He was brought up in simple circumstances but had attracted much attention by his gifts as a medium. His technique was not so striking as that of his predecessor (who had cooperated in the discovery of the present Dalai Lama), but much was expected of him. I have often wondered whether it was by an unheard-of effort of concentration that he was able so quickly to throw himself into a trance before large crowds of people, or whether he used drugs or other expedients. In order to function as an oracle, the monk has to be able to dislodge his spirit from his body, to enable the god of the temple to take possession of it and to speak through his mouth. At that moment, the god is manifested in him. That is the belief of the Tibetans, and Wangdüla was convinced of its truth.
We talked about these things during our five-mile ride to the cloister. Hollow, eerie music greeted us at the gate of the temple. Inside, the spectacle was ghastly. From every wall looked down hideous, grimacing faces, and the air was filled with stifling fumes of incense. The young monk had just been led from his private quarters to the gloomy temple. He wore a round metal mirror on his breast. Attendants robed him in gay silks and led him to his throne. Then everyone drew back from around him. No sound could be heard except the hollow music. He began to concentrate. I watched him closely, never taking my eyes from his face—not the slightest movement of his features escaped me. He looked as if the life were fading out of him. Now he was perfectly motionless, his face a staring mask. Then suddenly, as if he had been struck by lightning, his body curved upward like a bow. The onlookers gasped. The god was in possession. The medium began to tremble; his whole body shook and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. Servants went to him and placed a huge, fantastic headdress on his head. This was so heavy that it took two men to carry it. The slender body of the monk sank deeper into the cushions of the throne under the weight of his monstrous miter. It is no wonder, I thought, that these mediums die young. The spiritual and physical strain of these séances must be killing.
The trembling became more violent. The medium’s heavily laden head wavered from side to side, and his eyes started from their sockets. His face was swollen and covered with patches of hectic red. Hissing sounds pierced through his closed teeth. Suddenly he sprang up. Servants rushed to help him, but he slipped by them and to the moaning of the oboes began to rotate in a strange exotic dance. Save for the music, his groans and teeth gnashings were the only sounds to be heard in the temple. Now he started beating on his gleaming breastplate with a great thumb ring, making a clatter that drowned the dull rolling of the drums. Then he gyrated on one foot, erect under the weight of the giant headdress, which just now two men could hardly carry. The attendants filled his hands with barleycorns, which he threw into the awestruck crowd of onlookers. All bent low before him, and I feared lest I be noted as an intruder. The medium became calmer. Servants held him fast, and a cabinet minister stepped before him and threw a scarf over his head. Then he began to ask questions carefully prepared by the cabinet about the appointment of a governor, the discovery of a new Incarnation, matters involving war and peace. The oracle was asked to decide on all these things. Often the question had to be repeated several times before the medium began to mumble. I tried to pick out intelligible words but made nothing of the sounds. While the minister stood humbly there trying to understand the answers, an old monk took them down with flying pen. He had done this hundreds of times in his life, as he was also secretary to the late oracle. I could not prevent myself from suspecting that perhaps the real oracle was the secretary. The answers he wrote down, though ambiguous, suggested a line to be followed and relieved the cabinet of a heavy load of responsibility. When an oracle goes on giving bad advice, they make short work of the mouthpiece. He is relieved of his office. This always seemed to me illogical. Did the god speak through the medium or did he not?
In spite of the risks, the post of State Oracle is much sought after. It carries with it the office of Dalama, corresponding with the third rank in the orders of nobility, and its holder is Prior of the Cloister of Nechung with all its benefices.
The last questions put by the minister to the oracle remained unanswered. Was the medium exhausted, or was the god out of humor?
I left the temple and stood in the blinding sunlight feeling quite benumbed by what I had seen. My European mentality was baffled at the experience. I subsequently attended many consultations of the oracle, but have never been able to arrive even at an approximate explanation of the riddle.
It was always a curious experience to meet the State Oracle in ordinary life. I could never get quite accustomed to sitting at the same table with him and hearing him noisily gulping his noodle soup. When we met in the street, I used to take off my hat, and he bowed and smiled in return. His face was that of a nice-looking young man, and bore no resemblance to the bloated, red-flecked, grimacing visage of the ecstatic medium.
Another occasion on which the State Oracle plays a great part is that of the so-called Great Procession, when the Dalai Lama is carried into the city to visit the cathedral. This ceremony is called the Great Procession to distinguish it from the procession to the Summer Garden, which I have already described.
On this occasion the whole of Lhasa is afoot; there is hardly standing room anywhere. There is a tent pitched on a piece of open ground, and around it are stationed monkish guards, who as usual are engaged in keeping curious people back with their whips. This tent conceals a great mystery. In it the Dalama of Nechung is preparing to go into a trance. In the meantime the God-King is slowly approaching in his sedan chair with his six-and-thirty bearers. Now the Holy One has halted before the tent out of which the god-possessed monk reels with staggering steps. His face is swollen, hissing tones proceed from his mouth, and the weight of his headdress almost bears him to the ground. Waving the bearers aside, he breaks through the line and puts his shoulders under the shafts and runs for a few steps. He looks as though he were upsetting his Holy Burden, but all is well. The other bearers take the strain, and the Dalama falls to the ground in a faint and is carried off in a litter, which is waiting to receive him. The procession then proceeds on its stately way. I have never been able to understand the exact meaning of this ritual. Perhaps it is meant to symbolize the subjection of the protecting deity to the higher powers of the Living Buddha.
In addition to the State Oracle and the rainmaker, there are in Lhasa at least six mediums, including an old woman who is reckoned to be a manifestation of a protecting goddess. She was prepared, for a small fee, to fall into a trance and allow the goddess to speak. On some days she went through this performance four times!
There are also mediums who, while in a state of trance, can bend long swords into a spiral. Several friends of mine keep such swords lying before their house altars. I have made various attempts to emulate this feat, but could not begin to do it.
The consultation of oracles originated in pre-Buddhistic times when the gods demanded human sacrifices, and I think the ritual has continued almost unchanged since early days. I was always deeply impressed by these uncanny performances, but was glad to think that my own decisions were not subject to the dictation of an oracle.
By the time the autumn came, we had already been several months in Lhasa and were thoroughly acclimatized. This is the best season of the year. The flower gardens, in which I had done so much work, were in full bloom, and the trees had just begun to change color. There was fruit in abundance—peaches, apples, and grapes from the southern provinces. Splendid tomatoes and marrows were displayed in the market, and it was during this season that the gentry gave their great parties at which an unbelievable choice of delicacies was offered to their guests.
It was also the right time of year for excursions, but unfortunately no Tibetan would climb a mountain for pleasure. On special days the monks go on a pilgrimage to some sacred mountain peak, and the nobles send their servants with them to propitiate the gods, to whom they burn incense on the summits. The windy mountain heights resound with prayers and new
flags are put up, while crows fly around waiting to eat up the offerings of tsampa. It must be added that everyone is happy to be back in town after two or three days in the mountains.
Aufschnaiter and I made a point of climbing all the peaks in the neighborhood. They offered no technical difficulties as an attraction, but the views from them were splendid. To the south we could see the Himalayas, and quite near us towered a 23,000-foot peak of the Nyenchenthangla range, over which we had scrambled eight months before on our way down to Lhasa.
There are no glaciers to be seen from the town. The assumption that one finds snow and ice everywhere in Tibet is not true. We should have loved to go skiing, but even if we could have repeated our experiment with homemade skis, the distances were too great. We should have needed horses, tents, and servants. Sport in uninhabited regions is a costly business.
So we had to content ourselves with climbing expeditions. Our equipment was not exactly professional. We wore army boots and other articles of clothing—surplus stores sold to Tibet by American dealers. They were good enough for our purposes. The Tibetans could not get over their astonishment at the speed with which we completed our tours. Once I had to light a bonfire of incense on a mountaintop for my friends to see from the roofs of their houses. Otherwise no one would have believed that we had really got there. Aufschnaiter and I used to walk in one day as far as our friends’ servants did in three. The first Tibetan in whom I managed to create some enthusiasm for mountain walks was my friend Wangdüla, who had very good powers of endurance. Later on other friends accompanied us, and all greatly enjoyed the views and took pleasure in the wonderful mountain flowers that we found.
The Forbidden City of Lhasa. Lhasa lies on a 12,000-foot plateau amid the Himalayas, at approximately the same latitude as New Orleans.
Two thousand feet up the sacred peak of Chomo Lari, the author rests in the thin air.
Masked priests dance in the Tibetan New Year before the Potala.
Jewels and a ton of gold adorn the tomb of the thirteenth Dalai Lama. Spires on the tomb’s roof represent baskets holding Buddhist scriptures. Bells are strung to ring out the doctrine, while sculpted figures repel evil spirits.
Vivid religious art on the walls of the Potala.
The Dalai Lama’s mother, right, and sister.
A three-year-old boy, selected as the incarnation of a high-ranking lama, begins his parade through Lhasa to the monastery he will rule.
The noon hour is signaled by trumpet from atop a temple on Chagpori Hill.
Children learn their alphabet under the eye of a tutor.
The high rank of a cabinet minister’s wife is indicated by her adornment.
Tibetan noblewomen in their elaborate headdress.
Attendants carry incense sticks behind the Dalai Lama’s instructor, far right, and the God-King’s elder brother.
Skating, reintroduced by the author, became known as “walking on knives.”
The Dalai Lama’s retinue in flight through the gorges of the Himalayas.
Helmeted monks greet the Living Buddha’s caravan.
My favorite expedition was to a little mountain lake a short day’s march from Lhasa. The first time I went there was during the rainy season, when it was feared that the waters would overflow and flood the town. According to an ancient legend, this lake is connected by a subterranean channel with an underground lake said to exist beneath the cathedral. Every year the government used to send monks to propitiate the spirits of the lake with prayers and offerings. Pilgrims, too, used to go there and throw rings and coins into the water. By the lake stood a few stone huts in which one could find shelter. I found that the lake did not threaten the safety of the town in the slightest degree. Even if it had overflowed, no harm would have been done. It was a peaceful, idyllic little place. Herds of wild sheep, gazelles, marmots, and foxes sauntered casually by, and high in the blue the lammergeier wheeled his flight. To all these creatures man was not an enemy. No one would dare to hunt in the neighborhood of the Holy City. The flora around the lake are of a kind to quicken the pulse of any botanist. Marvelous yellow and blue poppies grow on the shore. They are a specialty of Tibet, which elsewhere you will find only at Kew.
These expeditions did not quite satisfy my appetite for sport. I kept wondering what else I could do, and at last the idea came to me to make a tennis court. I managed to interest a good many people in the idea and prepared a list of prospective members of the Lhasa T. C. I also collected some funds in advance. The list of members was very imposing and had an almost international character. There were Indians, Sikkimese, Nepalese, and of course numbers of the young gentlemen of Lhasa. These had hesitated at first about joining, in view of the attitude of the government toward football. But I was able to allay their fears by pointing out that tennis was a sport that did not attract onlookers or cause contention. Even the Church must realize that it was an innocent game. Besides, there was already a tennis court at the British Legation.
I then engaged workmen and got them to level a piece of ground near the river. It was not easy to find the right kind of soil to surface the court with, but in a month it was all ready. I was very proud of the job. We had already ordered nets, racquets, and balls from India, and we organized a small party to start off the Lhasa Tennis Club.
There was keen competition among the children to become ball boys. They were fearfully clumsy, having never before had a ball in their hands. But when we invited members of the British Legation to play with us, the soldiers of the bodyguard of the Nepalese Mission came and fielded the balls for us. It was killing to see them running around in their splendid uniforms.
Soon we had collected quite a number of players. Incontestably the best was Mr. Liu, the secretary of the Chinese Legation; then came Mr. Richardson, the British Minister, a gaunt Scots-man, slim and tough in his professional work. He had only one hobby—his splendid flower and vegetable garden. When one visited him, one imagined oneself in a garden in fairyland.
Tennis playing provided new occasions for pleasant social intercourse. Parties were arranged, now on our courts and now at the British Legation, after which we had tea and bridge. I regarded these meetings as my Sunday social outings and used to look forward to them with pleasure. One had to dress oneself decently and got the feeling, for the moment, of being back in the milieu from which one had come. My friend Wangdüla proved his worth in this field, too. He was a keen tennis player and an excellent partner at bridge.
Our tennis court had another advantage. We could play on it the whole year round. But in the season of dust storms, we had to be careful. Instead of wire netting we had enclosed the court with high curtains, so when we saw the dust clouds gathering over the Potala, we had to look sharp and get them down before they were blown away by the storm.
In autumn Tibetans practiced their age-old pastime of kite flying. When the rains are over and the clear autumn weather has set in, the bazaars are full of brightly colored kites. The sport begins punctually on the first day of the eighth month. But it is not just a children’s game, as it is with us. The opening day is a popular festival, and the nobles are just as keen on the pastime as the common people. The first kite goes up over the Potala, and very soon the sky is full of them. Children and grown-ups stand for hours on the roofs flying their kites with the intense concentration of chess or tennis champions. The kites are flown on lines of stout twine treated with glue and powdered glass. The chief object of the game is to cross your opponent’s line and cut through it. When that happens there are screams of joy from the roofs. The severed kite flutters slowly down, and the children pounce on it. It now belongs to them. For a month this game is played in every hour of leisure. Then the season comes to a full stop, and the kites vanish as suddenly as they had appeared.
One day as I was strolling through the bazaar looking at the kites, a very odd thing happened. A complete stranger accosted me and offered to sell me a watch—that is, the remnants of a watch. It was old and rusty and h
ad lost its dial. The man said it was broken and that he could do nothing with it. Being a European, perhaps I could repair it. I could pay anything I liked for it. I took the thing in my hand and at once recognized it. It was Aufschnaiter’s wristwatch, which he had sold when we were in Western Tibet—a watertight Rolex. He had had it with him on the Nanga Parbat Expedition. Aufschnaiter had got rid of it with a heavy heart. I thought he would like to have it back, even if it never went again. It would nevertheless be a curiosity. With little hope of success, I gave it to a clever Mohammedan craftsman to tinker with. He was enthusiastic about the mechanism and soon got it to go again. I gave it back to Aufschnaiter as a birthday present. You should have seen his face when he saw it!
In autumn the great horse markets are held. Caravans with hundreds of horses come in from Siling, in northwest China. There is lively bargaining, which the Tibetans are very good at, and high prices are paid for good animals. The nobles like to keep good stables and insist on having a new thoroughbred to ride every year. Of course, only the rich can afford this. The common people, if they ride at all, use Tibetan ponies, but the nobility are expected to spend money on good horses. When they go out riding, they take mounted servants with them. A cabinet minister, for example, is supposed to have six men in uniform with him. The number of horses a noble keeps varies according to his standing—some have as many as twenty.
I have often seen women riding. Their skirts are wide enough for them to ride astride. They often accompany their husbands on journeys that last for weeks, when they go on a pilgrimage or proceed to a new post. They wear a rooflike headdress to protect them against the sun and rub a dark brown plant juice on their faces and cover their mouths with a shawl. When they ride through the streets in this makeup, one woman looks just like another, and I fear I have made many faux pas by not recognizing friends on such occasions.