by Ruskin Bond
Bearing in mind that the greater part of this march was made in mid-winter, it will be allowed that the Pundit has performed a feat of which a native of Hindustan, or of any other country, may well be proud. Notwithstanding the desolate track they crossed, the camp was not altogether without creature comforts. The yaks and donkeys carried a good supply of ordinary necessaries, such as grain, barley meal, tea, butter, etcetera, and sheep and goats were generally procurable at the halting places. A never-failing supply of fuel, though not of the pleasantest kind, was generally forthcoming from the argols or dried dung of the baggage animals, each camp being supposed to leave behind at least as many argols as it burns. At most of the halting places there is generally a very large accumulation.
Between the Mansarowar and Sarkajong nothing in the shape of spirits was to be had, but to the eastward of the latter place a liquor made from barley could generally be got in every village. This liquor, called chung, varies in strength, according to the season of the year, being in summer something like sour beer, and in the winter approximating closely in taste and strength to the strongest of smoked whiskey. The good-natured Tibetans are constantly brewing chung, and they never begrudge anyone a drink. Thirsty travelers, on reaching a village, soon find out where a fresh brew has been made; their drinking cups are always handy in their belts, and they seldom fail to get them filled at least once. The Pundit stoutly denied that this custom tended to drunkenness among his Tibetan friends; and it must be allowed that in Ladak, where the same custom prevails, the people never appeared to be much the worse for it; guides had, however, to be rather closely watched, if the march took them through many villages, as they seldom failed to pull out their cup at each one.
A good deal of fruit is said to be produced on the banks of the Brahmaputra, between Shigatze and Chushul. The Pundit only saw it in a dried state.
When marching along the great road, the Pundit and his companions rose very early; before starting they sometimes made a brew*5 of tea, and another brew was always made about the middle of the march, or a mess of stirabout (suttoo)*6 was made in their cups, with barley meal and water. On arriving at the end of a march they generally had some more tea at once, to stave off the cravings of hunger, until something more substantial was got ready, in the shape of cakes and meat, if the latter was available. Their marches generally occupied them from dawn till 2:00 or 3:00 p.m., but sometimes they did not reach their camping ground till quite late in the evening. On the march they were often passed and met by special messengers, riding along as hard as they could go. The Pundit said these men always looked haggard and worn. They have to ride the whole distance continuously, without stopping either by night or day, except to eat food and change horses. In order to make sure that they never take off their clothes, the breast fastening of their overcoat is sealed, and no one is allowed to break the seal, except the official to whom the messenger is sent. The Pundit says he saw several of the messengers arrive at the end of their 800-mile ride. Their faces were cracked, their eyes bloodshot and sunken, and their bodies eaten by lice into large raws, the latter of which they attributed to not being allowed to take off their clothes.
It is difficult to imagine why the Lhasa authorities are so very particular as to the rapid transmission of official messages, but it seems to be a principle that is acted upon throughout the Chinese empire, as one of the means of government. Ordinary letters have a feather attached to them, and this simple addition is sufficient to carry a letter from Lhasa to Gartokh, 800 miles, in little over thirty days. A messenger arriving at a village with such a letter is at once relieved by another, who takes it on to the next village. This system was frequently made use of by the Surveyors in Ladak and Little Tibet, and it generally answered well.
If any very special message is in preparation, and if time permits, an ordinary messenger is sent ahead to give notice. Food is then kept ready, and the special messenger only remains at the staging-house long enough to eat his food, and then starts again on a fresh horse. He rides on day and night, as fast as the horses can carry him. The road throughout can be ridden over at night; if there is no moon the bright starlight*7 of Tibet gives sufficient light. Tibet is rarely troubled by dark nights; but, in case it should be cloudy, or that a horse should break down, two mounted men always accompany the messenger. These men are changed at every stage, and are thoroughly acquainted with their own piece of road. Each of these two men has, at least, two spare horses attached behind the horse he is mounted on. If any horse gets tired it is changed at once, and left on the road, to be picked up on the return of the men to their own homes. By this means the messenger makes great progress where the road is good, and is never stopped altogether, even in the rougher portion. A special messenger does the 800 miles in twenty-two days on average, occasionally in two or three days less, but only on very urgent occasions.
The Pundit made fifty-one marches between Lhasa and the Mansarowar lake, and his brother makes out the remaining distance to Gartokh seven marches more, or, in all, fifty-eight marches. The Pundit found very few of the marches short, while a great many were very long and tedious…
…From the Mansarowar lake to Tadtim (140 miles) glaciers seem always to have been visible to the south, but nothing very high was seen to the north; for the next 70 miles the mountains north and south seem to have been lower, but further eastward a very high snowy range was visible to the north,*8 running for 120 miles parallel to the Raka Sangpo River. From Janglache to Gyangze the Pundit seems to have seen nothing high, but he notices a very large glacier between the Penanang valley and the Yamdokcho lake.
From the lofty Khamba-la pass the Pundit got a capital view. Looking south he could see over the island in the Yamdokcho lake, and made out a very high range to the south of the lake; the mountains to the east of the lake did not appear to be quite so high. Looking north the Pundit had a clear view over the Brahmaputra, but all the mountains in that direction were, comparatively speaking, low, and in no way remarkable.
About Lhasa no very high mountains were seen, and those visible appeared to be all about the same altitude. Hardly any snow was visible from the city, even in winter. From the Mansarowar to Ralung, 400 miles, there were no villages, and no cultivation of any kind. The mountains had a very desolate appearance, but still numerous large camps of black tents, and thousands of sheep, goats, and yaks were seen—the fact being that the mountain sides, though looking so arid and brown, do produce a very nourishing coarse grass.
East of Ralung, cultivation and trees were seen every day near the villages. Near the Yamdokcho lake the lower mountains seem to have had a better covering of grass. The Pundit mentions the island in the Yamdokcho as being very well grassed up to the summit, which must be 16,000 or 17,000 feet above the sea. This extra amount of grass may be due to a larger fall of rain, as the Pundit was informed that the rains were heavy during July and August.
As a rule, the Pundit’s view from the road does not seem to have been very extensive, for although the mountains on either side were comparatively low, they generally hid the distant ranges.
The only geological fact elicited is that the low range to the east of the Lhasa River was composed of sandstone. According to the Pundit, this sandstone was very like that of the Siwalik range at the southern foot of the Himalayas.
The probability of this is perhaps increased by the fact that fossil bones are plentiful in the Lhasa district. They are supposed to possess great healing properties when applied to wounds, etcetera, in a powdered state. The Pundit saw quantities of fossils exposed for sale in the Lhasa bazaar. The people there call them Dug-rupa, or lightning bones. One fossil particularly struck the Pundit; it consisted of a skull which was about two and a half feet long, and one and a half feet broad. The jaws were elongated, but the points had been broken off. The mountains crossed were generally rounded with easy slopes. The roundness of those on the Yamdokcho Island seems to have been very remarkable; this general
roundness and easiness of slope probably points to former glacier or ice action.
Besides the Yamdokcho, a good many smaller lakes were seen, and two much larger ones were heard of. Those seen by the Pundit were all at about 14,000 feet above the sea. There are hardly any lakes in the lower Himalayas, the few that exist being all at or below 6,000 feet, but from about 14,000 to 15,000 feet, lakes and tarns are particularly numerous.*9 This may be another evidence of former ice action.
Whilst the Pundit was at Shigatze and Lhasa, he took a series of thermometer observations to determine the temperature of the air. During November, at Shigatze, the thermometer always fell during the night below the freezing point, even inside a house. The lowest temperature recorded was 25°F, and during the day the temperature hardly ever rose to 50°F. At Lhasa, in February, the thermometer generally fell below 32°F during the night, and the lowest observed temperature was 26°F; during the day it seldom rose to 45°F. During the whole time the Pundit was in the Lhasa territory, from September to the end of June, it never rained, and snow only fell once whilst he was on the march, and twice whilst in Lhasa.
The snowfall at Shigatze was said to be never more than 12 inches; but the cold in the open air must have been intense, as the water of running streams freezes if the current is not very strong.
* * *
BETWEEN WOLVES AND SHIPWRECK*10
Sven Hedin
The 24th of September [1906 was a] memorable day—my sails on Tibetan lakes, curiously enough, almost always ended in adventures. Of my Ladakis five had been in the service of Deasy and Rawling, and two of them affirmed that a shiny spot east-southeast was the spring where Captain Deasy had encamped for ten days in July 1896, and which he names in his narrative “Fever Camp.” Their indication agreed with Deasy’s map; so Muhamed Isa was ordered to lead the caravan thither, light a large beacon fire on the nearest point of the shore as soon as darkness set in, and keep two horses in readiness.
Our plan was to sail in an east-northeasterly direction for the northern shore, and thence southward again to the signal fire. Rehim Ali was on this occasion assisted by Robert, who subsequently developed into an excellent boatman. The lake was nearly quite calm; its water, owing to its small depth, is greener, but quite as clear as that of its western neighbor. It is so salty that everything that touches it—hands, boat, oars, etcetera—glitters with crystals of salt. The shore and bottom of the lake consist chiefly of clay cemented together by crystallized salt into slabs and blocks as hard as stone, so that great care must be exercised when the boat is pushed into the water, for these slabs have edges and corners as sharp as knives. The lake is a salt basin of approximately elliptical outline with very low banks; nowhere do mountains descend to the strand. The three-foot line runs about 100 yards from the shore; but even 650 yards out the depth is only 15 feet. We executed our first line of soundings across the lake in the most delightful calm, and I steered the boat toward the point I had fixed by observations. At one o’clock the temperature was 49°F in the water, and 50½° in the air. The depth increased very regularly, the maximum of 52.8 feet occurring not far from the northern shore. Robert was much delighted with the sail, and begged that I would always take him with me in future, which I the more readily granted since he was always cheerful and lively, and he gave me valuable help in all observations. A little bay on the north shore served us as a landing-place. We surveyed the neighborhood, and then hurriedly ate our breakfast, consisting of bread, marmalade, pâté de foie, and water. My companions had brought sugar, a teapot, and enamelled bowls, but left the tea behind; but this forgetfulness only raised our spirits.
Then we put off again to make for the spring to the southeast. A row of stone blocks and lumps of salt ran out from the landing-place east-southeastward, and the water here was so shallow that we had to propel our boat with great care. Just as we had passed the last rock, of which I took a specimen, the west wind got up, the surface of the lake became agitated, and a couple of minutes later white horses appeared on the salt waves.
“Up with the sail and down with the leeboards.”
The lake before us is tinted with shades of reddish purple, a reflection from the clayey bottom; there it must be very shallow, but we shall soon pass it.
“Do you see the small white swirls in the southwest? Those are the forerunners of the storm, which stirs up the salt particles,” I said.
“If the storm is bad, the boat will be broken on the sharp ledges of the bottom before we can reach land,” remarked Robert.
“That is not clouds of salt,” said Rehim Ali; “that is the smoke of fires.”
“But Muhamed Isa should be camping at Sahib Deasy’s source; that lies towards the southwest.”
“There is no smoke there,” replied Robert, who had the field glass; “perhaps they have not been able to cross the salt flats on the south of the lake.”
“Then it is their beacon fires which we see; but we cannot cross over in this boat in a storm.”
“Master,” suggested Robert, who always addressed me thus, “would it not be more prudent to land again before the storm reaches its height? We should be safe behind the stones, and we can gather a quantity of fuel before sunset.”
“Yes, that will perhaps be best; this lake is much more dangerous in a storm than Lake Lighten. We have, indeed, no furs, but we shall manage. Take in the sail and row behind the boulders. What are you gazing at?”
“Master, I see two large wolves, and we have no guns.”
He was right; two light, almost white, Isegrims were pacing the shore. They were so placed that they must be able to scent us in the boat; the odor of fresh live meat tickled their noses. When we stopped they stopped too, and when we began to move they went on close to the margin of the water. “Sooner or later you must come on shore, and then it will be our turn,” perhaps they thought. Rehim Ali opined that they were scouts of a whole troop, and said it was dangerous to expose ourselves to an attack in the night. He had only a clasp-knife with him, and Robert and I only penknives in our pockets; we had, therefore, little chance of defending ourselves successfully. Robert, for his part, preferred the lake in a storm to the wolves. I had so often slept out of doors unarmed, that I no longer troubled myself about them. But in the midst of our consultation we were suddenly compelled to think of something else. The storm came whistling over the lake.
Fortunately, the sail was still standing and the centerboards were down; the wind caught the canvas, the water began to rush under the stern, and we shot smoothly southward with a side wind. Robert gave vent to a sigh of relief. “Anything but wolves,” he said. I made Robert and Rehim Ali row to save time, and soon the two beasts were out of sight. “They will certainly gallop round the lake, as they know quite well that we must land somewhere,” said Robert. He was quite right—the situation was exceedingly unpleasant; we had only a choice between the storm and the wolves. We could not depend on our people; they were evidently cut off from us by salt morasses, which it was dangerous to venture into. We would therefore try to reach a suitable point on the south shore before dark.
The hours fled past, and the sun sank in glowing yellow behind the mountains. For two hours we held on our course toward Deasy’s camp, but when the beacon fires became more distinct in the gathering twilight we changed our direction and steered southward to reach our people. The distance, however, was hopelessly long, and just from that direction the storm blew, and in the broken, freakish light of the moon the waves looked as weird as playing dolphins. Sometimes I was able to take some rapid soundings; they gave depths of 32 and 36 feet. Our fate was just as uncertain as on the former occasion on Lake Lighten; we steered for the shore, but did not know how far off it was. Rehim Ali judged from the length of the path of moonlight on the water that it was a long distance. Two more hours passed. I gave my orders to the oarsmen in English and Turki. We had now the waves on our quarter, and if we did not parry their rolling, foami
ng crests, they would fill the boat and sink it; so we had to sail straight against them.
The situation was not a little exciting, but good luck attended us. The boat cut the waves cleanly, and we got only small splashes now and then. The spray trickled down our necks, was pleasantly cool, and had a saline taste. I again took soundings, and Robert read the line: 33 feet, then 25, and lastly 20.
“Now the southern shore cannot be very far,” I said; but my companions remained still and listened. “What is it?” I asked.
“A heavy storm from the west,” answered Rehim Ali, letting his oar fall.
A regular humming noise was heard in the distance, which came nearer and nearer. It was the storm, which swept over the lake with redoubled violence and lashed up foam from the waves.
“We shall not reach the shore before it overtakes us. It will be here in a minute. Master, we shall capsize if the waves become twice as high as they are now.”
The waves swelled with incredible rapidity, the curves in the streak of moonlight became greater and greater, and we rocked as in a huge hammock. The sounding line had just marked 20 feet. How long would it be before the boat would ground on the hard, salt bottom, if it found itself in a trough between two waves? The leeboards beat against the sides, the boat pitches and rolls, and anyone who does not sit firmly and stiffen himself with his feet must go overboard. A terrible wave, like an all-devouring monster, comes down upon us, but the boat glides smoothly over it, and the next moment we are down in a trough so deep that all the horizon is concealed by the succeeding crest. We were not quick enough in negotiating this new wave; it ran along the gunwale and gave us a good footbath.