went off with it, while Mr. Lobsang Tsering put further questions to me and examined our weapons and other articles. At last I asked him whether he would like to see our garden, and I hurriedly ate my breakfast during his absence. Then the Chinaman came back and declared shortly that I might attend the festival, that especial seats were reserved for myself and a couple of my people, and that a chamberlain of the Tashi Lama’s court would call for us at the proper time. Now I blessed the Chinese passport which had caused me so much vexation at the time, and I blessed the Indian Government which had forced me to procure it; I blessed Count Wrangel, who had obtained it so quickly, and I blessed the Chinese ambassador in London, who had written out the passport with permission of his Government. But I had never dreamed that it would be of the slightest use to me, being issued for another country than Tibet.

This was our entry into Shigatse, and these were our first experiences there. Not a finger had been raised to stop us, no inquisitive people had jostled us in the streets to gaze at us. But now, when we had already set up house in the town, our presence in the place excited as general astonishment as if we had dropped down straight from heaven. That this stroke had succeeded, and through no action of mine, was due to certain peculiar circumstances. Hlaje Tsering had himself for some unexplained reason reopened the bag in which he had caught us, and the chieftains dwelling south of the Ngangtse-tso probably thought: “If the Governor of Naktsang lets them pass, we cannot stop them.” It was also lucky for us that some of these chiefs had betaken themselves to the New Year festival at Tashi-lunpo, and that we ourselves were lost in the crowd of other pilgrims when we came to the great highway; for during the days of the New Year the Tibetans are like capercailzies at breeding time: they neither see nor hear. And, lastly, I, the only European of the caravan, had ridden into the town when night had already spread a veil of darkness over the earth.