Tibetan Foothold

by Dervla Murphy

  One of the most pleasing features of life here is that for a trek like this people simply stand up and go, minus the tiresome paraphernalia of picnic-baskets, cameras, binoculars, night-clothes, first-aid kits, etc., with which Westerners would fussily encumber themselves in similar circumstances. But there was one important preparation to be made for this particular expedition. It is a grievous offence against the Malanis’ religion to bring leather into their territory, so we had to remove all leather objects from our persons. The police took off their belts and replaced their rifle-straps with ropes, the agent’s friend grumpily exchanged his leather fur-lined cap for a woollen balaclava and the agent himself almost tearfully abandoned his long leather gauntlets. My boots were of rubber and canvas so when I had pronounced myself ‘clean’ we set off.

  From Jari the path descended to river-level, through dark pine-forests where unmelted snow made the steep path treacherous to our rubber boots. Then we crossed the wide, rapid nullah by a nonchalant bridge of frost-slippery planks and were again in sunshine, at the point where the Parvati nullah is joined by the more turbulent Malana nullah, which we were now going to follow up its narrow ravine.

  This stage – a gradual five-mile climb – provided such a remarkable concentration of hazards that the business of avoiding death occupied 90% of my attention and the beauties of the ravine impressed me only during our rest halts. The agent, on his third visit to Malana, was our leader – if so decisive a title may be bestowed on a man who viewed the whole performance with frank horror. As we struggled upwards I admitted to myself that the Jari chowkidar had been right. Guidance was indeed necessary for this track – to prove the human animal capable of following it rather than to show the way, which in most places could be lost only by falling into the nullah or scaling a 2000-foot cliff. Among the more stimulating diversions was a cow-hair rope hand-bridge which made me feel like a trapeze artiste without the net, as the torrent thundered hungrily down its bed of boulders beneath my dangling feet. After this came a brief respite – some hundred yards of firm silver sand on which we walked five abreast beside a shallow, more subdued nullah, where the clear green water was like a liquid jewel.

  Here one could relax and appreciate the vividly coloured, densely forested slopes of the ravine, where the rest of the party nervously imagined leopards and bears lurking behind every second tree. But this carefree phase did not last long. Soon we had climbed again and were edging our way along a path hardly eighteen inches wide: in places it had crumbled away completely and been casually replaced by a few branches. The nullah was now 300 feet below us, and from this path looked very easy of access by accident. After about half a mile we descended again to find another test of acrobatic skill; a giant pine trunk had been laid against the cliff where the path ended, to serve as a ladder down to river-level. The ‘steps’ once hacked in the wood had long since been worn away and, as this part of the ravine is permanently shadowed, the whole trunk was covered in ice. To us it seemed a suicidal contraption; looking down I wondered whether my imminent death would come from a broken neck on the rocks or through drowning in the nullah. Then I went over gallantly, following the agent and hoping for drowning. But of course instinct took charge where intelligence had failed and I found myself sensibly sliding down the trunk, with arms and legs wrapped firmly around it, so that within seconds I was comparatively safe on a vast slab of rock that sloped steeply towards the water. The police followed, their complexions perceptibly ashen, and on landing beside me the elder one promptly vomited in reaction. I hadn’t gone to quite this extreme myself but I couldn’t have agreed more!

  For the next quarter of an hour we had to leap goat-like from rock to rock in the midst of the swirling nullah – yet this seemed a mere parlour game after the tree-trunk ordeal. Then we came up against a gloriously foaming waterfall and stopped to rest beneath a cliff so high and so precipitous that its top was invisible. At this stage it was not clear to me where we went from here; the alternatives seemed to be a struggle through fifty feet of crashing water or a climb up this monstrous mountain, which had obviously been designed for the exclusive use of monkeys.

  After thirty minutes’ rest the agent rose to his feet and said succinctly – ‘Here we go up.’ And so we did. We went up every yard of that sheer, 3000-foot precipice – on which the Malanis have carved a stairway in the rock – and before we had got halfway the ache of my legs and lungs was torture; I almost wept with relief when we came to a ledge where there was space for all of us to collapse speechlessly for another rest. By now my clothes were saturated with sweat and I avidly ate the snow which lay within reach and rubbed its delicious hard coldness on my face and neck – to the wonder of my companions, who were still feeling chilly. Soon we set off again, pulling ourselves up and up and up. Then we saw our first Malanis – three young women, carrying loads as big as themselves, who effortlessly overtook us and disappeared ahead. Their swift agility made me feel like something left out too long in the rain, as I fought for the breath and the energy to drag one foot in front of the other. (I realise that the descent tomorrow, when I intend to return to Jari, will be even more difficult, as it will involve constantly looking down at that unspeakable drop into the nullah.) At 4.15 p.m. we finally crawled over the edge of a little plateau astride the mountain-top and threw ourselves full length on the close-cropped grass.

  Lying there, I remembered the tradition which says that the original Malanis fled to this spot from some unspecified enemy whom they reckoned would not pursue them to such a hide-out. And I decided that this tradition is historically sound, since no enemy could possibly harbour enough enmity to penetrate to Malana. I also reflected on the pleasing certainly that here were a place and a people who in ad 2063 would be recognisable to my ghost. The most ingenious engineer will never construct as much as a mule-track to Malana, which in fact is not a conventional valley, but a circle of fearsomely steep mountains, on whose upper slopes the Malanis live in unnatural defiance of the laws of gravity.

  Having recovered my breath I rose, looked around me and realised that to stand here was an experience worth all the perils and exertions of the trek. To the south stretched the ravine through which we had come, with Jari framed in its narrow opening against a background of distant snow-peaks, now briefly fired by the setting sun. To east and west, close by our 9000-foot mountain, twins of about 11,000 feet were densely wooded to their rounded summits and on the upper slopes of each a few steady blue columns of smoke marked the spots where deer-hunters were camping for the night. And then, to the north, there was the profound, shadowed Valley of Refuge. Its semi-circular guard of 17,000-foot peaks, all shining in new snow against the blue-green sky, rose austerely from the smooth, wide loveliness of their glaciers – what a sight!

  Now the temperature had dropped so sharply that I was shivering all over in my sweat-soaked clothes. The village of Malana was still invisible behind a forest of towering pines – it became dark as night when we walked through them – and everywhere on this northern side of the mountain snow lay at least a foot deep. By 5 p.m. we had reached the outskirts of the village, having crossed a tricky little glacier, and I saw a collection of some 150 houses straggling up and down the slope. The majority are two- or three-storey dwellings, securely built of colossal stone slabs and great tree-trunks, and the combination of these elemental, unsubdued materials with a distinctive, compact design creates a curiously stark beauty. But it was the wooden balconies outside the first-floor rooms which really astonished me. The sureness and sensitivity of their carvings – as fine as anything Germany produced in the Golden Age of Reimenschneider – seems in this superficially uncouth and completely isolated community almost as puzzling as the language. And the physical appearance of the people increases the mystery, for they look like any other local peasants, though inbreeding has obviously dulled their intelligence.

  I had known that as a non-Hindu I would be ‘untouchable’ to the Malanis (a very salutary experience for a European!),
but I had not realised that this means being confined to the untouchables’ path, which skirts the ‘caste’ houses and of course the temple. However, Malana is so tiny that even from this path I could examine most of the buildings and observe that outwardly Jamlu’s treasure-house looks much the same as the family dwellings and is quite unlike the crudely elaborate temples seen in most Hindu villages. Yet in one respect it is quite unique: the only entrance to this tall, doorless building is through a hole in the roof. When the Malanis require money for any communal expense the gur – as they call their priest – climbs onto the roof, descends into the pitch-dark chamber and emerges with an armful of whatever comes to hand. Obviously the value of the treasure thus collected varies from visit to visit and the Malanis believe that Jamlu wishes them to spend no more on any particular project than the gur chances to find in his blind gropings.

  Unlike the average Hindu god Jamlu is not represented by any image or idol, but by a slab of stone which lies in the centre of a small grassy plot at the edge of the village. This stone, measuring approximately three feet by two across and eighteen inches high, looks so exactly like millions of other slabs scattered around the region that if I hadn’t known about it I would never have guessed its significance. On it animals are sacrificed to Jamlu in the course of religious ceremonies and no one but the gur is allowed to touch it. (Some people morbidly maintain that not only animals are sacrificed; certainly the population of Malana has been very successfully kept at six or seven hundred for thousands of years, though migration is unknown among these people. And the cultivatable land around the village could support no more than this number.)

  It was nearly dark when my untouchable host came to guide me to his home on the far side of the village. Few people were visible as we skirted Malana, and of those few the women and children registered terror at my appearance and fled from sight, while the men, draped in splendidly coloured home-spun blankets, stood and stared unsmilingly. However, the good-humour and kindness of my host and his family are more than compensating for the general lack of cordiality.

  This household consists of a young couple and their two children – a nine-year-old daughter and a two-year-old son. The girl is Malana School’s sole pupil, which seems logical enough; as untouchables these people have nothing to lose and possibly something to gain by disobeying the chief’s orders and allowing their children to receive some education. (Though when I met the teacher – a pleasant but inconceivably moronic youth from Kulu town – I realised that the child would be better occupied herding flocks instead of attending his lessons.) My hostess is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, both in features and expression, and as I watched her from my side of the fire – her face glowing against the darkness beyond – I was irresistibly reminded of the brave, sad innocence of Rembrandt’s ‘Titus’. Her husband is also exceptionally handsome, and both children have inherited their parents’ good looks.

  Most Malani houses are stables and granaries as well as dwellings, and hay is stored on the side-balconies, where it protects the living-rooms from the bitter winds. But the untouchables’ house is merely a one-roomed cottage, for they have neither livestock nor grain. Their only possessions are two battered brass cooking-pots, an earthenware mug, an axe, a bedding-roll and the garments they stand up in; this empty room makes a Tibetan tent look over-furnished. A stone fireplace about four feet in circumference lies in the middle of the mud floor, where an unintentional Yule-log some three yards long – the most spectacular I’m ever likely to enjoy! – is now burning merrily with the aid of handfuls of twigs. There is a twelve-inch opening, between the roof of stone slabs and the wall, through which the smoke escapes – and through which icy currents of air from the glaciers sweep in on the assembled company. Everyone squats around the fire while talking, cooking and eating. (Or, in the present case, writing. I’m three-quarters blind after these hours of writing by flickering firelight.)

  A magnificent Himalayan sheepdog – now asleep with his head on my outstretched legs – should really have been listed as a member of the family. He’s the size of a small donkey, with a glossy, short-haired black coat, rather blunt nose, white chest and tan-coloured legs – a typical specimen, but even more affectionate than most of his breed. When he first appeared, soon after my arrival, I automatically made encouraging noises and before I knew what had hit me I’d been knocked flat on my back by this vast bundle of lovingness. Having romped ecstatically over me for at least ten minutes His Nibs then ate his supper of boiled potatoes and settled down to sleep. Most Indians treat dogs so abominably that it has done me good to find a normal human–canine relationship operating here.

  Our supper consisted of chapattis, and potatoes sliced and simmered in ghee. There were plenty of the latter so I’m not complaining about my Christmas dinner – what more could a good Irishwoman ask than platefuls of Murphies! The Malanis do not normally use tea, sugar or any other non-local product – for very obvious reasons.

  A slight crisis occurred while supper was being prepared. As my hostess was making the chapattis her husband began to peel potatoes clumsily with his axe (!), because the household possesses no knife, and after watching this process for a few moments I could stand the sight no longer – partly for the poor man’s sake and partly for my own, since I had eaten nothing all day. So I produced my own knife, having drawn it from its leather sheath. Suddenly everyone was motionless and in the tense little silence that followed I became guiltily aware of my faux pas. Fortunately I knew enough about Malani customs to react correctly; making the appropriate gestures of remorse I at once produced Rs. 10 – the price of the lamb which must be sacrificed tomorrow to placate the insulted Jamlu. And though cynics may here accuse me of being too naïve, no one who had once sensed the Malani atmosphere could doubt the use to which those rupees will be put: this family couldn’t possibly consider going happily on with the daily round until their god has been propitiated for such an outrage on his territory.

  After supper we had another slight crisis, when the election agent nobly tore himself away from his gambling to ensure that I was comfortable for the night. Admittedly the question of bedding did pose a minor problem; the family has none to spare and any blankets lent me from a ‘caste’ house would be so contaminated by my body that their owners could never use them again. Yet the solution seemed simple to me – a heap of hay in the corner – and the real complication was caused by my host’s indignation at the idea of his guest being bedded down like an animal. However, he was at last induced to agree to this scheme by my emphatic assurances that all Irish people habitually sleep in hay.

  I’ve just been out for an essential short stroll before retiring and in the brilliant moonlight this soundless, snow-bright valley seems quite unearthly. I’m not psychic, yet for me Malana has, unexpectedly, a Presence – which is perhaps the natural result of its inhabitants’ 5000-year-old belief that here dwells Jamdagnishri. Undeniably it is an eerie place, lying cold and still and secretive in its high isolation and sending curious intruders away no wiser than when they came.

  * He stayed at Manali during the week before his death in May, 1964.

  11

  Over the Jalori Pass

  JARI: 26 DECEMBER

  It’s unlike me to sleep badly, especially after a strenuous day; yet last night I woke up repeatedly, feeling alert and uneasy for no apparent reason. There really is something uncanny about Malana. I’m usually at my happiest in the most primitive places, but this morning I was quite glad to leave that village – in spite of the beauty of its surroundings and the friendliness of my host and his family.

  Admittedly the mice – seemingly millions of them – contributed to my wakefulness, and eventually I composed a fatuous lullaby based on the assumption that my Tibetan-lousy head was attracting the creatures –

  It’s nice

  To have lice

  Bringing mice

  And rice (with spice),

  And dice

  And ice


  At any price.

  And finally I went to sleep with one persistent mouse firmly roosting above my left ear.

  I was up at 7 a.m. for a breakfast of hot water, chapattis and sliced potatoes fried in ghee. The election party went into a flat spin on hearing that I intended returning to Jari alone, but I ignored their unconvincing arguments about the dangers of meeting leopards, bears (who presumably are all hibernating by now) and other unspecified menaces. The more I see of Indians the more astounded I am by their physical cowardice. Each of these four men said that they wouldn’t on any account do such a trek alone, yet the average European woman (not to say man) would think nothing of it once she knew the trail and how best to circumvent its hazards.

  It was still very cold when I set off at 8 a.m. and as expected the descent to the nullah was much more nerve-wracking than the ascent had been – though obviously much less exhausting. It took me an hour to reach the foot of that precipice, but then I relaxed and enjoyed every moment of the journey back – even shinning up the pine-trunk ‘stairs’, with the aid of my knife stuck hilt-deep in the rotten wood, and crossing the rope hand-bridge.