by Ruskin Bond
It was past noon when the coolies picked up their loads, and I set out in excellent spirits, having now escaped the much-feared obstruction from the Yangma people, on whose mercy and goodwill our success entirely depended.
We passed by some mendong and chorten at the entrance to the convent, and then followed up the course of the Yangma, passing by a pretty lakelet, the Miza, or “man eating,” now filled with ice, and seeing on the way some very high chorten, known as thongwa kundol, “bringing deliverance when seen,” which had a few years previously been repaired by the head lama of Wallung. Near these we saw a half-dozen wild sheep, but we gave up all ideas of shooting them when told that the Yangma people think the gods of the land and mountains would be deeply offended if anyone molested them.
By 3:00 p.m. we got sight of the village of Yangma, whose houses could only be distinguished from the boulders everywhere strewing the ground by the smoke issuing from the roofs. There were not more than a hundred houses in the village, and the fields round about were enclosed within low stone walls. Buckwheat, barley, turnips, radishes, and potatoes are grown here, and rice brought from Yang-ku tang and other villages in the warmer valleys is procurable. The village was founded by Tibetans from Tashi-rabka, one of them having discovered the valley and its comparative fertility while hunting for a lost yak calf. The name Yangma was given it on account of the breadth of the valley.
The male part of the population is idle in the extreme, but the women are correspondingly busy; some I saw were threshing corn, some gathering fuel, others engaged in various kinds of household work.
By 5:00 p.m. we got off from this wretched valley, where Phurchung and the coolies, by the way, were most desirous to remain to continue drinking chang, though Phurchung showed unmistakable signs of having already imbibed too much. After an hour’s march we reached Kiphug, where we found, under an overhanging rock, a bit of ground free from snow on which to camp; but Phurchung remained behind in Yangma, in a helplessly drunken condition.
November 29.—The way lay along the Yangma, which was scarcely visible, snow and ice covering entirely its bed. There was nothing to give life to the scenery; the river flowed in a deep gorge, or else opened out into lake-like expanses; on either side the mountains seemed to reach to the sky; not a bird, not even a cloud in the heaven, not a sound save that of our feet crushing the light dry snow. It was 11:00 a.m. when we came to an unfrozen pool, by which we ate our breakfast of tea and meal. This place, which is in a broad portion of the valley, is a favorite summer pasture-ground for the Pokpas, who, from July to September, bring their herds of yaks here.
Po-phug was reached after a march of three miles through the snow, then the ascent became steeper and freer from snow, and we came to Luma goma, “Fountain head,” the source of the Yangma river; and after an easy ascent of half an hour we arrived at Tsa-tsam, the limit of vegetation.
Here we began climbing a huge glacier, a quarter of a mile wide and more than three miles long, the Chyang-chub gya-lam, or “Highway to Holiness,” over which I was carried on Phurchung’s back wherever the snow lay deep. Then we climbed a huge mass of bare black rocks, and darkness had overtaken us before we reached the “White Cavern,” where we proposed passing the night. The fog added to the obscurity of the night, our feet were benumbed by the cold, and we frequently slipped into crevasses or between the clefts of rocks. Finding it impossible to reach the cavern, we scraped away the snow from between some rocks, and there I sat, my knees drawn up, hugging myself during the long night.
How exhausted we were with the fatigue of the day’s journey, how overcome by the rarefication of the air, the intensity of the cold, and how completely prostrated by hunger and thirst, is not easy to describe. The very remembrance of the sufferings of that dreadful night makes me shudder even now, but I quickly recover under the inexpressible delight I feel at the consciousness of my great success. This was the most trying night I ever passed in my life. There was a light breeze blowing, attended with sleet, which fortunately weighed my blankets down and made them cover me closer than they otherwise would have done. And so with neither food nor drink, placed as if in the grim jaws of death in the bleak and dreary regions of snow, where death alone dwells, we spent this most dismal night.
November 30.—The coolies once more picked up their loads, and our guide began in his gravest tones to recite his “Pema-jung-ne samha doha” and other mantras. The morning was gloriously radiant, and the great Kangla-chen glittered before us, bathed in a glory of golden light. Fortunately for us, there was no fresh snow on the ground; for, had there been any, we could not possibly have advanced. We found that we had stopped not more than a furlong from the Phugpa karpo, which, by the way, is not a cave at all, but only a crevasse between two detached rocks. Our guide, leaving his load in the charge of his brother, took the lead, driving his long stick into the snow at each step, and digging footholds in the soft snow. From the White Cavern the top of the pass bore due east, and was distant about two miles. Just at the base of the final ascent there is a little sandy plain, in the middle of which is a huge boulder: this is the “Place of Salvation,” thus called because, when once this point is reached, travelers may be confident of attaining the summit of the pass.
I steadily followed in the footsteps of the guide, and would not let him take me on his back; for if I succeeded in ascending to the highest summit of Kangla-chen without any help, I could look to the achievement with greater pride. Ugyen here gave out, and it was with difficulty that I persuaded Phurchung to carry him on his back, for they were far from being on the best of terms. An hour’s hard climbing brought us to the summit of the pass. The sky was cloudless and of the deepest blue; against it a snow-clad world of mountains stood out in bold relief. Far beyond the maze of snow-clad peaks we saw in the northwest the mountains of Pherug, in Tibet, while those of Shar Khambu stood gloriously out to the west.
The summit of Kangla-chen is a plateau, some two miles from east to west, and one mile and a quarter from northwest to northeast; it inclines toward the west, while to the northwest it is bounded by a mountain of considerable height. Our snowshoes now stood us in good need; unfortunately we had but three pairs, so Phurchung and I had to wade through the deep snow in the footsteps of the others, with many slips and more than one narrow escape from falling into the deep crevasses. On all sides there was nothing visible but an ocean of snow. Innumerable snowy peaks touched with their white heads the pale leaden skies, where stars were shining. The rattling roar of distant avalanches was frequently heard; but, after having succeeded in crossing the loftiest of snowy passes, I felt too transported with joy to be frightened by their thunder.
These splendid scenes of wonderland, the grandest, the most sublime my eyes have ever beheld, which bewildered me so that even now my pen finds no words to describe them, inspired me with feelings of deep gratitude to Heaven, by whose mercy my life had been spared thus far.
We camped on a rock bare of snow, and passed another miserable night with nothing to drink, and but a couple of dry biscuits to stave off our hunger. To add to my misery, Ugyen was still suffering, and I had to give him half my covering, for he had none of his own; and so, with not even enough room to lie down, we passed the night huddled together, the loads placed on the lower side of the rock so as to prevent our falling off in our sleep.
December 1.—’Twas not yet dawn when all were on foot and busy packing up. The track was hardly visible; below our path lay the great glacier, extending for miles, which feeds the Tashi-rabka river. The snowy sides of the mountains beyond this were furrowed by glacial streams, very noticeable in their varied shades of blue and green, and on the surface of the glacier itself rose huge rounded surfaces, or hummocks, evidently produced by boulders concealed under the ice.
Following carefully in the footsteps of Phurchung, we crossed some six spurs of the Dorjetagh range, and then came to an easy path down the central moraine of a former glacier, now
only a huge heap of boulders and debris. The mountains lost, as we advanced, the whitish color peculiar to the Indian ranges, and assumed the blackish or ocher color distinctive of the Tibetan region. It was with a feeling of intense relief that we finally discerned vegetation and heard the babbling of a little brook, near which flew birds feeding on rhododendron and juniper berries, and a little way off we saw some herds of yaks grazing, and smoke rising from a campfire; here we stopped at the foot of a great rock, and enjoyed, after our long fast of two days, a meal of rice and buttered tea.
We continued down the course of the stream, passing with some apprehension near a huge bull-yak or shalu, though low stone walls separated us from him and kept him away from the she-yaks (di) in the adjacent pasturage. This part of the valley is frequently visited by packs of wolves, which kill large numbers of yaks, but the bulls are able to drive them off with their long sharp horns.
At 3:00 p.m. we passed Dsongo, the extreme border of the district of Tashi-rabka, and where are the ruins of a stone house built on a huge boulder. This was formerly a stage-house used by the Sikkim Raja’s people, when the Yangma and Wallung districts still belonged to him, when going to or returning from Tibet. A little way beyond this point we met some herdsmen, who made inquiries as to whence we came and where we were going. Near by were their tents, where I noticed two swarthy women and a fierce Tibetan mastiff. Phurchung entered one of the tents, sat down to chat and drink a cup of tara, a sort of thin curd.
Ugyen was much preoccupied about our getting by Tashi-rabka and escaping its headman. At about six o’clock we were close to the village, and so we hid till dusk in a gully, where we boiled our tea and ate some tsamba. The moon shone out brightly when we resumed our march and passed along a portion of a high stone wall, erected by the Tibetans during the Nepalese war, when, it is said, they put up five miles of it in a day under orders of their general, the Shape Shata. This wall is carried across the river on a bridge, where it has eight small watchtowers. It crosses the whole valley, its ends being high up on the sides of the mountains. On the farther side of the wall is the village. Ugyen and Phurchung stood trembling, not knowing whether to turn back toward the Kangla-chen pass or to proceed onward toward the chorten, near which the headman resides. Phuntso alone was equal to the occasion. “If the guards are awake, we will sing some of our national walking songs, and pass ourselves off for Wallungpa.” After a few words of encouragement to the others, we set out. Before we had reached the chorten, a voice from a yak-hair tent cried out, “Whence are you, and where are you going?” To which Phuntso replied that we were Wallungpa going to Shigatse, and asked them where they were going, and without waiting for a reply we hurried on and passed by the dreaded headman’s house without awakening anyone, not even the fierce mastiffs tied up in front of the dwelling.
About thirty yards beyond the house we came to the bridge, a rough structure of logs and stone slabs. The Tashi-rabka river was partly frozen, and its swift current was sweeping down blocks of ice. We crossed over unnoticed, and I then broke the silence with thanks to merciful God who had enabled us to overcome this the most dreaded of all difficulties, one which had frightened my staunch friend Phurchung, that the snows of the Kangla-chen had not daunted.
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REPORT OF A ROUTE-SURVEY
MADE BY PUNDIT [NAIN SINGH] FROM NEPAL TO LHASA*4
The route between Kathmandu and Kumaon taken by the Pundit is the worst part of the whole of his route. It crosses the Himalayas twice, and also several high passes, and the road on the cis-Himalayan side is particularly rough and rocky, with great ascents and descents. It was consequently to be expected that his pace would be somewhat shorter than on the route between Tadum and Gyangze, which runs the whole distance by the easiest slopes possible, without crossing a single steep pass…
…Between the Mansarowar lake and Lhasa the Pundit traveled by the great road called the Jong-lam (or Whor-lam), by means of which the Chinese officials keep up their communications for 800 miles along the top of the Himalayan range from Lhasa, north of Assam, to Gartokh, northeast of Simla. A separate memorandum is given hereafter as to the stages, etcetera, on this extraordinary road. Starting from Gartokh on the Indus, at 15,500 feet above the sea, the road crosses the Kailas range by a very high pass, descends to about 15,000 feet in Nari Khorsum, the upper basin of the Sutlej, and then coasting along the Eakas Tal, the Mansarowar, and another long lake, rises gradually to the Mariham-la pass, the watershed between the Sutlej and Brahmaputra, 15,500 feet above the sea. From the Mariham-la the road descends gradually, following close to the north of the main source of the Brahmaputra, and within sight of the gigantic glaciers, which give rise to that great river. At about 50 miles from its source the road is for the first time actually on the river, but from that point to Tadum it adheres very closely to the left bank. Just before reaching Tadum the road crosses a great tributary, little inferior to the main river itself. The Tadum monastery is about 14,200 feet above the sea.
From Tadum, the road follows down the Brahmaputra, sometimes close to it, sometimes several miles from it, but at 80 miles east of Tadum the road leaves the river, and crossing some higher ground, descends into the valley of the Baka Sangpo river, which is a great tributary of the Brahmaputra; leaving the Eakas valley, the road crosses over the mountains, and again reaches the Brahmaputra at about 180 miles below Tadum. About 10 miles lower the road changes from the left bank to the right bank, travelers having to cross the great river by ferry-boats near the town of Janglache. Below Janglache, the road follows the river closely to a little below its junction with the Baka Sangpo. From that point the road runs some 10 miles south of the river, crossing the mountains to the large town of Shigatze, 11,800 feet above the sea. From Shigatze the road runs considerably south of the river, ascends the Penanangchu river, and, crossing the Kharola pass, 17,000 feet above the sea, descends into the basin of the Yamdokcho lake. For two long stages the road runs along this great lake, which is 13,700 feet above the sea, then rising sharply, crosses the lofty Khamba-la pass, and descends to the Brahmaputra again, now only 11,400 feet above the sea. Following the great river for one stage more, the road (which has hitherto been running from west to east) here leaves the Brahmaputra, and ascends its tributary, the Kichu Sangpo, in a northeasterly direction for three stages more to Lhasa, which is 11,700 feet above the sea. The total distance is about 800 miles from Gartokh to Lhasa.
This long line of road is generally well-defined, though it is not a made road, in the European sense of the word. The natural slopes over which the road is carried are however wonderfully easy. The Tibetans have, as a rule, simply had to clear away the loose stones, and only in three or four places, for a few miles, has anything in the way of making a road been necessary.
In many parts there appears to have been considerable danger of losing the road in the open stretches of the table-land, the whole surface looking very much like a road; but this danger is guarded against by the frequent erection of piles of stones, surmounted with flags on sticks, etcetera. These piles, called lapcha by the Tibetans, were found exceedingly handy for the survey; the quick eye of the Pundit generally caught the forward pile, and even if he did not, he was sure to see the one behind, and in this way generally secured a capital object on which to take his compass bearings. The Tibetans look upon these piles partly as guide posts, and partly as objects of veneration; travelers generally contribute a stone to them as they pass, or if very devout and generous, add a piece of rag; consequently, on a well-used road, these piles grow to a great size, and form conspicuous objects in the landscape. Over the table-land the road is broad and wide enough to allow several travelers to go abreast; in the rougher portions the road generally consists of two or three narrow paths, the width worn by horses, yaks, men, etcetera, following one another. In two or three places these dwindle down to a single track, but are always passable by a horseman, and, indeed, only in one place, near Phuncholing, is there a
ny difficulty about laden animals. A man on horseback need never dismount between Lhasa and Gartokh, except to cross the rivers.
The road is, in fact, a wonderfully well-maintained one, considering the very elevated and desolate mountains over which it is carried. Between Lhasa and Gartokh there are twenty-two staging places, called Tarjums, where the baggage animals are changed. These Tarjums are from 20 to 70 miles apart; at each, shelter is to be had, and efficient arrangements are organized for forwarding officials and messengers. The Tarjums generally consist of a house, or houses, made with sun-dried bricks. The larger Tarjums are capable of holding 150 to 200 men at a time, but some of the smaller can hold only a dozen people; in the latter case, further accommodation is provided by tents. At six Tarjums tents only are forthcoming. Each Tarjum is in charge of an official, called Tarjumpa, who is obliged to have horses, yaks, and coolies in attendance whenever notice is received of the approach of a Lhasa official. From ten to fifteen horses, and as many men, are always in attendance night and day. Horses and beasts of burden (yaks in the higher ground, donkeys in the lower) are forthcoming in great numbers when required; they are supplied by the nomadic tribes, whose camps are pitched near the halting houses.
Though the iron rule of the Lhasa authorities keeps this high road in order, the difficulties and hardships of the Pundit’s march along it cannot be fully realized, without bearing in mind the great elevation at which the road is carried. Between the Mansarowar lake and the Tadum monastery the average height of the road above the sea must be over 15,000 feet, or about the height of Mont Blanc. Between Tadum and Lhasa its average height is 13,500 feet; and only for one stage does the road descend so low as 11,000 feet, whilst on several passes it rises to more than 16,000 feet above the sea. Ordinary travelers with laden animals make two to five marches between the staging-houses, and only special messengers go from one staging-house to another without halting. Between the staging-houses the Pundit had to sleep in a rude tent that freely admitted the biting Tibetan wind, and on some occasions be had to sleep in the open air.