Seven Years in Tibet

by Heinrich Harrer

  In these ways we did what we could to get support in all quarters and to convince people of our harmlessness. It happened quite often that strangers addressed us while we were out for walks and asked us very peculiar questions. One day a Chinese took a snapshot of us. A camera in Lhasa was something very unusual, and the incident gave us food for thought. We had already heard that there were a number of people in Lhasa supplying information to foreign countries. Perhaps we, too, were believed to be agents of a foreign power. Only the English knew how innocent we were, for they knew where we had come from, and were in a position to test the truth of our statements. Other people, not so well informed about us, might think all sorts of things. In fact, we had no political ambitions. All we asked for was shelter and work to do till the time came when we could return to Europe.

  Meanwhile spring had come, bringing beautiful warm weather, though it was only early February. Lhasa lies south of Cairo, and in high altitudes the sun’s rays seem perceptibly stronger. We felt very well, but longed for regular occupation. Daily invitations and visits and banquets that lasted for hours were our lot, as we were passed from hand to hand like a couple of animal prodigies. We were soon sick of this idle life and hankered for work and sport. Beyond a small ground for basketball Lhasa made no provision for games. The young Tibetans and Chinese who played basketball were very glad when we offered to play with them. There were also hot shower baths in the square, but a single shower bath cost ten rupees—an enormous price when one thinks that a sheep costs no more.

  Some years before, we heard, there had been a football ground in the town. Eleven teams were formed and cup-tie matches organized. One day during a match a hailstorm occurred and did a lot of damage, as a result of which football was forbidden. Perhaps the regent disapproved of the sport and most likely it was thought to be a threat to the influence of the Church, for the people were enthusiastic about the game and many monks from Sera and Drebung were to be found watching the matches. Anyhow, the hailstorm was interpreted as a sign that the gods disapproved of this frivolous sport, and football was abolished.

  In connection with this story, we asked our friends if there really were lamas who could hold up hailstorms or call down showers of rain, for this belief is firmly held in Tibet. In all the fields there are small stone towers containing shells deposited as offerings, in which incense is burned when a storm occurs. Many villages actually have regular weathermakers. These are monks with a reputation for special skill in managing the weather. For the purposes of their magic, they blow on conchs, which make a vibrating sound. In many of our mountain villages, the church bells are rung when a storm is approaching, and the effect of these conchs can be compared to the effect of the vibration of the bells. But, of course, Tibetans do not recognize any physical explanation—for them all is magic and spells and the sport of the gods.

  We heard a nice story dating from the time of the thirteenth Dalai Lama. He, of course, had his court weathermaker, who was the most famous wizard ever known. His special job was to protect the God-King’s summer garden when a storm approached. One fine day a heavy hailstorm came and beat down all the flowers and ruined the ripening fruit. The weathermaker was summoned into the presence of the Living Buddha, who sat grumbling on his throne and ordered the trembling magician at once to perform a miracle, otherwise he would be dismissed and punished. The man prostrated himself and asked for a sieve—just an ordinary sieve. He then asked the Holy One whether he would be satisfied if the water poured into the sieve did not flow through it. The Dalai Lama nodded, and lo and behold! the water that was passed into the sieve remained in it. The magician’s reputation was saved and he was allowed to retain his well-paid post.

  ALL THIS TIME we were racking our brains to find some means of earning our living if we stayed on in Lhasa. For the moment we were treated most generously, receiving parcels of tsampa, meal, butter, and tea. A pleasant surprise was Kabshöpa’s nephew handing us five hundred rupees as a present from the foreign ministry. In our letter of thanks, we said we were prepared to work for the government if they would guarantee us food and lodging.

  For the past three weeks, we had been enjoying Thangme’s hospitality. Now the wealthy Tsarong invited us to stay with him, and we gratefully accepted. Thangme had four children and needed our room. He had taken us in as poor vagabonds off the street and had shown himself a true friend. We have never forgotten his kindness. At the New Year, he was the first to receive white scarves from us, and later on when I had a house of my own, he was a regular guest at my Christmas parties.

  In Tsarong’s house we were given a large room with European furniture, a table, easy chairs, beds, and fine carpets. Next door we had a little room to wash in. We also found something which we had missed very much up to now, a closet for the relief of nature. In this respect the habits of Tibetans are casual to the last degree and any place seems to be regarded as a suitable latrine.

  Tsarong could afford to have a number of cooks. His chef had been for years in the best hotel in Calcutta and understood European cooking. His roast meats were wonderful, and he was in addition outstanding as a pastry cook and confectioner. Another of the cooks had been sent to China and had come back with a repertoire of Chinese dishes. Tsarong liked to astonish his guests with unknown delicacies. We were surprised to find that in the best houses women were never employed as cooks—only as kitchen maids.

  Tibetan mealtimes are not quite the same as ours. In the early morning one drinks butter tea and indeed very often throughout the day. I have heard of people drinking two hundred cups in a single day, though I daresay that is an exaggeration. There are two main meals in the day, one at 10 A.M. and the other after sunset. The first of these, consisting of a dish of tsampa and some trimmings, we took together in our own room. For the evening meal we were generally invited to join our host. The whole family sat around a large table. Many courses were served, and this meal was the central point of the day, at which everyone in the house was assembled and the day’s happenings discussed.

  After supper we all sat in the living room, which with its numerous rugs, chests, and figures seemed overcrowded. Here we smoked cigarettes and drank beer. We also had occasion to admire our host’s latest acquisitions, for he was always buying something new. He had a wonderful radio set, which gave one all the stations in the world. The reception was excellent, as on the “Roof of the World” there is no atmospheric disturbance. Then there were the latest records to play, a motion-camera to be inspected, a new apparatus for enlarging photographs to be examined, and one evening he unpacked a theodolite! Tsarong was perfectly familiar with all these instruments. I suppose he had more hobbies than anyone in the town. We could not have wished for a better home than in his house. He collected stamps and kept up a correspondence with people in all parts of the world—his son who was a linguist helped him in this—and he possessed a well-chosen library including a fine collection of Western books, many of which were gifts, for every European who came to Lhasa stayed in his house, and most of them left books as a souvenir of their visit.

  Tsarong was an extraordinary man. He had constantly endeavored to introduce reforms, and whenever the government was busy with an important problem, he was called in to advise. He was responsible for the only iron bridge in the country. This he had constructed and assembled in India. It was then taken to pieces and carried piece by piece into Tibet by yaks and coolies. Tsarong was a self-made man of the most modern brand, and his ability would have made him an outstanding personality even in Western countries.

  His son George—he had kept his Indian school name—followed in his father’s footsteps. At our first meeting, we had been impressed by his knowledge and the variety of his interests. At this time photography was his passion, and the pictures he took were worth seeing. One evening he astonished us by showing a color film that he had made himself. It was so successful and so noiseless that at first one might have imagined oneself in a first-class moving-picture theater. However, hitche
s occurred later on with the motor and the spool, which Aufschnaiter and I helped to put right.

  Our supper with Tsarong, and the books that we borrowed from him and the British Legation provided us with our only form of evening entertainment. There were no moving pictures or theaters in Lhasa and no hotels or public houses. Social life was entirely confined to private houses.

  We spent our days collecting impressions as we were afraid lest we might have to leave before we had seen everything. We had no absolute grounds for misgiving, but we felt that we could not really count on our friends for support in a crisis, generous as they had been. We had several times heard a story that sounded like a warning. An English teacher had been asked by the government to start a European type of school in Lhasa and had been offered a long contract. After six months he packed up his traps and went away. The reactionary monks had made his task impossible.

  WE CONTINUED to pay daily visits—so many people had called on us—and thus acquired a good knowledge of the home life of distinguished Tibetans. There was one point in which we could compare the people of Lhasa favorably with the inhabitants of our own cities. They always had time.

  Tibet has not yet been infested by the worst disease of modern life, the everlasting rush. No one overworks here. Officials have an easy life. They turn up at the office late in the morning and leave for their homes early in the afternoon. If an official has guests or any other reason for not coming, he just sends a servant to a colleague and asks him to officiate for him.

  Women know nothing about equal rights and are quite happy as they are. They spend hours making up their faces, restringing their pearl necklaces, choosing new material for dresses, and thinking how to outshine Mrs. So-and-so at the next party. They do not have to bother about housekeeping, which is all done by the servants. But to show that she is mistress the lady of the house always carries a large bunch of keys around with her. In Lhasa every trifling object is locked up and double-locked.

  Then there is mah-jongg. At one time this game was a universal passion. People were simply fascinated by it and played it day and night, forgetting everything else—official duties, housekeeping, the family. The stakes were often very high and everyone played—even the servants, who sometimes contrived to lose in a few hours what they had taken years to save. Finally the government found it too much of a good thing. They forbade the game, bought up all the mah-jongg sets, and condemned secret offenders to heavy fines and hard labor. And they brought it off! I would never have believed it, but though everyone moaned and hankered to play again, they respected the prohibition. After mah-jongg had been stopped, it became gradually evident how everything else had been neglected during the epidemic. On Saturdays—the day of rest—people now played chess or halma, or occupied themselves harmlessly with word games and puzzles.

  ON FEBRUARY 16, we had been just a month in Lhasa. Our fate was still undecided; we had no work and we worried about our future. On that very day, Kabshöpa came to us looking solemn, as befitted an envoy from the foreign ministry. We knew from his expression that he had bad news for us. He told us that the government did not approve of our continued residence in Tibet and that we must proceed forthwith to India. We had always envisaged this possibility in our own minds but were disconcerted by the reality. We began to protest, but Kabshöpa shrugged his shoulders and said we must do that in higher quarters.

  Our next reaction to this mournful news was to collect all the maps of Eastern Tibet we could find in Lhasa. In the evening we set to work to plot a route and make plans. We were determined on one thing—no more barbed wire for us! We would rather flee and try our luck in China. We had some money and were well equipped. It would not be difficult to lay in a stock of provisions. But I had to think of my sciatica, which was not getting better. Aufschnaiter had already got the doctor of the British Legation to visit me. He had prescribed some powders and given me injections, but they had done no good. Was this confounded complaint going to wreck our plans? I felt like despairing.

  Next day, disheartened as I was, I hobbled over to the house of the Dalai Lama’s parents. We thought their intervention would help us. The Holy Mother and Lobsang Samten promised to tell the whole story to the young God-King and felt sure that he would say a good word for us. This he actually did, and though the young Dalai Lama had not as yet any executive powers, his good will was certainly of use to us. In the meantime, Aufschnaiter went from one acquaintance to another with the object of setting all the wheels in motion. And in order to omit no precaution, we composed a petition in English in which we set forth all the arguments in favor of our being allowed to remain in Tibet.

  Fate seemed to be conspiring against us, for my sciatica suddenly became so bad that I could not move. I suffered great pain and had to remain in bed, while Aufschnaiter ran around the town till his feet were sore. These were anxious days.

  On February 21, some soldiers appeared at our door. They called on us to pack our things, as they had been ordered to escort us to India. We were to start early the next morning. That seemed to be the end of all things, but how was I to travel? I could not walk as far as even the window, as I tried to demonstrate to the lieutenant. He put on a helpless expression. Like all soldiers he had to obey orders and was not qualified to receive explanations. Pulling myself together, I asked him to tell his superior that I could not leave Lhasa unless I was carried. The soldiers retired.

  We at once applied to Tsarong for advice and help, but he had nothing fresh to tell us. He said that one could not resist an order from the government. Alone in our room, we cursed my sciatica. If I had been fit, nothing would have prevented us from escaping, and we should have got away that very night. We preferred hardship and danger to the most comfortable quarters behind barbed wire. It would not be so easy to move me tomorrow, and I bitterly decided to adopt an attitude of passive resistance.

  But the next morning, nothing happened—no soldiers came, and there was no news. We anxiously sent for Kabshöpa, who came in person and seemed embarrassed. Aufschnaiter explained how ill I was and began to discuss our problem. “Would it not be possible,” he said, with a serious expression, “to arrive at a compromise?”

  We had, meanwhile, come to suspect that perhaps the British were at the bottom of this business and had asked Tibet to hand us over.

  We realized that Tibet was a small country and it was to her interest to be on good terms with her neighbors. What was the point of risking a misunderstanding with England for so small a matter as a couple of German POWs? So Aufschnaiter proposed that the English doctor, at that moment acting as chargé d’affaires at the legation, should be requested to give a certificate as to my condition. Kabshöpa accepted the suggestion with such alacrity that we stole a glance at one another and felt sure that our suspicion was justified.

  The doctor visited me in the course of the day and informed me that the decision about the date of our departure had been left in his hands by the government. He gave me injections that did no good. I got more comfort from a present from Tsarong in the shape of some thermogene wool.

  I now set myself to overcome my illness, which, I was determined, should no longer thwart our plans. Exerting all my strength of will, I forced myself to do exercises every day. A lama had recommended me to roll a stick backward and forward with the soles of my feet. This I did for hours every day, sitting in a chair. The exercise was exceedingly painful, but it gradually improved my condition and eventually I was able to go out into the garden and warm myself, like an old man, in the spring sunshine.

  WE WERE NOW in full spring. March had come and on the fourth of the month began the New Year Festival—the greatest of all Tibetan feasts, which lasts for three weeks. Alas! I could not take part in it. In the distance I heard drums and trombones and saw by the excitement that reigned in the house how important it all was. Tsarong and his son came every day to see me and show off their splendid new robes of silk and brocade. Aufschnaiter, of course, went everywhere, and told me all about
it in the evening.

  This year was the “Fire-Hound-Year.” On March 4 (or a date near to this, as the Tibetan New Year is flexible—similar to our Easter), the city magistrate hands over his authority to the monks—symbolizing the restoration by the secular power of its office to religion, to whom it originally belonged. This is the beginning of a strict and formidable regime. To start with, the whole place is tidied up, and during this season Lhasa is renowned for its cleanliness—which is not a normal condition. At the same time, a sort of civil peace is proclaimed. All quarrels cease. Public offices are closed, but the bargaining of street traders is livelier than ever, except during the festal processions. Crimes and offenses, including gambling, are punished with especial severity. The monks are relentless judges and are accustomed to inflict fearful floggings, which occasionally cause the death of the victim. (Although it is true that in such cases the regent intervenes and deals with the persons responsible.)

  In the midst of the celebrations, we seemed to have been forgotten, and we took care not to attract notice. The government probably was satisfied with the English doctor’s ruling that I was not yet fit to travel. We were gaining valuable time. The great thing was for me to get well, and then perhaps we could realize our flight to China.

  Day after day I used to sun myself in the garden, enjoying the increasing heat, so my astonishment was all the greater when one morning I woke up to find all the spring greenery deep in snow. It is very seldom that snow falls so late in the year at Lhasa, which lies so deep in the heart of Asia that atmospheric depressions seldom reach it. Even in winter the snow does not lie for long. On this occasion it was soon melted. It had done some good, because by converting the sand and dust into mud it had mitigated the discomforts of the subsequent sandstorm.