The next day we toiled on painfully, trudging along in the footprints of our gallant yak and hardly looking up. In the afternoon we suddenly thought we were seeing the fata morgana, for, far away on the horizon, yet very clearly outlined, appeared three caravans of yaks moving through the snowy scene. They were moving very slowly forward, and then they seemed to come to a stop—but they did not vanish. So it was no mirage. The sight gave us new courage. We summoned up all our strength, drove our yak on, and after three hours’ march reached the spot where the caravans were camped. There were some fifteen persons in the caravan—men and women—and when we arrived their tents were already pitched. They were astonished to see us but greeted us kindly and brought us in to get warm by the fire. We found out that they were returning from a combined pilgrimage and trading voyage to Mount Kailas to their homes by Lake Namtsho. They had been warned by the district officials about the brigands and so had chosen to follow this difficult route in order to avoid the region infested by the Khampas. They were bringing home fifty yaks and a couple of hundred sheep. The rest of their herds had been bartered for goods, and they would have been a rich prize for the robbers. That was why the three groups had joined together, and they now invited us to come along with them. Reinforcements could be useful if they met the Khampas.
What a pleasure it was to be once more sitting by a fire and ladling down hot soup. We felt that this meeting had been ordained by providence. We did not forget our brave Armin, for we knew how much we owed him, and we asked the caravan leader to let us load our baggage on one of their free yaks, for which we would pay a day’s hire. So our beast was able to enjoy a little rest.
Day after day we wandered on with the caravans and pitched our little mountaineer’s tent alongside theirs. We suffered very much from the difficulty of pitching our tents during the hurricanes that often blew in these regions. Unlike the heavy yak-hair tents, which could resist the wind, our light canvas hut would not stand up in rough weather, and we sometimes had to bivouac in the open air. We swore that if we ever again came on an expedition to Tibet we should have with us three yaks, a driver, a nomad’s tent, and a rifle!
We thought ourselves very lucky to be allowed to join the caravans. The only thing that disturbed us was the extreme slowness of our progress. Compared with our previous marches, we seemed to be gently strolling along. The nomads start early, and after covering three or four miles, pitch their tents again and send their animals out to graze. Before nightfall they bring them in and fold them near the tents, where they are safe from wolves and can ruminate in peace.
Only now did we perceive how we had imposed on our poor Armin! He must have thought us as mad as the Tibetans did when we spent our days climbing the mountains round Kyirong. During our long periods of rest, we devoted much time to filling in our diaries, which we had recently neglected. We also began systematically to collect information about the road to Lhasa from the people in the caravan. We questioned them separately and gradually gathered a definite sequence of place names. That was of great value to us as it would enable us later to ask the nomads the way from one place to another. We had long agreed that we could not go on spending our life taking short walks. We must leave the caravan in the near future. We took leave of our friends on Christmas Eve and started off again alone. We felt fresh and rested, and covered more than fourteen miles on the first day. Late in the evening we came to a wide plain on which were some isolated tents. Their inmates seemed to be very much on their guard, for as we approached, a couple of wild-looking men, heavily armed, came up to us. They shouted at us rudely and told us to go to the devil. We did not budge, but put up our hands to show we were not armed and explained to them that we were harmless pilgrims. In spite of our rest days with the caravan, we must have presented a pitiful appearance. After a short discussion, the owner of the larger tent asked us in to spend the night. We warmed ourselves by the fire and were given butter tea and a rare delicacy—a piece of white bread each. It was stale and hard as stone, but this little present on Christmas Eve in the wilds of Tibet meant more to us than a well-cooked Christmas dinner had ever done at home.
Our host treated us roughly at first. When we told him by what route we aimed at reaching Lhasa, he said dryly that if we had not been killed up to now, we certainly would be in the next few days. The country was full of Khampas. Without arms we would be easy prey for them. He said this in a fatalistic tone, as one utters a self-evident truth. We felt very disheartened and asked for his advice. He recommended we take the road to Shigatse, which we could reach in a week. We would not hear of that. He thought for a while and then advised us to apply to the district officer of this region, whose tent was only a few miles distant. The officer would be able to give us an escort if we absolutely insisted on going through the robbers’ country.
That evening we had so much to discuss that we hardly gave a thought to Christmas in our own homes. At last we agreed to take a chance and visit the bönpo. It took us only a few hours to reach his tent, and we found it a good omen that he greeted us in a friendly way and placed a tent at our disposal. He then called his colleague and we all four sat down in conference. This time we discarded our story about being Indian pilgrims. We gave ourselves out as Europeans and demanded protection against the bandits. Naturally, we were traveling with the permission of the government and I coolly handed him the old travel permit, which the garpon had formerly given us in Gartok. (This document had a story. We three had tossed up to decide who should keep it, and Kopp had won. But when he left us, I had had an inspiration and bought it from him. And now its hour had come.) The two officials examined the seal and were clearly impressed by the document. They were now convinced that we had a right to be in Tibet. The only question they asked was where the third member of the party was. We explained that he had been taken sick and had traveled back to India via Tradün. This satisfied the bönpos, who promised us an escort; they would be relieved at different stages by fresh men, and would conduct us as far as the northern main road.
That was a real Christmas greeting for us! And now at last we felt like keeping the Feast. We had stored up a little rice at Kyirong especially for the occasion. This we prepared and invited the two bönpos to come and share it. They came bringing all sorts of good things with them, and we passed a happy, friendly evening together.
On the following day a nomad accompanied us to the next encampment and “delivered” us there. It was something like a relay race with us as the baton. Our guide went back after handing us over. With our next guide we made wonderful progress and we realized how useful it was to have a companion who really knew the way, even though he did not provide absolute security against robbers.
Our permanent companions were the wind and the cold. To us it seemed as if the whole world was a blizzard with a temperature of -30 degrees Centigrade. We suffered much from being insufficiently clothed, and I was lucky to be able to obtain an old sheepskin cloak from a tent dweller. It was tight for me and lacked half a sleeve, but it cost me only two rupees. Our shoes were in a wretched state and could not last much longer; and as for gloves, we hadn’t any. Aufschnaiter had had frostbite in the hands, and I had trouble with my feet. We endured our sufferings with dull resignation, and it needed a lot of energy to accomplish our daily quota of miles. How happy we would have been to rest for a few days in a warm nomad’s tent. Even the life of the nomads, hard and poverty-stricken as it was, often seemed to us seductively luxurious. But we dared not delay if we wanted to get through to Lhasa before our provisions ran out. And then? Well, we preferred not to speculate.
We often saw, happily in the far distance, men on horseback, whom we knew to be Khampas from the unusual type of dogs that accompanied them. These creatures are less hairy than ordinary Tibetan dogs, lean, swift as the wind, and indescribably ugly. We thanked God we had no occasion to meet them and their masters at close quarters.
On this stage of our travels we discovered a frozen lake that, on later search, we coul
d find on no map. Aufschnaiter sketched it into our map at once. The local inhabitants call it Yöchabtso, which means “water of sacrifice.” It lies at the foot of a chain of glaciers. Before we came to the main road, we met some armed footpads carrying modern European rifles against which no courage could have helped us. They, however, let us alone—no doubt because we looked so wretched and down-at-heel. There are times when visible poverty has its advantages.
After five days’ march we reached the famous Tasam road. We had always imagined this to be a regular highway that, once reached, would put an end to all the miseries of our march. Imagine our disappointment when we could not find even the trace of a track! The country was in no way different from that through which we had been wandering for weeks. There were, it is true, a few empty tents at which caravans could halt, but no other signs of an organized route.
For the last stage we had been accompanied by a couple of sturdy women, who now handed us over to the Tasam road after a touching farewell. We quartered ourselves in one of the empty tents and lit a fire, after which we took stock of our position. We really had some grounds for satisfaction. The most difficult part of our journey lay behind us, and we were now on a frequented route, which led straight to Lhasa, fifteen days’ march ahead. We ought to have been happy in the knowledge that we were so near our goal. But, as a matter of fact, our terrific exertions had got us down to such an extent that we were no longer capable of enjoyment. What with frostbite, and lack of money and food, we felt nothing but anxiety. We worried most of all about our animals. My faithful dog was reduced to skin and bones. We had hardly enough food to keep ourselves alive and could spare very little for him. His feet were in such a dreadful state that he could not keep up with us, and often we had to wait for hours in our camp before he arrived. The plight of the yak was little better. He had not had enough grass to eat for weeks and was fearfully emaciated. It is true that we had left the snow behind us after leaving Lake Yöchabtso, but the grass was scanty and dry, and there was little time for grazing.
All the same we had to go forward next day; and the fact that we were now on a caravan route, and had no longer to think of ourselves as Marco Polos in the unknown gave a spur to our morale.
Our first day on the Tasam route differed very little from our worst stage in uninhabited country. We did not meet a soul. A raging storm, driving snow, and swathes of mist made our journey a hell. Fortunately the wind was at our backs and drove us onward. If it had been in our faces, we could not have moved a step forward. All four of us were glad when we saw the roadside tents in the evening. I made the following note in my diary that night: December 3, 1945. Heavy snowstorm with mist—first mist we have met in Tibet. Temperature: about -30 degrees. The most exhausting day of our journey up to date. The yak’s load kept slipping off, and we nearly got frozen hands adjusting it. Lost the way once and had to go back two miles. Towards evening reached the route-station of Nyatsang. Eight tents. One tent occupied by road officer and his family. Well received.
SO THIS WAS our second New Year’s Eve in Tibet. Thinking about what we had achieved in all this time made one despondent. We were still “illegal” travelers—two down-at-heel, half-starved vagabonds forced to dodge the officials, still bound for a visionary goal that we seemed unable to reach—the Forbidden City. On such a night, one’s thoughts turn in sentimental retrospect to home and family. But such dreams could not distract us from the stern reality of the struggle to keep alive, which needed all our physical and spiritual strength. For us an evening in a warm tent was more important than if, in the safety of our homes, we had been given a racing car as a New Year’s gift.
So we kept St. Sylvester’s day in our own fashion. We wanted to stay here somewhat longer in order to thaw ourselves out and to give our beasts a day of rest. Our old travel paper did its job here too, and the road official was friendly and put his servants at our disposal, sending us water and fuel.
We took it easy and slept late. As we were breakfasting somewhat before noon, there was a stir before the tents. The cook of a bönpo, wearing a foxskin hat, had arrived to announce the coming of his master and make preparations for him. He ran around and threw his weight about properly.
The arrival of a high official might be of importance for us, but we had been long enough in Asia to know that “high” official status is a relative conception. For the moment we did not excite ourselves. But things turned out well. The bönpo soon arrived on horseback surrounded by a swarm of servants. He was a merchant in the service of the government and was at present engaged in bringing several hundred loads of sugar and cotton to Lhasa. Hearing about us, he naturally wanted to ask questions. Putting on a virtuous expression I handed him our travel paper, which had the usual good effect. No longer acting the stern official, he invited us to travel with his convoy. That sounded well, so we gave up our rest day and began to pack our baggage, as the caravan was to move on in the afternoon. One of the drivers shook his head as he looked at Armin, a veritable skeleton, and finally offered for a small sum to load our baggage on one of the Tasam yaks and let our beast run loose with us. We gladly agreed. Then off we started in haste. We had to go on with the caravan on foot, while the bönpo and his servants, who had changed horses at the stage, started later. They caught us up before long.
It had been a sacrifice to give up our rest day and set out on a twelve-mile march. My poor dog was too exhausted to accompany us, so I left him behind in the settlement, which was better for him than dying on the road.
Marching with the caravan, we covered long distances every day. We profited by the patronage of the bönpo and were everywhere well received. It was only at Lhölam that the road official looked askance at us. He would not even give us fuel and insisted on our showing our permit to go to Lhasa. Unfortunately we could not oblige him. However, we had a roof over our heads and were to be glad of it, because soon after our arrival all sorts of suspicious-looking characters began to gather around the tents. We recognized them at once for Khampas, but we were too tired to bother about them and left the rest of our party to deal with the situation. We at least had nothing worth stealing. Some of them tried to get into our tent, but we shouted at them, and they went away.
The next morning we missed our yak. We had tethered him the night before and thought he might be grazing somewhere, but Aufschnaiter and I could find no sign of him. The ruffians who had been there the night before had also vanished, and the connection was obvious. The loss of our yak was a serious blow to us, and we burst into the tent of the Tasam official and in my rage I threw the packsaddle and coverings at his feet, telling him that he was responsible for the loss of our beast. We had become very much attached to Armin V, the only yak who had served us well, but we had no time to mourn his loss. We had to catch up with the caravan, which had gone ahead some hours before with our baggage.
We had already been marching for some days toward a huge chain of mountains. We knew they were the Nyenchenthangla range. There was only one way through them and that was the pass that led direct to Lhasa. On our way to the mountains, we passed through low hills. The country was completely deserted, and we did not see even wild asses. The weather had improved greatly, and the visibility was so good, that, at a distance of six miles, our next stopping place appeared to be just in front of us.
The next halt was at a place called Tokar. From here we began the ascent into the mountains, and the next regular station was five days away. We did not dare to think how we could hold out till then. In any case, we did what we could to keep up our strength and bought a lot of meat to keep us going.
The days seemed endless and the nights even longer. We traveled through an improbably beautiful landscape and came to one of the largest of the world’s lakes—Nam Tsho or Tengri Nor. But we hardly looked at it, though we had for long looked forward to seeing this mighty inland sea. The once-longed-for sight could not shake us out of our apathy. The climb through the rarefied air had left us breathless, and the prospect of
an ascent to nearly 20,000 feet was paralyzing. From time to time we looked with wonder at the still-higher peaks visible from our route. At last we reached the summit of our pass, Guring La. Before us this pass had only once been crossed by a European. This was Littledale, an Englishman, who came over it in 1895. Sven Hedin had estimated it at nearly 20,000 feet and described it as the highest of the passes in the Transhimalaya region. I think I am right in saying that it is the world’s highest pass traversable all the year round.
HERE WE AGAIN FOUND the typical cairns, and fluttering over them the brightest-colored prayer flags I had yet seen. Near them was a row of stone tables with prayers inscribed on them—an imperishable expression of the joy felt by thousands of pilgrims when, after their long and weary march, they saw the pass opening to them the road to the holiest of cities.
Here, too, we met an astonishing throng of pilgrims returning to their distant homes. How often has this road echoed to the words “Om mani padme hum,” the time-honored formula of prayer that all Buddhists use and the pilgrims murmur ceaselessly, hoping, among other things, that it will protect them against what they believe is poison gas and we know to be lack of oxygen. They would do better to keep their mouths closed! From time to time we saw on the slopes below us skeletons of animals, bearing witness to the dangerous nature of the road. Our driver told us that almost every winter pilgrims lost their lives in snowstorms in this mountain crossing. We thanked God for the good weather that had favored us during our climb of seven thousand feet.
The first part of our descent led over a glacier. I had fresh cause to wonder at the extraordinary sure-footedness of the yaks in finding their way across the ice. As we stumbled along I couldn’t help thinking how much easier it would be to glide over these smooth, uncreviced surfaces on skis. I suppose Aufschnaiter and I were the only people who had even talked about skiing on the Pilgrims’ Road to Lhasa.
Seven Years in Tibet Page 12