The next item in the Dalai Lama’s program was his progress to the summit of Mount Gompe Utse, a peak over 17,000 feet high, which dominates the monastery of Drebung.
Early one morning a large, mounted caravan set out, consisting of at least a thousand men and several hundred horses. The first objective was a settlement halfway up the mountain. The Dalai Lama’s horse was led by two head grooms. On the way, various rest places had been prepared. Each of these was furnished with a throne spread with carpets. Toward evening the caravan reached the halfway station. Incense was burned as a thanks offering for safe arrival, and prayers were said. At this place tents had been pitched, and here the party passed the night. Yaks had been prepared for the next day’s journey, and before dawn the Dalai Lama and his high dignitaries set out on the ride up to the summit. The monks of Drebung had already prepared a path of sorts for this pilgrimage. When the party reached the top, prayers were uttered and offerings made to the gods.
Below in the valley the people waited in crowds for the moment when the incense smoke should rise from the peak. They knew that their ruler was up there praying for the welfare of his people. I myself had climbed to the summit the day before and now watched the ceremony from a discreet distance. Among the other spectators were flocks of crows and jackdaws, who could smell the offerings of tsampa and butter, and waited, croaking, for the moment to swoop down on the remains.
For most of those who accompanied the Dalai Lama this was the first time they had even been on a mountaintop. The younger members of the party seemed to take great pleasure in the experience and pointed out to one another different details of the beautiful panorama. In contrast, the older monks and officials, mostly corpulent seniors, had no eyes for the beauties of the landscape, but sat exhausted while their servants ministered to them.
On the same day, the party rode the whole way back to the monastery. A few days later, the Dalai Lama visited the monastery of Sera and engaged in a similar public debate. His advisers had had some misgivings in regard to a visit to Sera, in view of the recent revolt of the monks. But the enthusiastic reception offered him in this monastery was a proof, if one were needed, that he stood high above all cliques and party squabbles.
MEANWHILE, MY LIFE proceeded undisturbed. I was in the service of the government, for whom I translated the news and articles from newspapers, and now and then built small dams and irrigation channels. I regularly went to visit Aufschnaiter at his canal works outside the town. In the course of his excavations he had made some most interesting finds. Workmen had unearthed fragments of pottery, which Aufschnaiter had carefully collected and begun to put together piece by piece. As a result of his repairs, he had a collection of really beautiful vases and jugs, shaped quite differently from those made today. He gave the workmen rewards for what they found, and ordered them to dig with the utmost care and to call him immediately if they uncovered anything of interest. Every week there were discoveries. Graves containing perfectly preserved skeletons with bowls and semiprecious stones beside them were opened. My comrade had found a new occupation for his leisure hours. He took immense trouble with his collections, which dated back thousands of years. He was very proud of them and had reason to be, as he had been the first to come upon proof of a former Tibetan civilization. None of the lamas whom he consulted could throw light on his finds, and there was no mention in the old history books of an epoch in which the Tibetans used to bury their dead and put gifts in their graves.
Aufschnaiter wanted to place his discoveries at the disposal of an archaeological museum in India, and when the Chinese Communists invaded Tibet, we took the collections, carefully packed, away with us.
NOT LONG AFTERWARD I had an unexpected opportunity to get out of Lhasa and learn something of a new part of the country. Some friends had asked me to look at their estates and make suggestions for their improvement. They had managed to get the government to grant me leave of absence, and I was able to visit their properties one after another. The conditions which I found were completely medieval. The peasants still used wooden ploughs with an iron share. These were drawn by dzos. (The dzo is a cross between an ox and a yak, and is a very good draught animal. It looks very like the yak, and the milk of the cows, which has a high fat content, is much prized.)
One of the problems that the Tibetans have done little to solve is that of watering their fields. The springtime is generally very dry, but no one thinks of carrying water onto the land from the snow-swollen brooks and rivers.
The estates of the landed gentry are often very large. It sometimes takes a whole day to ride across a property. Many serfs are attached to every estate; they are given a few fields to cultivate for their own profit, but are obliged to spend a certain time working for their landlord. The estate managers, who are often merely trusted servants of the landlord, boss the serfs like little kings. Their own master lives in Lhasa, where he works for the government and has little time to bother about the property. However, his public services are frequently rewarded by gifts of land, and there are noble officials to whom in the course of their careers as many as twenty large farms have been given. The official who falls from grace is equally likely to be dispossessed of his estates, which pass into the hands of the government. Nevertheless, there are many families who have been living in their castles for centuries and bear territorial names. Their ancestors often built these fortresses on the rocky promontories that dominate the valleys. When built on the plain, they are surrounded by moats, but these are now dry and empty. The ancient weapons preserved in the castles testify to the warlike spirit of their former lords, who had constantly to be ready to defend themselves against the attacks of the Mongols.
I was days and weeks on my tour, and riding through unknown country was a welcome change after life in Lhasa. I was not always on horseback. During part of the time I was floating in a yak-skin boat down the mighty Brahmaputra, stopping to visit monasteries that attracted me and taking photographs.
WHEN I GOT BACK to Lhasa, it was already winter. The small tributary of the Kyichu was already frozen—and that caused us to think of something new. With a small group of friends, including the Dalai Lama’s brother, we founded a skating club. We were not the first people in Tibet to go in for this sport. The staff of the British Legation had practiced skating to the immense astonishment of the natives. We were actually their heirs, because we acquired their skates, which they had bequeathed to their servants when they left. Our first efforts were very funny, and we always had a good many onlookers to laugh at us and to wonder who would be the next to fall on his head or break through the ice. Parents noted with horror the enthusiasm of their children, determined at all costs to learn how to skate. The old-fashioned, unsporting noble families could not conceive that anyone would wantonly tie a knife to the sole of his boot and slither about on it.
14
Tibet Prepares for Trouble
The Dalai Lama had heard from his brother about our new sport, but unfortunately our rink was invisible from the roof of the Potala. He would have dearly liked to see us disporting ourselves on the ice, but as that was impossible, he sent me his moving picture camera with instructions to film the rink and the skaters for him. As I had never taken a film picture, I made a careful study of the prospectus and instructions before going to work. Then I made my picture and had the film sent to India by the foreign ministry to be developed. In two months it was in the hands of the Dalai Lama. It had come out very well. Through this film I made my first personal contact with the younger ruler of Tibet. It seems curious that a product of the twentieth century should have been the starting point of a relation that, in spite of all conventions, eventually became a close friendship.
Soon after this, Lobsang Samten told me that his brother wished me to film different ceremonies and festival scenes for him. I was astonished to see how great was his interest in these pictures. He always sent me the most precise instructions, sometimes in writing and sometimes verbally through Lobsang Samten.
He advised me how to make the most favorable use of the light in certain positions, or, maybe, he would send word to say that this or that ceremony was due to start punctually. I, too, was able to send a message telling him when during a procession to keep his eyes fixed in the direction of my camera.
Naturally, I did my best to avoid being conspicuous during these ceremonies. He, too, regarded this as important and told me to keep in the background, and if I could not do this, to refrain from taking a picture. Obviously, I could not avoid being seen, but as soon as it became known that I was filming and photographing under instructions from His Holiness, I was not interrupted. In fact, the dreaded Dob-Dobs often made the crowd give way to let me have a free field of vision, and when I asked them to pose for me, they obeyed like lambs. In this way I was enabled to make numbers of unique pictures of religious ceremonies. In addition to the moving picture camera, I always had my Leica with me and took many photographs of unusual scenes for myself.
I took some beautiful pictures of the cathedral. The Tsug Lag Khang, as it is called, was built in the seventh century and contains the most precious statue of Buddha in Tibet. The origin of this temple dates from the reign of the famous King Srongtsen Gampo. His two wives were princesses, and both belonged to the Buddhist faith. One of them came from Nepal and founded the second-greatest temple of Lhasa, the Ramoche; while the other was a Chinese and brought the golden idol with her from China. The king, who followed the ancient religion, was converted by his wives to Buddhism, which became the state religion. He then caused the cathedral to be built as a home for the golden idol. This building has the same defects as the Potala. Externally it is grand and imposing, but internally it is dark, full of corners, and unfriendly. It is packed with treasure, which is daily added to by fresh offerings. Every minister on appointment must buy new silk-embroidered costumes for the statues of the saints, and a butter dish of solid gold. Loads of butter are burned unceasingly in the lamps, and in summer and winter the air is full of rancid-smelling smoke. The only creatures who benefit by the offerings are the mice, which climb in thousands up and down the heavy silk curtains and gorge on the butter and tsampa in the bowls. It is dark in the temple: not a ray of light penetrates from the outside, and only the butter lamps on the altars shed their flickering gleam. The entrance to the Holy of Holies is usually closed by a heavy iron curtain, which is raised only at stated hours.
In a dark, narrow passage, I found a bell hanging from the roof. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw on it the inscription “Te Deum Laudamus.” It was probably the last surviving relic of the chapel that the Catholic missionaries had built in Lhasa many centuries ago. They had not been able to maintain themselves in Tibet and had been obliged to leave. It may be that the preservation of this bell in their cathedral is due to the deep respect that Tibetans feel for all religions. I would gladly have learned more about the chapel of the Jesuits, but no trace of the building survives.
In the evening the cathedral is filled with worshipers. The curtain is raised, and a long queue waits before the altar of the Buddha. Each worshiper touches the statue with bowed head and makes a small offering. Holy water, tinted with saffron, is poured into his cupped hand by a monk. Part of this he drinks, and the rest he sprinkles over his head. Many monks spend their whole lives in the cathedral. Their duty is to keep watch over the treasures and to fill the butter lamps.
An attempt was once made to install electric light in the cathedral, but a fire occurred owing to a short circuit, and everyone connected with the installation was dismissed. So there was no more talk of artificial light.
Before the cathedral is a terrace of flagstones, polished like mirrors and hollowed out by the prostrations of worshipers over a thousand years. When one looks at these hollows and recognizes the expression of deep devotion on the faces of worshipers, one understands why a Christian mission could never succeed in Lhasa. A lama from the Drebung on a visit to Rome to convert the Catholics would recognize the futility of his mission when he saw the steps of the holy staircase worn down by the knees of countless pilgrims, and would leave the Vatican with resignation. Christianity and Buddhism have much in common. They are both founded on the belief in happiness in another world, and both preach humility in this life. But there is a difference as things are today. In Tibet one is not hunted from morning till night by the calls of “civilization.” Here one has time to occupy oneself with religion and to call one’s soul one’s own. Here it is religion that occupies most of the life of the individual, as it did in the West during the Middle Ages.
Beggars take up their station by the cathedral door. They know very well that man is charitable and considerate when he is in the presence of God. In Tibet, as in most other places, beggars are a public nuisance. While I was building my dam, the government determined to put the sturdy beggars to work. They rounded up the thousand beggars of Lhasa and picked out seven hundred men who were fit for employment. These were put on the job, and received food and pay for their work. On the next day only half of them turned up, and a few days later they were all absent. It is not lack of work or dire necessity that makes these people beggars, nor, in most cases, bodily infirmity. It is pure laziness. Begging offers a good livelihood in Tibet, and no one turns a beggar from the door. And if a beggar gets only some tsampa and a penny or so from each client, the produce of two hours’ “work” suffices to keep him going for the day. Then he sits idly by the wall and dozes happily in the sunshine. Many beggars have horrible diseases that deserve sympathy, but they exploit their deformities by thrusting them on the notice of the passerby.
ONE OF THE MOST attractive features in Tibetan life is the habit of going to meet, and seeing off, one’s friends. When anyone goes away, his friends often put a tent on his road several miles out of town and wait for him there with a meal to speed him on his way. The departing friend is not allowed to go till he has been loaded with white scarves and good wishes. When he comes back, the same ceremony is observed. It sometimes happens that he is welcomed at several places on his way home. In the morning, maybe, he first catches sight of the Potala, but on his way into the town he is held up at tent after tent by his welcoming friends, and it is evening before he arrives in Lhasa, his modest caravan swollen to stately proportions by his friends and their servants. He comes home with the happy feeling that he has not been forgotten.
When foreigners arrive they are met by a representative from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, who conveys the greetings of the minister to them and arranges for their lodgings and entertainment. New ambassadors are received with military honors and presented with silk scarves by a delegate of the cabinet. In Lhasa there is a special quarter for guests, where they and their servants and animals are accommodated, and where they find gifts awaiting them on arrival. It would be true to say that in no country in the world are travelers treated with greater attention and hospitality.
During the war, airplanes on their way from India to China often lost their way. This is probably the most difficult air route in the world, as the passage of the Himalayas puts a heavy strain on the skill and experience of the pilot, who, once he has lost his bearings, finds it very difficult to right himself owing to the inadequacy of the maps of Tibet.
One night the droning of motors was heard over the Holy City and caused general alarm. Two days later news came from Samye that five Americans had landed there in parachutes. The government invited them to come to Lhasa on their way back to India. The airmen must have been greatly astonished at being received in tents some way out of the city and offered a hearty welcome accompanied by butter tea and scarves. They said in Lhasa that they had lost their bearings completely and that the wings of their plane had grazed the snow slopes of the Nyenchenthangla. After this they had turned back, but finding that they had too little fuel to reach India, they decided to scrap their plane and jump. Except for a sprained ankle or two and a broken arm, they came down safely. After a short stay in Lhasa, they were convoyed by the government
to the Indian frontier, riding horses and as comfortable as one can be on trek in Tibet.
The crews of other American planes that came down in Tibet during the war were not so lucky. In Eastern Tibet the remains of two crashed planes were found; the members of the crews had all been killed. Another plane must have crashed south of the Himalayas in a province whose inhabitants are savage jungle folk. These people are not Buddhists but naked savages reputed to use poisoned arrows. From time to time they come out of their forests to exchange skins and musk for salt and beads. On one of these occasions, they offered objects that could have come only from an American airplane. Nothing more was ever heard of this disaster. I would have liked to go in search of the site of the accident, but the distance was too great.
THE POLITICAL SITUATION of Tibet was gradually getting worse. The Chinese had already solemnly declared in Peiping that they were going to “liberate” Tibet. Even in Lhasa people were under no illusions about the gravity of this threat. In China the Reds had always carried out what they had taken in hand.
The Tibetan government set to work feverishly to reorganize the army under the supervision of a cabinet minister. Tibet had a standing army, to which every district contributed its quota in proportion to the number of the inhabitants. This conception of compulsory military service differs from ours in that the state is interested only in numbers and not in individuals. A man called up for service can buy a substitute. Often enough these substitutes remain in the army all their lives.
The military instructors have served in India and understand the use of modern weapons. Hitherto the words of command had been given in a mixture of Tibetan, Urdu, and English. The new defense minister’s first decision was that all orders were to be given in Tibetan. A new national anthem was composed to replace “God Save the Queen,” the tune of which had hitherto been played at important military parades. The text consisted of a glorification of the independence of Tibet and a tribute to its illustrious ruler, the Dalai Lama.
Seven Years in Tibet Page 26