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

CHAPTER IV

THE LAST PREPARATIONS

Captain Patterson was now Joint-Commissioner of the province of Ladak. He received me from the first with the greatest hospitality and kindness, and was one of the finest men I have ever come in contact with. Having a thorough knowledge of India, Ladak, and Tibet, he was able to give me valuable hints and advice, and was untiring in assisting to equip the great caravan, the object of which was still, officially, Eastern Turkestan, without overstepping his instructions by a hair’s breadth. I found in him a true friend, and after dinner, which I always took at eight o’clock in the evening, we often sat together till long after midnight, talking of the future of Asia and the doings of the world.

Sir Francis Younghusband had recommended to me a well-known caravan leader, Muhamed Isa. I had seen him in Kashgar and Srinagar, and knew that he had been present at the murder of the French explorer, Dutreuil de Rhins, on June 5, 1894. During about thirty years he had travelled in most parts of Central Asia, and was also acquainted with many parts of Tibet. Besides a number of shorter journeys which he had accomplished in the service of various sahibs, he had also been Carey’s and Dalgleish’s caravan leader on their great march through Central Asia, and had served a couple of years under Dutreuil de Rhins. He accompanied Younghusband on his famous march over the Mustagh Pass (1887), and had been his caravan leader in the campaign to Lhasa (1903-1904). On Ryder’s and Rawling’s journey in the valley of the upper Brahmaputra he had had the management of the baggage caravan. During all these journeys he had acquired experience which might be very useful to me, and I gratefully accepted Younghusband’s proposal, especially as Captain Patterson, in whose service Muhamed Isa then was, did not hesitate to place him at my disposal. Besides, Muhamed Isa spoke fluently Turki, Tibetan, and Hindustani, and wished for nothing better than to accompany me. Without knowing that he had been warmly recommended, he had earnestly begged his master to allow him to enter my service (Illustration 30).

His father was a man of Yarkand, his mother a Lamaist of Leh. The mixed race of such unions is called Argon, and is generally distinguished by physical power and extraordinarily well-developed muscular structure. Muhamed Isa also was a fine man, tall and strong as a bear, with great power of endurance, reliable and honest, and after a few days’ journey with him I found that my caravan could not have been entrusted to better hands. That the first crossing of Tibet was so successful was due in great measure to his services. He kept splendid discipline among the men, and if he were sometimes strict, it was for the good of the caravan, and he permitted no neglect of duty.

He entertained Robert and myself, and even the caravan men, for hours together with tales of his fortunes and his adventures in the service of other Europeans, criticising some of his former masters without much reserve. The remembrance of Dutreuil de Rhins especially seemed to affect him; he frequently returned to his account of the attack made on the unfortunate Frenchman. He was also a good boaster, and declared that once in midwinter he had carried a letter in ten days from Yarkand to Leh, with all his provisions on his back—a journey that an ordinary mortal takes a month to accomplish. But there was no harm in his exaggerations; he was always witty and amusing, always cheerful and ready for a joke, and kept up the spirits of the rest in depressing circumstances. Poor Muhamed Isa! How little we suspected, when he and I set out together, that he would never return to his wife and home!

I had scarcely taken possession of my new dwelling in Leh when Muhamed Isa appeared with a pleasant, kindly “Salaam, Sahib.”

“Peace be with you,” I answered; “you have not changed much in all the years since we met in Kashgar. Are you disposed to accompany me on a journey of two years through the high mountains?”

“I wish nothing better, and the Commissioner Sahib has allowed me to report myself to you for service. But I should like to know whither we are to travel.”

“We are going northwards to Eastern Turkestan; you will hear about our further movements when we have left the last villages behind.”

“But I must know the details of your plan because of the preparations.”

“You must take provisions for horses and men for three months, for it may happen that we shall be so long without coming into contact with human beings.”

“Then, surely, we must be making for Tibet—that is a country I know as well as my house in Leh.”

“What are your terms?”

“Forty rupees a month, and an advance of two hundred rupees to leave with my wife at starting.”

“All right! I take you into my service, and my first order is: buy about sixty strong horses, complete our store of provisions so that it may last three months, and get together the necessary equipment for the caravan.”

“I know very well what we want, and will have the caravan ready to march in ten days. But let me suggest that I be allowed to choose the servants, for I know the men here in Leh, and can tell which are fit for a long trying journey.”

“How many do you want to manage the caravan?”

“Five-and-twenty men.”

“Very well, engage them; but you must be responsible that only useful, honest men enter my service.”

“You may depend on me,” said Muhamed Isa, and added, that he knew it to be to his own interest to serve me well.

During the following days Muhamed Isa was always on his feet, looking out for horses. It was not advisable for many reasons to buy them all at once—for one thing, because the prices would then rise; so we bought only five or six each day. As, however, the peasants from the first asked exorbitantly high prices, a commission of three prominent Ladakis was appointed, who determined the real value of the horses offered for sale. If the seller were satisfied with the assessment, he was paid at once, and the horse was led to his stall in our open stable. Otherwise, the seller went away, but usually returned next day.

Altogether 58 horses were bought, and Robert made a list of them: 33 came from various villages in Ladak, 17 from Eastern Turkestan, 4 from Kashmir, and 4 from Sanskar. The Sanskar horses are considered the best, but are difficult to get. The Ladak horses, too, are good, for, being bred in the mountains, they are accustomed to rarefied air and poor pasture; they are small and tough. The Turkestan horses have, as a rule, less power of endurance, but we had to take them for want of better, and all ours had crossed the Karakorum Pass (18,540 feet) once or oftener.

As the horses were bought they were numbered in the list, and this number on a strip of leather was fastened to the mane of the horse. Afterwards I compiled a list of the dead, as they foundered, in order to ascertain their relative power of resistance. The first that died was a Sanskar, but that was pure chance—he died some days after we marched out of Leh, of acute disease. Later on the losses were greatest among the Yarkand horses. The prices varied considerably, from 37 to 96 rupees, and the average price was 63 rupees. A horse at 95 rupees fell after three weeks; another, that cost exactly half, carried me a year-and-a-half. The commission was very critical in its selection, and Muhamed Isa inspected every four-legged candidate before it was accepted. As a rule we did not hesitate to take horses ten or twelve years old; the tried horses were more reliable than the younger ones, though these often appeared much more powerful. But not one of them all was to return from Tibet; the lofty mountains let none of their prey escape. “Morituri te salutant,” said Captain Patterson forebodingly, as the first caravan passed out of Leh.

The caravan, then, consisted of 36 mules and 58 horses. It is always hard at the last to make up one’s mind to start; after a few days we should find ourselves in country where we could procure nothing but what grows of itself on the ground. Certainly we were in the very best season; the summer grass was now in the greatest luxuriance, but it would soon become more scanty, and in about ten days we should reach a height where there was no pasturage. Therefore it was necessary to take as much maize and barley as possible with us, and here a difficulty came in: we durst not overburden the animals with too heavy loads, for then the strength of the caravan would be broken in the first month, while, in the second month, it would come to grief if we should find ourselves, as was most probable, in a barren country. And as the days pass, the stores diminish and come to an end just when they are most wanted. In the first weeks we had the ascent to the border region of the Tibetan plateau before us, and had consequently to expect the most troublesome country to traverse just at the commencement of the journey. Therefore our first marches were short, and all the shorter because the loads were heavier. This is a pretty complicated problem for an army commissariat.

After consultation with Muhamed Isa I resolved to hire an auxiliary caravan of 30 horses from Tankse to accompany us for the first month and then return. Hence arose a financial problem. The men of Tankse asked 35 rupees a month for each horse, or 1050 rupees in all; of course they ran great risk, and I must therefore undertake to pay 30 rupees for every horse that fell on the outward journey, and 10 rupees for one that fell on the return home. In the worst case, then, the cost would amount to 1950 rupees. On the other hand, if I bought these horses at 60 rupees a head, the total expenditure would be 1800 rupees, and the horses would belong to me. Then the old problem was repeated: I should have to take fodder for these thirty horses, and engage ten men to attend to them, and for these men provisions must be obtained. After many pros and cons we at length decided to hire the horses only, for then their owners would accompany them at their own risk and supply themselves with rations carried by seven yaks. The provisions for the first month were to be taken from our own animals, to lighten their loads and economize their strength; for a horse or mule always gets tired at the beginning of the journey, and must be spared. But if one of the hired horses became exhausted, its owner was at liberty to send it home before the expiration of the month.

As forage and grazing was dear in Leh, we sent off as early as August 10, 35 mules and 15 horses with their loads, and 15 men and a chaprassi, to Muglib, which lies beyond Tankse and has good pastures. Sonam Tsering, whom Captain Rawling had strongly recommended, was chosen as leader of this caravan. He received 100 rupees for the expenses of the caravan. Muhamed Isa accompanied it part of the way to see that everything went on smoothly.

A few days after his engagement Muhamed Isa presented to me 25 men, who, he proposed, should enter my service. There was no difficulty in finding men willing to come; all Leh would have followed me if wanted. The difficulty was to make a proper choice, and appoint only serviceable men who could fill their posts and understood their duties.

It was a solemn moment when the main body of the caravan assembled in my garden, but the spectacle had its humorous side when Muhamed Isa, proud as a world-conqueror, stepped forward and mustered his legions. At my request Captain Patterson was present to have a look at the fellows; he now delivered a short address, and impressed on them how important it was for their own sakes to serve me honestly. Their pay was fixed at 15 rupees a month, and half a year’s pay was advanced to them. The Rev. Mr. Peter was so kind as to undertake to distribute the money to their families. Lastly, I promised each a present of 50 rupees for good behaviour, and bound myself to guarantee their journey home to Leh, with expenses, from whatever place we might separate.

In the course of my narrative I shall have abundant opportunities of introducing these men individually to my readers. Besides Sonam Tsering, already mentioned, who had served under Deasy and Rawling, I will here name old Guffaru, a greyheaded man with a long white beard, who thirty-three years ago accompanied Forsyth’s embassy to Jakub Bek of Kashgar. He had seen the great Bedaulet (“the fortunate one”) in all his pomp and state, and had many tales of his experiences on Forsyth’s famous journey. I at first hesitated to take with me a man of sixty-two, but he begged so earnestly; he was, he said, Muhamed Isa’s friend, and he was so poor that he could not live if I did not employ him. He had the forethought to pack up a shroud that he might be buried decently if he died on the way. That everything should be properly managed in such case, and that his outstanding pay might be transmitted to his family, he took his son, Kurban, with him. But Guffaru did not perish, but was in excellent condition all the time he was with me (Illustration 31).

Another, on whom I look back with great sympathy and friendly feeling, was Shukkur Ali. I had known him in 1890 in Kashgar, where he was in Younghusband’s service, and he, too, remembered that I had once drawn him in his master’s tent. He was so unconsciously comical that one almost died of laughter as soon as he opened his mouth, and he was my oldest acquaintance among this group of more or less experienced Asiatics. He had taken part in Wellby’s journey, and gave us the most ghastly descriptions of the sufferings the captain, who afterwards fell in the Boer War, and his caravan had to endure in North Tibet, when all the provisions were consumed and all the animals had perished. A year later he shared in my boating trips on the holy lake, Manasarowar, and was as useful as he was amusing. Shukkur Ali was an honest soul, and a stout fellow, who did his work without being told, quarrelled with no one, and was ready and willing for any kind of service. He was always in the highest spirits, even during a violent storm in the middle of the lake, and I saw him weep like a child on two occasions only—at the grave of Muhamed Isa, and when we said the last good-bye.

These three were Mohammedans, as their names show. The caravan contained eight sons of Islam in all; the leader, Muhamed Isa, was the ninth. The other seventeen were Lamaists. Then came two Hindus, a Catholic, Manuel, and two Protestants, Robert and myself. I will not vouch for the religious convictions of the Lamaists. As regards some among them, I found that they sometimes changed their religion. For instance, Rabsang, when he travelled to Yarkand, was a Mohammedan and shaved his head, but on the way to Tibet he was just as zealous a believer in Lamaism.

The oldest of my companions was Guffaru, sixty-two, and the youngest Adul, twenty-two, and the average age of the whole company was thirty-three years. Eleven of these men came from Leh, the others from different villages of Ladak. Only one was a foreigner, the Gurkha Rub Das from the frontier of Nepal. He was quiet and faithful, and one of my very best men. It was a pity he had no nose; in a hot scuffle in Lhasa an opponent had bitten off that important and ornamental organ.

I may pass quickly over the equipment; it is always the same. For the men rice, flour, talkan, or roasted meal, which is eaten mixed with water, and brick tea in bulk were taken. For myself several hundred tins of preserved meat, tea, sugar, tobacco, etc., all provided by the merchant Mohanlal, whose bill came to 1700 rupees. New pack-saddles, ropes, frieze rugs, horse-shoes, spades, axes and crowbars, bellows, cooking-pots, copper cans, and the cooking utensils of the men with other articles cost nearly a thousand rupees. The pack-saddles we had bought in Srinagar were so bad that we had to have new ones made, and Muhamed Isa enlisted some twenty saddlers, who sewed all day under the trees of the garden. But everything was ready in time and was of first-rate quality. Captain Patterson declared that a better-found caravan had never left Leh. How stupid I had been to linger so long in Srinagar and associate with the lazy gentlemen of the Maharaja. Everything that came from there was either exorbitantly dear or useless. Only the mules were good. Yet I always remember my sojourn in Srinagar with feelings of great thankfulness and pleasure.

The Moravian missionaries in Leh rendered me invaluable service. They received me with the same hospitality and kindness as before, and I passed many a memorable hour in their pleasant domestic circle. Pastor Peter had endless worries over my affairs; he managed both now and afterwards all the business with the new retainers. Dr. Shawe, the physician of the Mission, was an old friend I had known on my former journey, when he treated my sick cossack, Shagdur, in the excellent Mission Hospital. Now, too, he helped me both by word and deed. He died in Leh a year later, after a life devoted to suffering humanity.

Many of my dearest recollections of the long years I have spent in Asia are connected with the Mission stations, and the more I get to know about the missionaries the more I admire their quiet, unceasing, and often thankless labours. All the Moravians I met in the western Himalayas are educated to a very high standard, and come out exceptionally well prepared for the work before them. Therefore it is always very stimulating and highly instructive to tarry among them, and there is none among the Europeans now living who can vie with these missionaries in their knowledge of the Ladak people and their history. I need only mention Dr. Karl Marx and Pastor A. H. Francke as two men who are thoroughly at home in strictly scientific archæological investigation.

Some young coxcombs, to whom nothing is sacred, and whose upper storeys are not nearly so well furnished as those of the missionaries, think it good form to treat the latter with contemptuous superiority, to find fault with them, to sit in judgment on them, and pass sentence on their work in the service of Christianity. Whatever may be the result of their thankless toil, an unselfish struggle for the sake of an honest conviction is always worthy of admiration, and in a time which abounds in opposing factors it seems a relief to meet occasionally men who are contending for the victory of light over the world. In Leh the missionaries have a community which they treat with great gentleness and piety, for they know well that the religion inherited from their fathers has sunk deep into the bone and marrow of the natives, and can only be overcome by cautious, patient labour. Even the Ladakis who never visit the Mission stations always speak well of the missionaries, and have a blind confidence in them, for apart from their Mission work they exercise an effect by their good example. The Hospital is made great use of, and medical science is a sure way of access to the hearts of the natives.

During the last days of my stay in Leh I saw my old friends again, Mr. and Mrs. Ribbach, in whose hospitable house I had spent many pleasant winter evenings four years ago.

One day Captain Patterson proposed that I should go with him to call on the wealthy merchant Hajji Nazer Shah. In a large room on the first floor, with a large window looking over the Indus valley, the old man sat by the wall, on soft cushions, with his sons and grandsons around him. All about stood chests full of silver and gold-dust, turquoise and coral, materials and goods which would be sold in Tibet. There is something impressively patriarchal about Hajji Nazer Shah’s commercial house, which is managed entirely by himself and his large family. This consists of about a hundred members, and the various branches of the house in Lhasa, Shigatse, Gartok, Yarkand, and Srinagar are all under the control of his sons, or their sons. Three hundred years ago the family migrated from Kashmir to Ladak. Hajji Nazer Shah is the youngest of three brothers; the other two were Hajji Haidar Shah and Omar Shah, who died some years ago leaving numerous sons behind them.

The real source of their wealth is the so-called Lopchak mission, of which they possess a monopoly. In accordance with a treaty nearly 200 years old, the kings of Ladak sent every third year a special mission to the Dalai Lama, to convey presents which were a token of subjection to the supremacy of Tibet, at any rate in spiritual matters. However, after Soravar Sing, Gulab Sing’s general, conquered Ladak in 1841 and annexed the greater part of this country to Kashmir, the Maharaja of Kashmir took over the duty of carrying out the Lopchak mission, and always entrusted it to one of the noblest, most prominent families of Ladak. For some fifty years this confidential post has been in the family of Nazer Shah, and has been a source of great profit to them, especially as several hundred baggage animals are provided for the mission gratis, for the journey from Leh to Lhasa. A commercial agent is also sent yearly from Lhasa to Leh, and he enjoys the same transport privileges.

The mission had left eight months before under the charge of one of the Hajji’s sons. Another son, Gulam Razul, was to repair in September to Gartok, where he is the most important man in the fair. I asked him jokingly if I might travel with him, but Hajji Nazer Shah replied that he would lose the monopoly if he smuggled Europeans into Tibet. Gulam Razul, however, offered me his services in case I should be in the neighbourhood of Gartok, and I afterwards found that this was not a mere polite speech. He will play a most important part in this narrative. After my return to India I had an opportunity of drawing attention in high quarters to the importance to English interests of his commercial relations in Tibet, and I warmly recommended him as a suitable candidate for the much-coveted title of Khan Bahadur, which he, indeed, received, thanks to the kind advocacy of Colonel Dunlop Smith.

Now, too, he rendered me many valuable services; perhaps the greatest was to take a considerable sum in Indian paper in exchange for cash, part of which consisted of a couple of bags of Tibetan tengas, which proved very useful four months later.

The old Hajji was a fine Mohammedan of the noblest type. He obeyed faithfully the commands of the Koran, and five times daily tottered into the mosque to perform his devotions. He had more than enough of the good things of this world, for his extensive business connections brought him in yearly a net profit of 25,000 rupees, and his name was known and respected throughout the interior of Asia. Before my return he had left the stage and taken possession of his place, with his face turned towards Mecca, in the Mohammedan graveyard outside the gate of Leh.

The small town itself is full of the most attractive and fascinating examples of Tibetan architecture. On all sides are seen quiet nooks with motley figures, temple portals, mosques, houses rising one above another, and open shops, whither customers flock; and the traffic became brisker every day after the summer caravans from Yarkand over the Kardang Pass began to arrive at Leh. Round the town stands a crescent of bare, lumpy, sun-lighted hills; to the south and south-east the dry gravelly plain slopes down to the Indus, where a series of villages among green fields and woods impart some life to the picture. On the farther side is seen the Stokpa, a lofty summit, below which the village Stokpa peeps out of a valley mouth. Here resides an ex-king of the third generation, the Raja of Stok, whose grandfather ruled as king of Ladak but was deprived by Soravar Sing of his dignity and State.

The Raja of Stok, or, to give him his full name and title, Yigmet Kungak Singhei Lundup Thinlis Zangbo Sodnam Nampar Gelvela, Yagirdar of the state of Stok, awakes one’s sympathy in his somewhat sad position; he is evidently painfully sensitive of the loss of the honour and power which fate has denied him. He was on a visit to Leh, for he owns an unpretending but pretty house in the main street. The Tibetans still look upon him as the true and rightful king, while the ruler of the country, the Maharaja of Kashmir, is only a usurper in their eyes. We therefore concluded that a letter of recommendation from this Raja of Stok might be very useful some day or other. He was evidently flattered by my request and quite ready to grant it. In his open letter he ordered “all men in Tibet of whatever rank, from Rudok, Gartok, and Rundor to Shigatse and Gyantse, to allow Sahib Hedin to pass freely and unmolested, and to render him all necessary assistance.” This highly important document, with the date and the red square seal of the Raja affixed, was afterwards read by many Tibetan chieftains, on whom it made not the slightest impression. They quietly answered: “We have only to obey the orders of the Devashung in Lhasa.” (Illustration 32.)

The old palace of Leh stands on its rock like a gigantic monument of vanished greatness. From its roof one has a grand view of the town, the Indus valley, and the great mountains beyond the river. In the foreground stretch fields of wheat and barley, still staringly green amidst the general grey, small groups of garden trees, groves of poplar, farm-houses, and small knobly ridges, while the dreary Mohammedan graveyard stands out sharply and obtrusively in the evening sunshine. Immediately below us lies a chaos of quadrangular houses of stone or mud, with wooden balconies and verandahs, interrupted only by the main street and the lanes branching out of it. On the point of a rock to the east is seen a monastery, for which a lama gave the name of Semo-gungma. Semo-yogma stands in the palace itself. The temple hall here is called Diva, and the two principal images Guru and Sakya-tubpa, that is, Buddha. The portal of the palace with its pillars has a very picturesque effect. Through this portal you enter a long, dark, paved entrance and then pass up a stone staircase and through gloomy passages and corridors, with small offshoots running up to balcony windows; in the interior, however, you roam about through halls all equally dark. No one dwells now in this phantom castle, which fancy might easily make the scene of the most extravagant ghost stories. Only pigeons, which remain for ever young among the old time-worn monuments, coo out their contentment and cheerfulness (Illustrations 28, 29, 33, 34).

Still the palace, in spite of its decay, looks down with royal pride on the town far below, with its industry and commercial activity, and on this central point on the road between Turkestan and India. The wind sweeps freely over its roof, its flat terraces, and breastwork with prayer strips flapping and beating against their sticks. A labyrinth of steep lanes lead up to it. Wherever one turns, the eye falls on some picturesque bit: whole rows of chhortens, one of which is vaulted over the road, small temples and Lama houses, huts and walls.

On the hill behind Captain Patterson’s bungalow lies a burial-ground with the graves of five Europeans: the names Stolicza and Dalgleish especially attract our attention. Over Stolicza’s grave a grand monument has been erected. The inscription on a tablet in front informs us that he was born in June 1838 and died in June 1874 at Murgoo, near the Karakorum Pass. The Indian Government erected the memorial in 1876 as a mark of respect and gratitude for the service which Stolicza had rendered during the journey of Forsyth’s embassy. The same inscription is repeated on the other side in Latin. Dalgleish’s tombstone is simpler, but is also adorned with a tablet of cast-iron. He was born in 1853 and was murdered on the Karakorum Pass in 1888. Both terminated their life pilgrimage in the same country high above the rest of the world, and both sleep their last sleep under the same poplars and willows. Now the evening sun gilded the mountain crests, reddish-yellow light fell on the graves and the trunks of the poplars, a gentle wind murmured softly through the tree-tops, and spoke in a melancholy whisper of the vanity of all things; and a short time later, when the lamps in the Government buildings had been lighted, champagne corks popped at the farewell dinner given by Captain Patterson to another pilgrim who had not yet ended his lonely wanderings through the wide wastes of Asia (Illustration 36).

CHAPTER V

THE START FOR TIBET

The time at Leh passed quickly, as we were working at high pressure, and the result of our efforts was a splendid caravan in excellent order for the march. Robert and Muhamed Isa seemed to be infected by my eagerness to start, for they worked from morning to night and saw that every one did his duty. I took leave of Captain Patterson, who had helped us in so many ways, and on August 13 the loads of the second great caravan stood in pairs in the outer yard, and had only to be lifted on to the pack-saddles of the horses.

Muhamed Isa started at four o’clock next morning, and I followed a few hours later with Robert and Manuel, four riding horses, and nine horses for our baggage. Hajji Nazer Shah and his sons, our numerous purveyors, the officials and pundits of the town, and many others, had assembled to see us off, and sent us on our way with kind wishes and endless “Salaams” and “Joles.”

A crowd of beggars escorted us along the main street, the merchant Mohanlal bowed to us from the steps of his house, and we passed through the gate of the town into the lanes of the suburbs. At the first turn the horse which carried my boxes of articles for daily use became tired of his burden and got rid of it at once. They were put on another horse, which seemed quieter and carried them as far as the Mohammedan burial-ground, when he, too, had enough of them, shied, broke loose, disappeared among some chhortens, and flung the boxes so violently to the ground that it was a marvel that they did not fly to pieces among the pebbles and blocks of stone. The jade got clear of all the ropes in a second, and galloped, with the pack-saddle dragging and dancing behind him, among the tombs in which the Mohammedans sleep. That the boxes might not be quite destroyed we hired a quiet horse for the day. This is always the way at first, before the animals have got used to their loads and pack-saddles. Here a couple of buckets rattle on the top of a load, there the handle of a yakdan, or, again, a pair of tent-poles jolt up and down and knock together at every step. The rest in the stable had made the horses nervous, the fragrant trusses of juicy clover had made them sleek and fat, strong, lively, and ready to dance along the road. Every horse had now to be led by a man, and at length we came to the open country, and our companions left us one after another, the last to say farewell being the excellent, noble-hearted Mr. Peter.

Then we went down from Leh past innumerable mani ringmos and through narrow gullies between small rocky ridges, and so drew near to the Indus again. A rocky promontory was passed, then another close to a branch of the river, and then Shey came in sight with its small monastery on a point of rock. The road runs through the village, over canals by miniature stone bridges, over grassy meads and ripening cornfields; here and there lies a swamp formed by overflowing irrigation water. To our left rise granitic rocks, their spurs and projections ground down and polished by wind and water.

After we had lost sight of the river and ridden through the village, where the people almost frightened our horses to death with their drums and pipes, we found ourselves in front of the monastery Tikze on a commanding rock, with the village Tikze and its fields and gardens at the foot. The tents were already pitched in a clump of willows. The highway and its canal ran past it, and here stood our mules and horses tethered in a long row before bundles of fresh grass. The puppies were released immediately; their basket was already too small for them; they grew visibly, could bite hard, and began already to guard my tent—barking furiously when they smelled anything suspicious.

Barely half an hour after the camp is set in order comes Manuel with my tea and cakes. He is rather sore after his day’s ride, and looks dreadfully solemn, dark-brown and shiny; he is darker than usual when he is cross. Robert is delighted with his horse, and I have every reason to be content with mine—a tall, strong, dapple-grey animal from Yarkand, which held out for four months and died on Christmas Eve. At Tikze we are much lower than at Leh, and then we begin to mount up again. The day had been very hot, and even at nine o’clock the thermometer stood at 70° F. Muhamed Isa is responsible for my twenty boxes; he has stacked them up in a round pile and covered them with a large tent, and here he has fixed his quarters with a few other chief Ladakis. Robert and Manuel have a tent in common; the kitchen, with its constantly smoking fire, is in the open air; and the rest of the men sleep outside (Illustration 39).

Now the new journey had begun in real earnest—we were on the way to the forbidden land! I had had to fight my way through a long succession of difficulties and hindrances before reaching this day. Batum was in open insurrection; in Asia Minor Sultan Abdul Hamid had provided me with a guard of six mounted men to protect me from robbers; in Teheran revolutionary tendencies were even then apparent; in Seistan the plague was raging fearfully; and in India I encountered the worst obstacle of all—an absolute prohibition to proceed into Tibet from that side. Then followed all the unnecessary complications in Srinagar and on the way to Leh, and the stupid affair of the Chinese passport which I did not need, but had so much trouble to obtain. Does not this remind one of the tale of the knight who had to overcome a lot of hideous monsters and hindrances before he reached the princess on the summit of the crystal mountain? But now at last I had left behind me all bureaucrats, politicians, and disturbers of the peace; now every day would take us farther and farther from the last telegraph station, Leh, and then we could enjoy complete freedom.

On August 15, exactly twenty-one years had elapsed since I started on my first journey in Asia. What would the next year bring? the culminating point of my career or a retrogression? Would opposition still continue, or would the Tibetans prove more friendly than Europeans? I knew not: the future lay before me as indistinct as the Indus valley, where dark masses of cloud swept over the mountains and the rain beat on the tent canvas. We let it rain, and rejoiced to think that, if the precipitation extended far over Tibet, the pasturage would be richer and the springs would flow more freely.

After a short march we come to the village Rambirpur, reconstructed thirty years ago, and to the right of the road the small monastery Stagna-gompa stands on a pinnacle of rock. On the left bank is seen the village Changa, and a little higher up the well-hidden, small, and narrow valley where the famous temple of Hemis lies concealed. Thunder rumbles over its mountains as though the gods stormed angrily on their altar platform.

At a corner where a small, shaky, wooden bridge spans the Indus, stand some more long mani ringmos; they are covered with well-cut stone flags, on which the letters are already overgrown by a weathered crust, and stand out dark against the lighter chiselled intervals. Former kings of Ladak caused them to be constructed as a salve to their consciences, and to gain credit in a future life. They are a substitute for the work of the Lamas; every one is at liberty to propitiate the divine powers by this means. Thus the monks acquire a revenue, and every one, travellers and caravans included, rejoices at the pious act, while the stone slabs speak in their silent language of bad consciences and manifold sins, in rain and sunshine, by day and night, in cold and heat.

Now we leave the Indus for good and all. “Farewell, thou proud stream, rich in historical memories. Though it costs me my life I will find some day thy source over yonder in the forbidden land,” I thought, as, accompanied by jamadars and chaprassis of the Kashmir state and some of my men, I turned the rocky corner into the side valley through which the road runs up past the monasteries Karu and Chimre to the Chang-la Pass. The road now becomes worse; every day’s journey it deteriorates, sometimes changing into an almost imperceptible footpath, and at last it disappears altogether. The great road to Lhasa along the Indus and to Gartok was closed to us.

Our company makes a grand show; a sheep is killed every evening, and the pots boil over the fires in the centre of the various groups which have combined into messes. I make no attempt to learn the names of my new servants; coolies and villagers are always moving about among them, coming and going, and I scarcely know which are my own men. It must be so in the meantime; the time will soon come for me to know them better, when all outside elements are removed. A melancholy air is heard in the darkness; it is the night watchmen who sing to keep themselves awake.

At Chimre we are at a height of 11,978 feet, and we ascend all the day’s journey to Singrul, where we find ourselves 16,070 feet above sea-level. The road keeps for the most part to the stony barren slopes on the left side of the valley, while the brook flows nearer to the right side, where bright green fields appropriate so much of its water that little is left to flow out of the valley. A path to Nubra follows a side valley on the right. In Sakti we wander in a labyrinth of narrow passages and alleys between huts and chhortens, boulders and walls, mani ringmos and terraces which support cultivated patches laid out in horizontal steps. Above us is seen the Chang-la, and we are quite giddy at the sight of the road that ascends to it with a tremendously steep gradient (Illustration 42).

Tagar is the last village before the pass; here I had halted twice before. Its wheat-fields extend a little distance further up the valley and then contract to a wedge-shaped point, continued by a narrow winding strip of grass along the central channel of the valley bottom. The sections of the caravan climb higher and higher, some are already at the goal, and we have overtaken the hindermost. The path runs up steeply between huge blocks of grey granite, so that our Ladakis have to take care that the boxes do not get banged.

After four-and-a-half hours we are up on the small terrace-shaped halting-place, Singrul, and the bluish-grey smoke of the fires of yak dung floats over the soil, scantily carpeted with grass and traversed by a rivulet of crystal clear water. An alpine, cold, barren landscape surrounds us. Muhamed Isa sits enthroned like a pasha in his fortress of boxes and provender sacks, the usual sheep is killed and cut up, and is then thrown into the general cauldron, stomach, entrails, and everything. The head and feet are broiled before the fire on stones. Some of the men take possession of the skin, and spend the evening in rubbing it and making it soft—probably it is for use as bed furniture.

The two Rajputs sit a little apart from the rest by their own small cooking-pot, and, I perceive, make a very light meal of spinach, bread, and rice. The rarefied air seems to be of no consequence to them, nor the cold; the puppies, on the other hand, were very down-hearted when the thermometer in the evening marked only 45°; they howled piteously, and, crawling under my tent bed, rolled themselves up together. The four coolies, who carried the boat, went beyond Singrul to a cave, where, they said, they would be more protected from the cold in the night. Towards evening the brook rose, and one of its arms made straight for my tent, which had to be protected by a temporary dam. The Ladakis sat till late and sipped their red tea mixed with butter, and at many points reddish-yellow fires illumined the night.

The temperature fell to 21°, and it was really very uncomfortable in this high, raw region where the wind had free play and the sun had not yet got the better of the snow; rather large snowdrifts still lay on the ground, and clear streamlets trickled down from their edges, juicy moss and grass sprouting up beside them and forming a fine grass lawn. Accustomed to the heat of India, we feel the cold particularly severe on rising, when the snow particles beat like grains of sugar against the tent. A bluish-black raven sits on a stone, sometimes flying down to examine what we have left, snaps his beak loudly, and seems contented with his morning’s catch.

Slowly and heavily the horses and mules zigzag up through the grey granitic detritus and round the boulders on the way. Our troop is considerably strengthened, for the animals need help on the acclivities and the loads easily get out of place. To climb up these heights with loads on their backs, as our coolies do, they must have especially constructed lungs, good chests, and strong hearts. We mount higher and higher to the pass in the mighty range which separates the Indus from its great affluent, the Shyok. We still see the green fields down below at the bottom of the valley, the bird’s-eye view becomes more and more like a map, and the landscape behind us grows more distinct and extensive. Sharply marked orographical lines indicate the direction of the Indus valley, and the great range on its farther side rises darkly before us and covered with snow. Fifty mules from Rudok laden with salt threaten to block our way, but are driven to one side by our men. From time to time we call a halt to allow our animals to recover their wind. Then we go on a little farther; the rests become more frequent; the horses puff and pant and distend their nostrils. And then on again to the next halt.

At last we were at the top, 17,585 feet above sea-level. Certainly the thermometer marked 41.4°, but the wind was in the north, thick clouds obscured the sky, sweeping over the crest of the mountains, and soon hail came down, slashing us like a whip. On the summit of the Chang-la Pass stands a stone heap with sacrificial poles, which are decked with ragged streamers torn by the wind. All these streamers bear in Tibetan characters the prayer of the six sacred letters; coloured or faded, they flap and rustle in the wind as if they would drive the prayers up higher and higher by unknown paths to the ears of the gods. Horns and skulls adorn this elevated altar. Here all our Ladakis in turn come to a halt, raise a cheer, dance, swing their caps, and rejoice at having reached this critical point without mishap.

The descent, however, on the eastern side of the pass, is still worse: nothing but detritus, boulders of all sizes, sharp-edged pieces of granite, and between a muddy paste in which our horses flop and splash at every step. Sometimes the path is more like a rough staircase, where you might fall headlong, but our horses are sure-footed and accustomed to bad ground. It is cold, dreary, raw, and grey—how different from the warm, sunny country we have so lately left!

At the foot of the descent from the actual pass old Hiraman, a friend of mine on former journeys, was waiting. The old man was just the same, perhaps a little more wrinkled than before (Illustration 45).

After a night with 12.8 degrees of frost we rode on from Sultak by a small lake dammed up by moraines, and down a valley full of detritus. Now the puppies had to run alone, and they did the short day’s march without complaining, but they were heartily sorry for their exhibition of strength when we got to Drugub, and were so tired out that they omitted to ferret about as usual (Illustrations 43, 44).

Drugub lies at a height of 12,795 feet, and on the short way to Tankse we ascended only 299 feet; from there, however, the route again ascends slowly until at length one reaches the great open plateau, where the differences of elevation show little alteration in a month of marching. Beyond Tankse a massive, finely sculptured mountain rises in the background; deep valleys open on either side; through the southern runs a road to Gartok, which I was to follow later; through the northern, the road to Muglib, which I had travelled by before; this I was to take now, and for two days keep to roads I was well acquainted with.

The Tankse river has a fair volume of water; we crossed it at a broad, shallow place, where the fall is very slight. The water is almost quite clear, of a bluish-green tinge, and glides noiselessly as oil over its gravelly bed. The whole village was on foot, and watched the pitching of my tent in a small clump of willows, which had resolutely struggled against the elevated situation and severe climate. These, however, were the last trees, worthy the name, that we saw for half a year.

We rested a day in Tankse, and settled with the men who were waiting with their thirty hired horses. On the early marches one gains all kinds of experience, and now we had to make one or two alterations. Muhamed Isa set up for the caravan men a large Tibetan tent with a broad opening in the roof to let out the smoke. The sacks of provender were to form round the inside a protection against the wind, and at the same time be themselves sheltered from rain. Furthermore, roasted meal, spices, and tobacco were purchased for the men, and all the barley that could be procured in the neighbourhood. The headmen of Tankse and Pobrang offered to accompany us for some days on a pleasure trip, and to see that everything went on smoothly.

Late in the evening a bright fire in Muhamed Isa’s camp lighted up the surroundings, and the noisy music sounded more merrily than ever. The caravan men held a jollification on taking leave of civilization, and had invited the notables of the village and the dancing-girls to tea and music. It was a very jovial party; the barley beer, chang, Ladak’s national drink, raised the spirits of guests and hosts, and as I went to sleep I heard female voices and the notes of flutes and bagpipes echoed back from the mountain flanks.

On August 21 we were again on the move; at our departure all Tankse turned out, besides the natives who had come in from the surrounding villages, and all sent us off with friendly cries of “Jole” and “A good journey.”

Here I commenced to draw my first map-sheet, being the first stroke of a work that for more than two years kept my attention riveted on every mile of the route and on every object that could be seen from it. At the same time the collections of rock specimens was begun. Specimen No. 1 was of crystalline schists in situ, while the bottom of the valley was still covered with large and small blocks of granite.

We left the Tankse monastery on its rocky spur to our left, and henceforth kept to the right side of the Muglib brook, now at the foot of the mountain and past its cones of detritus, now over easily recognizable denudation terraces, and again along the bank of the brook, where here and there we came across a miniature meadow. Down in the valley at Muglib there is good rich pasture; close by the brook the meadows are swampy and treacherous, but higher up the soil is sandy, and even thistles crop up among the grass.

Here our 130 animals grazed and were hurriedly inspected. Sonam Tsering had to give a report of his stewardship, which he had managed admirably, and our mules looked fat and plump after grazing for five days on the open pastures of Muglib. Our camp was now for the first time fully mustered, and with its four tents and its various groups of men seated round, the camp-fires had a very imposing appearance. Horses neigh and mules bray on all sides, the men remove the pack-saddles to see that the under side is smooth and cannot rub and cause sores, the animals are groomed and fed, their hoofs are examined and re-shod, if the old shoes are worn out on the stony ground.

The village of Muglib consists of three wretched huts, and its twelve inhabitants cultivate barley and peas. The barley harvest was expected in ten days, but the peas were still in full blossom, and would not be ripe before the frosts set in. They are then used as horse fodder while they are still soft and green. I asked some Muglib men what they did in winter. “Sleep and freeze,” they answered.

Next morning the sun had not risen when a shouting and jingling, loud voices, and the stamping and neighing of horses woke me out of sleep—the heavy cavalry was marching off under the command of Muhamed Isa. Then the puppies discovered that my bed was a grand playground, and left me no more peace. Manuel’s fire in the kitchen began to crackle, and a fragrant steam gave notice that there were mutton cutlets for breakfast. I was accustomed to camp life, but I had never been so comfortable before and had never had so large and perfect a caravan.

Beyond the village we crossed the brook six times; it is quite small, and seems always to contain the same amount of water, for it comes from a small lake, where I had encamped on the eastern shore in December 1901. Now we followed the northern shore over many very difficult mountain spurs of black schist and quartzite; the ground is covered with gravel, sometimes with small patches of coarse grass, and then again is very sandy. Sometimes torrents of clear water gush down from the mountains, where huge fan-shaped cones of dejection descend from the mouths of ravines to the valley.

A heap of stones bedecked with flags and a mani mark the point of hydrographical importance, which is the watershed between the Panggong-tso and the Indian Ocean; here the height is 14,196 feet. From this point the valley descends slowly to the lake, and we ride in the channel through which at one time it discharged itself into the Shyok and Indus.

Now, the Panggong-tso is cut off from the Indus and consequently contains salt water. Behind a spur on the right side of the valley which hides the view, the western extremity of the lake peeped out, and a few minutes later a grand panorama unfolded itself before us; the great bluish-green lake between its colossal cliffs. Five years before I had skirted its northern shore with my camels, my old sturdy veterans, which caused so much excitement in Ladak that there I was still called the Camel Lord.

Just where the Pobrang river enters, forming a flat delta full of lagoons, we halted for a while to control our determination of heights by a boiling-point observation, and then rode along the river, which in 1901 was choked up with drifted sand, but was now full of water. When the drainage water fails in winter, the bed is at once filled up with sand, but the dunes are swept away again as soon as the spring flood sets in.

Lukkong is a small village with a couple of stone huts, a field of barley, a chhorten, a meadow, and a stunted mountain poplar. From this place the road runs north and north-east through the broad pebble-strewn valley, where we have a foretaste of the flatter conformation of the Tibetan plateau. We are in a region which has no drainage to the sea; we have already crossed three important thresholds, the Zoji-la, the Chang-la, and, to-day, the small Panggong Pass, but we have still two great passes in front of us before we finally enter the wide expanses of the tableland. Beyond the first we must again descend to the basin of the Indus, behind the second lies an enclosed hydrographical area which we must traverse in order to reach the country draining to the ocean through the upper valleys of the Brahmaputra.

From a small pass with a few stone cairns we had a surprising view over a valley which ran parallel to the one we had just travelled through, and was full of green meadows. Many tents and camp-fires were seen above and below the village Pobrang, and the meadow land was dotted over with dark caravan animals, for mine was not the only party that was paying Pobrang a flying visit: an English shikari, too, was there, a Mr. Lucas Tooth, who had been hunting in the mountains and was very well pleased with his collection of antelope horns. We talked in my tent till midnight, and he was the last European I saw for a space of more than two years.