The two men, when they came home, greeted us as warmly as their wife had done. An abundant supper was prepared and we even got sour milk to drink. This was a pleasure we had not enjoyed since we used to help the buttermakers in Kyirong. We sat for a long while in comfort by the fire and felt ourselves rewarded for the hardships of the road. We laughed and jested much, and as is usual when the company consists of several men and a single pretty young woman, the latter got her share of teasing.
We started fresh and rested the next day, and were glad to have left the lonely snowy landscape behind us. We saw signs of life here and there. Herds of wild goats showed themselves on the slopes and sometimes came so near that a pistol would have given us a steak for our dinner. Unfortunately, we hadn’t one.
It was a pleasant surprise to find more friendly nomads as evening fell. They called in their dogs as we approached and we decided to rest for a day among them and give our yak a chance of grazing on their fertile pastures.
In winter the men living a nomad life have not much to do. They busy themselves with various household chores and for recreation go hunting with their antiquated muzzle loaders. The women collect yak dung and often carry their babies around with them as they work. In the evening the herds are driven in and the cows milked—though it is little they give in winter. As one can imagine, the nomads have the simplest methods of cooking. In winter they eat almost exclusively meat with as much fat as possible. They also eat different kinds of soup—tsampa, the staple diet in agricultural districts, is a rarity here.
The whole life of the nomads is organized so as to make the most of the scanty aids to living which nature provides. At night they sleep on skins spread upon the ground and, slipping out of the sleeves, use their sheepskin cloaks as bedclothes. Before they get up in the morning, they blow up the still-live embers of their fire with a bellows and the first thing they do is to make tea. The fire is the heart of the household and is never allowed to go out. As in every peasant’s house, one finds an altar in every tent, which usually consists of a simple chest on which is set an amulet or a small statue of the Buddha. There is invariably a picture of the Dalai Lama. A little butter lamp burns on the altar, and in winter the flame is almost invisible owing to the cold and the lack of oxygen.
The greatest event of the year in the life of the nomads is the annual market in Gyanyima to which they drive their flocks and barter some of their sheep for grain. And there they buy household articles, needles, aluminum pots and pans, and brightly colored ornaments for the women.
We were sorry to be on the road once more after a glimpse of domestic life. We would have wished to do something to repay the hospitality of these people. We gave them small presents of colored yarn and paprika—that was all we had.
For a time after this we covered from ten to twenty miles each day, according to whether we found tents on our route or not. Often enough we had to bivouac in the open. At those times it took us all our energy to collect yak dung and find water, and even talking was a waste of strength. We suffered much with our hands, which were always stiff with frost, for we had no gloves and used a pair of socks instead. Once a day we cooked meat and ladled the gravy straight out of the simmering saucepan. One could do that here without fear of scalding one’s tongue as the boiling point was so low. We cooked at night, and warmed up anything that was left over before we started in the morning. We marched through the whole day without halting.
I could write a chapter on the miseries of our nights, when we lay close together often unable to sleep because of the cold and the countless lice that tormented us. The reader must imagine what we suffered.
On December 13, we reached Labrang Trowa, a “settlement” consisting of a single house. The family to which the house belonged used it only for camping and lived in their tent, which they had pitched nearby. When we asked them why, they replied that the tent was far warmer. We gathered from their conversation that we had landed in an official’s residence. The bönpo was away, but his brother acted for him. The latter began to ask us questions, but soon seemed to be satisfied with our tale of being pilgrims. For the first time we admitted that we wished to go to Lhasa, for at this point we were at a safe distance from the caravan route. Our man shook his head in horror and tried to make us understand that the quickest and best way to Lhasa was by way of Shigatse. I had my answer ready. We had chosen the hard way in order that our pilgrimage might have greater merit. He was impressed by this explanation and gladly gave us good advice.
He said we had a choice of two courses. The first was to follow a route which was very difficult. It would take us over many passes and tracts of uninhabited country. The second was easier but it meant going through the middle of the Khampas’ country. There it was again, the name “Khampa,” spoken in a mysterious tone, which we had already heard from so many nomads. “Khampa” must mean an inhabitant of the eastern province of Tibet, which is called Kham. But you never heard the name mentioned without an undertone of fear and warning. At last we realized that the word was synonymous with “robber.”
We, unfortunately, made light of the warning and chose the easier route.
We spent two nights with the bönpo’s family—not unfortunately as guests in their tent, as the proud Tibetans did not deem us poor Indians worthy of such an honor. But the bönpo’s brother was a very impressive fellow. He was serious-minded and sparing in his speech, but when he said anything it made sense. He shared his brother’s wife and lived on his flocks. The family seemed to be well-off, and they lived in a considerably larger tent than those of most nomads. We were able to replenish our stores, and money was accepted for our purchases as a matter of course.
6
The Worst Trek of All
We had been some time on the way when a man came toward us wearing clothes that struck us as unusual. He spoke a dialect different from that of the local nomads. He asked us curiously whence? and whither? and we told him our pilgrimage story. He left us unmolested and went on his way. It was clear to us that we had made the acquaintance of our first Khampa.
A few hours later we saw in the distance two men on small ponies, wearing the same sort of clothes. We slowly began to feel uncomfortable and went on without waiting for them. Long after dark we came across a tent. Here we were lucky, as it was inhabited by a pleasant nomad family, who hospitably invited us to come in and gave us a special fireplace for ourselves.
In the evening we got to talking about the robbers. They were, it seems, a regular plague. Our host had lived long enough in the district to make an epic about them. He proudly showed us a Mannlicher rifle for which he had paid a fortune to a Khampa—five hundred sheep, no less. But the robber bands in the neighborhood considered this payment as a sort of tribute and had left him in peace ever since.
He told us something about the life of the robbers. They live in groups in three or four tents, which serve as headquarters for their campaigns. These are conducted as follows: heavily armed with rifles and swords they force their way into a nomad’s tent and insist on hospitable entertainment on the most lavish scale available. The nomad in terror brings out everything he has. The Khampas fill their bellies and their pockets and taking a few cattle with them, for good measure, disappear into the wide-open spaces. They repeat the performance at another tent every day till the whole region has been skinned. Then they move their headquarters and begin again somewhere else. The nomads, who have no arms, resign themselves to their fate, and the government is powerless to protect them in these remote regions. However, if once in a while a district officer gets the better of these footpads in a skirmish, he is not the loser by it for he has a right to all the booty. Savage punishment is meted out to the evildoers, who normally have their arms hacked off. But this does not cure the Khampas of their lawlessness. Stories were told of the cruelty with which they sometimes put their victims to death. They go so far as to slaughter pilgrims and wandering monks and nuns. A disturbing conversation for us! What would we not have given
to be able to buy our host’s Mannlicher! But we had no money and not even the most primitive weapons. The tent pegs we carried did not impress even the sheepdogs.
The next morning we went on our way, not without misgivings, which increased when we saw a man with a gun, who seemed to be stalking us from the hillside. Nevertheless, we kept straight on our course, and the man eventually disappeared. In the evening we found more tents—first a single one and then a cluster of others.
We called to the people in the first tent. A family of nomads came out. They refused with expressions of horror to admit us and pointed distractedly to the other tents. There was nothing to do but to go on. We were no little surprised to receive a friendly welcome at the next tent. Everyone came out. They fingered our things and helped us to unload—a thing which no nomads had ever done—and suddenly it dawned on us that they were Khampas. We had walked like mice into the trap. The inhabitants of the tent were two men, a woman, and a half-grown youngster. We had to put a good face on a poor situation. At least we were on our guard and hoped that politeness, foresight, and diplomacy would help us to find a way out of the mess.
We had hardly sat down by the fire when the tent began to fill with visitors from the neighboring tents, come to see the strangers. We had our hands full trying to keep our baggage together. The people were as pressing and inquisitive as gypsies. When they had heard that we were pilgrims, they urgently recommended us to take one of the men, a particularly good guide, with us on our journey to Lhasa. He wanted us to go by a road somewhat to the south of our route and, according to him, much easier to travel. We exchanged glances. The man was short and powerful, and carried a long sword in his belt. Not a type to inspire confidence. However, we accepted his offer and agreed on his pay. There was nothing else to do, for if we got on the wrong side of them they might butcher us out of hand.
The visitors from the other tents gradually drifted away, and we prepared to go to bed. One of our two hosts insisted on using my rucksack as a pillow, and I had the utmost difficulty keeping it by me. They probably thought that it contained a pistol. If they did, that suited us and I hoped to increase their suspicion by my behavior. At last he stopped bothering me. We remained awake and on our guard all through the night. That was not very difficult, though we were very weary, because the woman muttered prayers without ceasing. It occurred to me that she was praying in advance for forgiveness for the crime her husband intended to commit against us the next day. We were glad when day broke. At first everything seemed peaceful. I exchanged a pocket mirror for some yak’s brains, which we cooked for breakfast. Then we began to get ready to go. Our hosts followed our movements with glowering faces and looked as if they wanted to attack me when I handed our packs out of the tent to Aufschnaiter. However, we shook them off and loaded our yak. We looked out for our guide, but to our relief he was nowhere to be seen. The Khampa family advised us urgently to keep to the southern road, as the nomads from that region were making up a pilgrim caravan to Lhasa. We promised to do so and started off in all haste.
We had gone a few hundred yards when I noticed that my dog was not there. He usually came running after us without being called. As we looked around we saw three men coming after us. They soon caught up with us and told us that they, too, were on the way to the tents of the nomad pilgrims and pointed to a distant pillar of smoke. That looked to us very suspicious as we had never seen such smoke pillars over the nomad tents. When we asked about the dog, they said that he had stayed behind in the tent. One of us could go and fetch him. Now we saw their plan. Our lives were at stake. They had kept the dog back in order to have a chance of separating Aufschnaiter and me, as they lacked the courage to attack us both at the same time. And probably they had companions waiting where the smoke was rising. If we went there, we would be heavily outnumbered, and they could dispose of us with ease. No one would ever know anything about our disappearance. We were now very sorry not to have listened to the well-meant warnings of the nomads.
As though we suspected nothing we went on a short way in the same direction, talking rapidly to each other. The two men were now on either side of us, while the boy walked behind. Stealing a glance to right and left, we estimated our chances if it came to a fight. The two men wore double sheepskin cloaks, as the robbers do, to protect them against knife thrusts, and long swords were stuck in their belts. Their faces had an expression of lamblike innocence.
Something had to happen. Aufschnaiter thought we ought first to change our direction, so as not to walk blindly into a trap. No sooner said than done. Still speaking, we abruptly turned away.
The Khampas stopped for a moment in surprise, but in a moment rejoined us and barred our way, asking us, in none too friendly tones, where we were going. “To fetch the dog,” we answered curtly. Our manner of speaking seemed to intimidate them. They saw that we were prepared to go to any length, so they let us go and after staring after us for a while they hurriedIy went on their way, probably to inform their accomplices.
When we got near the tents, the woman came to meet us, leading the dog on a leash. After a friendly greeting, we went on, but this time we followed the road by which we had come to the robber camp. There was now no question of going forward—we had to retrace our steps. Unarmed as we were, to continue would have meant certain death. After a forced march, we arrived in the evening at the home of the friendly family with whom we had stayed two nights before. They were not surprised to hear of our experiences and told us that the Khampas’ encampment was called Gyak Bongra, a name which inspired fear throughout the countryside. After this adventure it was a blessing to be able to spend a peaceful night with friendly people.
The next morning we worked out our new travel plan. There was nothing for it but to take the hard road, which led through uninhabited country. We bought more meat from the nomads, as we should probably be a week before seeing a soul.
To avoid going back to Labrang Trowa, we took a short cut entailing a laborious and steep ascent but leading, as we hoped, to the route we meant to follow. Halfway up the steep slope we turned to look at the view and saw, to our horror, two men following us in the distance. No doubt they were Khampas. They had probably visited the nomads and been told which direction we had taken.
What were we to do? We said nothing, but later confessed to each other that we had silently made up our minds to sell our lives as dearly as possible. We tried at first to speed up our pace, but we could not go faster than our yak, who seemed to us to be moving at a snail’s pace. We kept on looking back, but could not be sure whether our pursuers were coming up on us or not. We fully realized how heavily handicapped we were by our lack of arms. We had only tent pegs and stones to defend ourselves with against their sharp swords. To have a chance we must depend on our wits. . . . So we marched on for an hour that seemed endless, panting with exertion and constantly turning around. Then we saw that the two men had sat down. We hurried on toward the top of the ridge, looking as we went for a place which would, if need be, serve as good fighting ground. The two men got up, seemed to be taking counsel together, and then we saw them turn around and go back. We breathed again and drove our yak on so that we might soon be out of sight over the far side of the mountain.
When we reached the crest of the ridge, we understood why our two pursuers had preferred to turn back. Before us lay the loneliest landscape I had ever seen. A sea of snowy mountain heights stretched onward endlessly. In the far distance were the Transhimalayas, and like a gap in a row of teeth was the pass which we calculated would lead us to the road we aimed at. First put on the map by Sven Hedin, this pass—the Selala—leads to Shigatse. Being uncertain whether the Khampas had really given up the pursuit, we went on marching even after nightfall. Luckily, the moon was high and, with the snow, gave us plenty of light. We could see even the distant ranges.
I SHALL NEVER FORGET that night march. I had never been through an experience that placed such a strain on the body and the spirit. Our escape from the Khampas was
due to the desolation of the region, the nature of which brought us new obstacles to surmount. It was a good thing that I had long ago thrown away my thermometer. Here it would certainly have marked -30 degrees as that was the lowest it could record. But that was certainly more than the reality. Sven Hedin registered -40 degrees hereabouts at this season of the year.
We loped on for hours over the virgin snow, and as we went our minds traveled afar on their own journeys. I was tormented by visions of a warm, comfortable room, delicious hot food, and steaming hot drinks. Curiously enough it was the evocation of a commonplace buffet at Graz, known to me in my student days, which nearly drove me crazy. Aufschnaiter’s thoughts lay in another direction. He harbored dark plans of revenge against the robbers and swore to come back with a magazine of arms. Woe to all the Khampas!
At last we broke off our march, unloaded our yak, and crawled under cover. We had taken out our bag of tsampa and some raw meat as we were ravenously hungry, but as soon as we put a spoonful of dry meal into our mouths the metal stuck to our lips and would not come away. We had to tear it loose, amid curses and oaths. With appetites blunted by this painful experience, we huddled up together under our blankets and fell, despite the piercing cold, into the leaden sleep of exhaustion.
Seven Years in Tibet Page 11