After crossing the two passes, we had the Himalayas behind us once more, and I was glad to be away from them, as we were at last reaching warmer regions. Coming down into the Indus Valley, we met numbers of yak-drawn caravans bearing wool to India. We were struck by the size and strength of these beasts. Their drivers, too, were well-set-up youths, who despite the fierce cold were naked to the waist. Both men and women wore their fur coats inside out with the fur against their bare bodies. They keep their arms out of the sleeves, so as not to hamper their freedom of movement. The drivers start the yaks off by slinging stones at them and keep them on the track by the same method. They seemed in no way interested in us foreigners, and we pursued our way unmolested.
We marched for five successive days along the upper waters of the Indus before we arrived at Gartok. The scenery was unforgettable. It was the colors that enchanted the eye, and I have seldom seen all the hues of a painter’s palette so harmoniously blended. Alongside the clear waters of the Indus were light yellow fields of borax, with the green shoots of springtime springing up near them (for spring in these regions does not come until June). In the background were the gleaming snow peaks.
The first village on the far side of the Himalayas is Trashigang, consisting of just a few houses grouped around a fortress-like monastery surrounded by a moat. Here we again found an ill-disposed population, but they showed no astonishment at seeing us and gave us no real trouble. This time we had arrived just in the season in which Indian traders stream into the country to buy up the wool. We had no difficulty in obtaining provisions from these people. Aufschnaiter tried in vain to turn his gold bracelet into cash. Had he done so, he would have been able to afford to push on directly into Inner Tibet without touching Gartok. During the whole of our march, we were repeatedly stopped by prosperous-looking mounted Tibetans, who asked us what we had to sell. As we had no servants and were driving a pack donkey, they could not imagine that we were anything but traders. We became convinced every Tibetan, whether poor or rich, is a born trader, and exchange and barter his greatest passion.
FROM OUR READING we know that Gartok was the capital of Western Tibet, and the seat of the viceroy; our geography books had told us that it was the highest town in the world. When, however, we finally set eyes on this famous place, we could hardly help laughing. The first thing we saw were a few nomads’ tents scattered about the immense plain; then we caught sight of a few mud-brick huts. That was Gartok. Except for a few stray dogs, there was no sign of life.
We pitched our little tent on the bank of the Gartang-Tchu, a tributary of the Indus. At last a few curious individuals came up, and we learned from them that neither of the two high officials was in the town and only the “second viceroy’s” agent could receive us. We decided to submit our petition to this personage at once. Going into his office we had to bend low, for there was no door, only a hole in front of which hung a greasy curtain. We came into a dimly lit room with paper gummed over the windows. When our eyes had grown accustomed to the twilight, we discerned a man who looked intelligent and distinguished, sitting like a Buddha on the floor before us. From his left ear dangled an earring at least six inches long as a sign of his rank. There was also a woman present, who turned out to be the wife of one of the absent officials. Behind us pressed a crowd of children and servants who wished to see these peculiar foreigners from close at hand.
We were very politely requested to sit down and were immediately offered dried meat, cheese, butter, and tea. The atmosphere was cordial and warmed our hearts, and conversation flowed fairly freely with the aid of an English-Tibetan dictionary and supplementary gestures. Our hopes rose quickly, but we abstained from revealing all our preoccupations at this first interview. We said that we were fugitive Germans and begged for the hospitality of neutral Tibet.
The next day I brought the agent some medicines as a present. He was much pleased and asked me how to use them, whereupon I wrote out directions. At this point we ventured to ask him if he would not grant us a travel permit. He did not directly refuse but bade us await the coming of his chief, who was on a pilgrimage to Mount Kailas but who was expected to return in a few days.
In the interval we made good friends with the agent. I gave him a burning glass, an object of which one can make good use in Tibet. The customary return gift was not long in coming. One afternoon some bearers carried a present of butter, meat, and flour to our tents. And not long after came the agent himself, accompanied by a retinue of servants, to return our visit. When he saw how primitively we were lodged in our tents, he could not get over his astonishment that Europeans led such simple lives.
However, as the time came near for the return of his chief, his friendliness began to flag, and he withdrew himself almost entirely from our society. Responsibility began to oppress him. Indeed, he went so far as to refuse to sell us provisions; luckily, however, there were Indian traders here, ready to help us out for good money.
One morning we heard the sound of bells in the distance as a huge mule-drawn caravan approached the village. Soldiers rode ahead followed by a swarm of male and female servants, and after them members of the Tibetan nobility, also mounted, whom we now saw for the first time. The senior of the two viceroys, whom they call garpons in Tibet, was arriving. He and his wife wore splendid silk robes and carried pistols in their girdles. The whole village assembled to see the spectacle. Immediately after arriving, the garpon moved in solemn procession into the monastery to give thanks to his gods for his safe return from the pilgrimage.
Aufschnaiter composed a short letter begging for an audience. As no answer came, we set out in the late afternoon to visit the garpon. His house was not essentially different from that of his agent, but inside it was cleaner and of better quality. The garpon, a high official, is invested for the duration of his mission with the fourth rank in the hierarchy of the nobles. He is in charge of five districts, which are administered by nobles of the fifth, sixth, and seventh rank. During his period of office, the garpon wears a golden amulet in his piled-up hair, but he may wear this ornament only while on duty in Gartok. In Lhasa he is reduced to the fifth rank. All the nobles in Tibet are ranked in seven classes, to the first of which only the Dalai Lama belongs. All secular officials wear their hair piled up on their heads, monks are shaven, and the ordinary people wear pigtails.
At last we came into the presence of this potentate. We explained our case to him in all its details, and he listened to us with friendly patience. Often he could not refrain from smiling at our defective Tibetan, while his retainers laughed out loud. This merriment added a spice to the conversation and created a friendly atmosphere. The garpon promised to consider our case carefully and to talk it over with the representative of his colleague. At the end of the audience, we were hospitably entertained and received tea made in the European fashion. Afterward the garpon sent presents to our tents, and we began to hope for a happy issue.
Our next audience was rather more formal but still cordial. It was a regular official meeting. The garpon sat on a sort of throne, and near him on a lower seat was the agent of his colleague. On a low table lay a file of letters written on Tibetan paper. The garpon informed us that he could give us passes and transport only for the province of Ngari. We would in no circumstances be allowed to enter the inner provinces of Tibet. We quickly took counsel together and suggested that he should give us a travel permit to the frontier of Nepal. After some hesitation he promised to communicate our request to the government in Lhasa, but he explained to us that the answer might not arrive for some months. We were not anxious to wait all that time in Gartok. We had not given up the idea of pushing on to the east and were anxious to continue our journey at all costs. As Nepal was a neutral country situated in the direction which we wished to go, we felt that we could be satisfied with the result of the negotiations.
The garpon then kindly asked us to remain for a few days longer as his guests, as pack animals and a guide had to be found. After three days our travel
pass was delivered to us. It stipulated that our route should pass through the following places—Ngakhyu, Sersok, Möntse, Barga, Thokchen, Lholung, Shamtsang, Truksum, and Gyabnak. It was also laid down that we had the right to requisition two yaks. A very important clause required the inhabitants to sell us provisions at the local prices, and to give us free fuel and servants for the evenings.
We were very glad to have obtained so much in the way of facilities. The garpon invited us to a farewell dinner in the course of which I managed to sell him my watch. Afterward he made us give him our word of honor not to go to Lhasa from his territory.
At last, on July 13, we bade farewell to Gartok and started on our way. Our little caravan, now of decent proportions, consisted of our two yaks with their driver and my small donkey, which was now in good shape and carried no more than a tea-kettle. Then came our guide, a young Tibetan named Norbu, on horseback, while we three Europeans modestly brought up the rear on foot.
NOW AGAIN for weeks we were on the way. During the whole of the next month, we passed no inhabited place of any size—only nomad camps and isolated tasam houses. These are caravansaries in which one can change the yaks and find a lodging.
In one of these tasams I succeeded in exchanging my donkey for a yak. I was very proud of this bargain, which greatly multiplied my assets, but my satisfaction was short-lived—the beast turned out to be so refractory that I would have been glad to be rid of him. I was actually able to exchange him later for a younger, smaller animal. This creature also gave trouble, and it was only after having his nose pierced and fitted with a ring of juniper wood tied to a rope that I was able to keep him on the road. We called him Armin.
The country through which we had been traveling for days had an original beauty. The wide plains were diversified by stretches of hilly country with low passes. We often had to wade through swift-running ice-cold brooks. While in Gartok, we had had occasional showers of hail, but now the weather was mainly fine and warm. By this time we all had thick beards, which helped to protect us against the sun. It was long since we had seen a glacier, but as we were approaching the tasam at Barka, a chain of glaciers gleaming in the sunshine came into view. The landscape was dominated by the 25,000-foot peak of Gurla Mandhata; less striking, but far more famous, was the sacred Mount Kailas, 3,000 feet lower, which stands in majestic isolation apart from the Himalaya range. When we first caught sight of it, our Tibetans prostrated themselves and prayed. For Buddhists and Hindus, this mountain is the home of their gods, and the dearest wish of all the pious is to visit it as pilgrims once in their lives. The faithful often travel thousands of miles to reach it and spend years on the pilgrimage. During their journey they live on alms and hope that their reward will be a higher Incarnation in a future life. Pilgrims’ roads converge here from all points of the compass. At the places from which the first sight of the mountain can be obtained are set up heaps of stones, grown through the centuries to giant proportions, expressing the childlike piety of the pilgrims, each of whom, following ancient observance, adds fresh stones to the heaps. We, too, would have liked to travel around the mountain as the pilgrims do, but the unfriendly master of the caravansary at Barka prevented us by threatening to stop our future transport facilities unless we continued on our way.
For two whole days, we had the glaciers to look at. We mountaineers were more strongly attracted to the majestic Gurla Mandhata, mirrored in the waters of Lake Manasarovar, than by the Sacred Mountain. We pitched our tents on the shore of the lake and feasted our eyes on the indescribably beautiful picture of this tremendous mountain, which seemed to grow out of the lake. This is certainly one of the loveliest spots on earth. The lake is held to be sacred, and around it one finds many small monasteries in which the pilgrims lodge and perform their devotions. Many pilgrims creep around the lake on their hands and knees, and carry home jars of the holy water. Every pilgrim bathes in its icy cold water. We did likewise, though not from piety. Here I nearly came to grief. After swimming out some little way from the shore, I got into a boggy place from which I extricated myself only with a tremendous effort. My comrades had not noticed my desperate struggle to get clear of the mud.
As we were, at this time of year, a little in advance of the pilgrimage, most of the people we met were traders. We saw also many suspicious-looking people, for this region is notorious as the El Dorado of robbers, who find it hard to resist the temptation to attack the traders frequenting the markets. The biggest market in the region is that of Gyanyima. Here hundreds of tents form a huge camp given over to buying and selling. The tents of the Indians are made out of cheap cotton material, while those of the Tibetans are woven from yak’s hair and are so heavy that it takes one or even two yaks to carry them.
We wandered for some hours in an easterly direction along the lake and felt as if we were on a seaside walk. Our pleasure in the beauty was disturbed only by the midges, which we did not get rid of till we were clear of the lake.
Proceeding toward Thokchen we met an important-looking caravan. It was the new district governor of Tsaparang on the way to his post from Lhasa. We halted by the roadside, and our guide, with whom we had never got on really friendly terms, made a deep, stiff obeisance and put out his tongue in greeting—a perfect picture of submissiveness. He explained our presence: weapons which had threatened us were put away and we were handed dried fruit and nuts.
In our persons there was no longer any sign of European superiority to be seen. We lived like nomads; for the past three months we had been sleeping mainly in the open air, and our standards of comfort were lower than those of the native population. We camped and cooked and made our fires in the open whatever the weather, while the nomads could find shelter and warmth in their heavy tents. But if we looked as if we had come down in the world, our wits were not blunted and our minds were continually occupied. Very few Europeans had been in these regions, and we knew that everything we observed might have a value later on. We still thought then that we should be returning to civilization within a measurable time. Common dangers and struggles had linked us in a close bond of companionship; each knew the others’ virtues and failings, and so we were able to help one another in times of depression.
On we went over low-lying passes till we came to the source of the Brahmaputra, which the Tibetans call the Tsangpo. This region is not only of religious significance to Asiatic pilgrims, it is also highly interesting geographically, for it contains the sources of the Indus, the Sutlej, the Kaxnali, and the Brahmaputra. For the Tibetans, who are accustomed to give a symbolical religious sense to all designations, the names of these rivers are associated with the sacred animals—the lion, the elephant, the peacock, and the horse.
For the next fortnight, we followed the Tsangpo. Fed by numerous streams from the nearby Himalayas, this river grows larger all the time, and the bigger it gets the more tranquil is its stream. Now the weather was continually changing. Within minutes one was alternately freezing or roasting in the sunshine. Hailstorms, rain, and sunshine followed each other in quick succession—one morning we awoke to find our tent buried in snow, which in a few hours melted in the hot sunshine. Our European clothes were unsuited to these continual changes of temperature, and we envied the Tibetans their practical sheepskin cloaks, belted at the waist and with long wide sleeves to take the place of gloves.
Despite these inconveniences we made good progress, stopping whenever we came to a roadhouse. From time to time we had a view of the Himalayas, which surpass in natural beauty anything I have ever seen. We met fewer and fewer nomads, and the only living creatures we saw on the right bank of the Brahmaputra were gazelles and onagers. We were now approaching Gyabnak, the last name on the list of places mentioned on our travel permit. Farther than this the authority of our friend in Gartok did not extend. The decision as to what to do next was taken out of our hands, for on the third day of our stay at Gyabnak a messenger arrived in breathless haste from Tradün and summoned us to go at once to that place. Two high o
fficials wanted to see us. We had no regrets about leaving Gyabnak, which was so small that it hardly deserved to be called a place. It consisted of a single house belonging to a monastic official of the province of Bongpa. The nearest nomad tent was over an hour’s march away. We started at once and spent the night in a lonely place inhabited only by wild asses.
I shall always remember the next day for one of the most beautiful experiences I have ever had. As we marched forward we caught sight, after a while, of the gleaming golden towers of a monastery in the far distance. Above them, shining superbly in the morning sun, were tremendous walls of ice, and we gradually realized that we were looking at the giant trio Dhaulagiri, Annapurna, and Manaslu. As Tradün and the filigree towers of its monastery lay at the far end of the plain, we had many hours in which to enjoy the view of these mighty mountains. Not even the necessity of wading through the icy waters of the Tsachu dampened our exuberance.
IT WAS EVENING when we marched into Tradün. In the last rays of the setting sun, the red monastery with its golden roof looked like a fairy palace on the hillside. The houses of the inhabitants, the usual mud-brick dwellings, were built behind the hill to shelter them from the wind. We found the whole population assembled and waiting for us in silence. We were at once taken into a house that had been made ready for us. Hardly had we unloaded our baggage when several servants arrived and invited us most courteously to come to their masters. Full of expectation we followed them to the house of the two high officials.
We walked through a whispering crowd of servants into a good-sized room, where in the highest seats sat a smiling, well-fed monk and by him, at the same level, his secular colleague. A little lower down were seated an abbot, the monastery official from Gyabnak, and a merchant from Nepal. The merchant spoke a few words of English and acted as interpreter. They had prepared a bench with cushions so that we did not have to sit crosslegged on the floor like the Tibetans. Tea and cake were pressed upon us and questioning politely postponed. At last we were asked to show our travel permit. This was passed around and carefully studied by all present. There was a period of oppressive silence. The two officials slowly came out with their misgivings. Could we really be Germans? It was simply incredible that we should be escaped prisoners of war and much more probable that we were British or Russians. They made us fetch our baggage which was unpacked and spread out on the floor of the courtyard and then carefully examined. Their chief worry was the idea that we might have weapons or a transmitting set, and it was difficult to persuade them that we had neither. The only things among our possessions to arouse suspicion were a Tibetan grammar and a history book.