The Dream of Lhasa: The Life of Nikolay Przhevalsky (1839?1888), Explorer of Central Asia

by Donald Rayfield

  As Przhevalsky left, the Tibetan militia followed at a discreet distance to make sure he was not feigning. The expedition dared not make a detour to avoid the Yograi, for their camels could not last much longer. They reached the Mur Usu without trouble; four more camels died, the thermometer fell to thirty-three degrees below zero, but the storm winds had swung round and were assisting their progress. Przhevalsky found flocks of ulars (giant partridges); he hid beside their roosting place and killed them as they flew in at dusk. But in winter they fed on wild garlic and he found them unpalatable.

  Dadai took Przhevalsky from the Mur Usu on an easier, more westerly route with fewer passes, and they reached the shelter of Tsaidam all the sooner. They saw the New Year of 1880 in as they rested by the frozen Mur Usu. That year brought no news of Przhevalsky to Peking; information came only that the Tibetans had raised their militia against the Russians. Koyander protested: ‘How can the inhabitants of Tibet, which is part of the Chinese state, send soldiers against travellers coming with the government’s permission and on a pass it has issued? … the authorities … will have to take appropriate measures at once against these rebels. Otherwise it might be thought that Tibet is a completely independent country and then the nature of her neighbours’ relations with her will undoubtedly change.’ Koyander wrote to Petersburg, saying that English diplomats had told him Przhevalsky had been lost ‘after dismissing a guide’. The Petersburg press reported Przhevalsky captive or dead. Istorichesky vestnik (Historical Herald) reported Count Széchenyi’s conviction that Przhevalsky had perished and complained: ‘Search parties were sent for Livingstone, Payer, Nordenscheldt; but no one is even thinking of looking for Przhevalsky.’

  At such a tense time, these fears were not without foundation. Only the British had reason to feel pleased. If Przhevalsky had not reached Lhasa, they need not bother to do so. In 1878 a Russian mission had reached Kabul and the British, compelled to match every Russian advance towards India, in their turn sent an emissary, Major Cavagnari, who was promptly murdered by the Afghans.

  Przhevalsky did in fact come near death, in the Dumbure mountains above the Mur Usu, but from a yak, not a man. He had shot his first yak of 1880 only to find that wolves had ruined the skin. He went out into the Dumbure to find more yak; it was Russian New Year’s Eve (12 January 1880). Six miles from camp he put ten bullets into a yak. He went on firing; another yak collapsed to its knees and rolled down the mountain. Przhevalsky ran after it, but it leapt to its feet and stumbled off. He returned to the first yak, found the skin too poor to be worth taking and cut off the tail and stuffed it in his belt. Then he returned to the second yak, which was now lying down. It got up and charged; Przhevalsky fired his last two bullets. At fifteen paces the yak stopped and lowered its horns; Przhevalsky had only his rifle butt and a yak tail with which to fight it off. For some unaccountable reason, however, the yak raised its head and let Przhevalsky go.

  Dadai took the expedition quickly over the Kuku Shili and Marco Polo ranges. But snowstorms hid what little fodder and fuel the argillaceous, flint and quartz schists provided. It was so cold that even gloved hands could not hold a chronometer. The Russian horses and Przhevalsky’s Kashgarian horse, a present from Yakub Bey, starved on their rations of barley. The Tibetan horses, renowned for their toughness, were as plump as ever: they ate the dung left by the kulans and most of them would eat meat—strips of dried yak flesh—the legendary attribute of Alexander the Great’s Bucephalus or Genghis Khan’s charger. When Przhevalsky reached the Naijin River, which flows into Tsaidam, he found breeding herds of orongo gazelles and patches of vegetation, the legumes of the desert. The Tibetan horses had never seen such shrubs and they shied away from them; the fodder came just in time for the camels, two more of which had had to be abandoned. The next day the expedition reached a Mongol camp on the Naijin. For the first time since leaving Nagchu Przhevalsky shaved and washed his face—he dared not undress for fear of chills.

  It was good to be out of Tibet. Birds were wintering on the Naijin; Przhevalsky collected over 100 specimens. In Tsaidam he first went east to collect his supplies at Dzun-dzasak. The chieftain of Dzun-dzasak was embarrassed at Przhevalsky’s return; he apologized for the idiocy of the guide he had given him. (To a later Russian visitor, V.A. Obruchev, he said that Przhevalsky had been so menacing at Dzun-dzasak that he purposely gave him the worst man available.) Dzun-dzasak was anxious to have Przhevalsky on his way to Hsi-ning, the seat of authority. The chieftain gave him two drivers and a guide to Dulan Kit, and hired out eight camels from his own herd. The guide was again an idiot, but it hardly mattered, as both he and Przhevalsky had travelled this route before.

  March 1880 saw Przhevalsky at Kuku Nor; he stopped at his lakeside camp of March 1873. Salt dust covered the ice; there were no birds. Two days later two messengers came from Hsi-ning. One was to report back, the other was to stay with the expedition and hurry it on to Hsi-ning. Przhevalsky ignored the latter’s directions and insisted on moving around the unexplored southern shore of the lake. The shores were lit up by the camp fires of the Tangut who, since the Tungans had been crushed, were themselves lawless, preying on the peaceable Mongols and their caravans.

  At Donker crowds whistled and shouted at Przhevalsky as he was led to the very same house in which the retreating Count Széchenyi had been quartered a year before. In Hsi-ning he, Roborovsky, Abdul and three Cossacks went to meet the governor, General Ling. On his second day in Hsi-ning Przhevalsky had a formal meeting with the General. Przhevalsky found him ignorant and malevolent. It is only fair to mention the impressions of Grigori Potanin, the Russian explorer and botanist, who met Ling six years later. Potanin thought Ling intelligent and modest and concluded that Przhevalsky’s ‘excessive suspiciousness’ had misled him: Ling acted only out of responsibility to Peking for a foreigner’s life.

  Przhevalsky, his case weakened by the rude interpreting of Abdul, told Ling that he would now go and explore the sources of the Huang Ho, still a subject of conjecture and legend. Ling replied, ‘I shan’t let you: I have instructions from Peking to see you out of here as fast as possible.’ Smiling, Przhevalsky insisted. Ling warned him of Tangut robbers, who might also plan to avenge the death of the Yograi with whom the expedition had battled. In the end Ling persuaded Przhevalsky to sign an agreement that he would prolong his explorations only three more months and would not cross to the right (south) bank of the Huang Ho. Without the slightest intention of keeping the second promise, Przhevalsky left the room. He was a little taken aback when Ling returned most of his gifts and even presented him with two-and-a-half gallons of Chinese spirits in which to preserve specimens. Ling also helped the expedition buy provisions and fourteen mules for the mountainous country between Hsi-ning and the Huang Ho. Przhevalsky had to leave much equipment behind as a guarantee of his return, but he found a Mongol caravan heading north-east and, under a Cossack’s supervision, they took his bulky collections to be stored in Ting-yüan-ying, 350 miles north-east in A-la Shan.

  On mules alone and in just three months, Przhevalsky had little chance of reaching the Huang Ho’s sources. But the upper reaches of the river were entirely unexplored and the expedition set off eagerly through the Khara Tangut country to the river. The settled Khara Tangut, like the Tibetans, practised polyandry; this was the first record of polyandry so far north. They pitched their tents on the hillsides, warming themselves by stoves fired on sheep dung. They subsisted on the roots of silverweed (potentilla anserina) and the tea and dzamba they bought from the Chinese, while sheep and yak grazed the ground bare. Despite their ‘sullen brigand temper’ they were religious and filled shrines with their booty. Their Buddhism was mixed with shamanism and the shamans (witchdoctors) wore headpieces made from the hair of men who had died violent deaths.

  It took only a day or two to reach Balekun Gomi from Shala Khoto. This was the last permanent settlement on the Huang Ho. Even at this altitude the river never froze completely and its islands were thickly grown
with berberis, willow and a new poplar, Populus przewalskii. Though the river was almost a quarter of a mile wide, its current ran so fast through canyons so deep that it was unfordable and unnavigable. The banks, often 1,500 feet above the water, were arid, which was why a river draining such a large region of mountainous country should flood so little in spring.

  The precipitous country was fit only for mules, but Przhevalsky found them hard to handle. Mules were more independent and cleverer than camels. They shed their loads, they fought, lay down, held out for good fodder and, for all their sterility, behaved grossly. ‘For reasons I cannot describe,’ Przhevalsky prudishly complained, ‘the stallions were quite unsuitable.’ Perpetual neighing at night got on his nerves. He had no alternative. Only seven of his camels were alive and he had left them at Balekun Gomi in the care of the Tanguts.

  The April thunder and dust storms blacked out the sun, all but the magpies fell silent. Przhevalsky set off up-river, but could find only a half-blind guide, half Tangut, half Mongol, who knew just sixty miles of the way. As the expedition moved on, the nomadic Tanguts lit bonfires as warning signals and struck camp. The expedition struggled up onto the plateau; they had to drag water up half a mile every night, but there was grazing for the mules.

  Przhevalsky, Roborovsky, Kolomeytsov and a Cossack, Teleshov, began to leave the main party in the evening to sleep out. At dusk and dawn they would shoot the rare and elusive eared pheasant (Crossoptilon auritum), enjoying the gentle spring nights on the moss and the dawn chorus of blue magpies and thrushes. In three weeks they collected twenty-six eared pheasants. Their guide now no longer knew the way and they had to try each ravine in turn to find a pass from one tributary of the Huang Ho to another. Przhevalsky went on foot to a small lamasery in the mountains south of the Baga Gorgi where he found an abbot who helped him buy sheep. Przhevalsky cured a Tangut with doses of quinine, but neither of them would answer questions about the way south-west. The country here was wooded; hunting birds, although new species appeared, was difficult for the bodies were lost in the trees of the chasms. There was no grass; the mules were getting weak, stumbling over marmot holes in the open, starving in the forests. Cossacks rode ahead and reported good grazing on the next tributary, the Churmyn, but the going was too dangerous. Three mules and a horse died. Przhevalsky sent a party across the river to the right bank, but they could not find a fording place or material for a raft after four days’ searching. To break through the mountains on to the desolate Odon Tala, where the Huang Ho was said to rise, would have been certain death without camels or guides. Przhevalsky turned back to Balekun Gomi, into the first rains and mud of the summer monsoon.

  Five of his camels were still alive. Abdul and a Cossack rode to Hsi-ning to fetch letters, while Przhevalsky waited in the rain and Eklon tried to dry out the plant specimens. When Abdul came back they set off again. This time they were going to Kuei-te and the Jahar mountains on the right bank of the Huang Ho downstream. Abdul had infuriated General Ling by telling him of Przhevalsky’s intention, but Ling was too well-mannered to remonstrate; he ironically begged Przhevalsky not to go on to Szechwan and even ordered the Tangut to provide 100 men and women coolies to break down the clay walls of the gorge track and let Przhevalsky’s mules down to the ferry point opposite Kuei-te. Here was the real China: intensively tilled fields; cultivated apricots in bloom; willows pollarded for timber; coracles, made of two inflated sheepskins trussed with reeds and rods, plying the river. Kuei-te was a crowded, diseased town; mainly women had survived the Tungans and they were desperately poor. Przhevalsky camped near the ferry; crowds gathered to pick up the dung from men and animals and to take the mutton bones as fertilizers for their cornfields and cherry orchards.

  The Jahar mountains in the hinterland were his objective. Of all his months in Kansu, June 1880 proved the most productive botanically. The forests in the ravines beyond Kuei-te were full of rowans and berberis (b. diaphana); here Przhevalsky discovered the red Rosa przewalskii and the large, white-flowered, aromatic Rhododendron przewalskii, the fragrant Daphne tangutica and a new species of Himalayan poppy, Mecanopsis quintuplinervia—all of them in the alpine zone from 11,500 to 15,000 feet. For once Przhevalsky had arrived neither too early nor too late for the brief flowering season of the wet eastern Nan Shan. One month in the Jahar mountains gave him his most beautiful, if least known, discoveries—few of them are in cultivation outside botanical gardens.

  The Jahar Tangut ignored Przhevalsky and he them, staying in the alpine meadows. Here he came across the great blue redstart or chekkan (Grandula coelicolor); it was not new to science, but never had it been seen so far north. It was an exceedingly beautiful insectivore, its sky-blue body set off by black wings and tail. Przhevalsky collected twenty-five specimens. ‘Sometimes one even felt sorry to shoot at such a dear, trusting creature.’ The flora and fauna of these luxuriant monsoon mountains were so enthralling after the desolation of Tibet and Mongolia that Przhevalsky planned to defy General Ling and move south into the plant-hunter’s paradise of Szechwan. But the track over the chasms was fit only for yaks; he contented himself by climbing Mount Jahar itself and then went down to Kuei-te.

  Kuei-te was warm and dry, which was just as well since 400 species of flora had to be sorted, dried and packed. There were rumours of trouble in Lhasa over a rival Dalai Lama supported by the Tangut; a messenger came at once from Hsi-ning to get Przhevalsky away, further from Lhasa, nearer to Mongolia.

  Przhevalsky refused to go direct to A-la Shan. He wanted to complete his survey of Kuku Nor by walking round the eastern shore. He dismissed the man from Hsi-ning and with the help of 100 Tangut labourers crossed the Huang Ho and clambered up the mud on to the plateau. The rain was incessant. It drowned marmots and brought the bodies to the surface; it muddied the water with loess and bogged down horses and mules. But Kuku Nor was warm enough to swim in and Przhevalsky could collect the eggs of birds he had seen here in 1873. The lake was alive with the floating grass nests of the loons, and with Indian geese and their goslings. Eight years ago the Mongols had told Przhevalsky that Kuku Nor had no insects; now he was plagued by gnats. They blinded the Tibetan ram named Yograi, who had led the expedition’s flock of sheep from Nagchu. Nobody had the heart to slaughter him and he was abandoned, a ram from Tsaidam taking over as leader.

  Kuku Nor was soon fully explored. Przhevalsky gave in to the gnats and General Ling and made for home. Local Tanguts and Mongols had evidently been warned not to sell him any camels, for he did not see a single beast in July. He had little option but to conform and hire animals from stage to stage across the Nan Shan (the Ta-t’ung mountains) into Mongolia. At least he could dispense with a survey, for he would be retracing his 1873 route and needed only to check his observations with his now more sophisticated equipment.

  Over a more direct route than in 1873 he made for the lamasery of Choibseng. The Ta-t’ung was as rainy as ever; the revolvers began to rust. The mountains were repopulated and fields that had lain fallow after the Tungan rebellion were now tilled. But the only change at the lamasery was the installation of water-driven prayer wheels to automate the lamas’ devotions. Here Przhevalsky came across Jigjit, his Mongol guide through the Ta-t’ung in 1873; it was the first friendly reception he had had on the whole expedition. Jigjit was hired to take him on a brief botanical excursion in the southern Ta-t’ung.

  Like June in the Jahar mountains, August 1880 in the forests and alpine meadows of the Ta-t’ung was prodigiously successful. Przhevalsky collected all four of his rhododendrons—rh. anthopogonoides, capitatum, przewalskii and thymifolium; he found a new species of spindle tree, Euonymus przewalskii, a new caryopteris, c. tangutica, three new species of shrubby honeysuckle—Lonicera nervosa, syrigantha and tangutica—new herbaceous species—gentians, delphiniums—and a new maidenhair fern, Adiantum roborovskii. The Kansu summer was nearly over. The plants had set seed and Przhevalsky could take home not just dead pressings and cuttings for the museum, but ripe seed for
the botanical garden. These plants were already vanishing: Chinese immigrants from the crowded provinces in the east were cutting down the forests for firewood and ploughing the meadows.

  Przhevalsky left for Chörtentang, the lamasery where his portrait hung. The abbot who had painted it was dead and, like Choibseng, Chörtentang had installed water-powered prayer wheels. But hunting was still forbidden and there were no Tangut or Mongol herdsmen: it was a naturalist’s preserve. Przhevalsky had now collected plants of 897 species and was too heavily laden to look for more. He paid off Jigjit, took a last look at the sacred Mount Bajur—the last major peak he would see on this journey—and, his own guide, descended from the Nan Shan. The expedition crossed the great west road from Lan-chou to Hami with its Chinese pickets, passed through the Great Wall north of Ta-tsin and found itself in the intense heat and dust storms of the A-la Shan desert.

  Even in these desolate sand-dunes Przhevalsky added to his botanical collection. A new piptanthus (related to the laburnum), p. mongolicus; flourished wherever the sand gave way to clay, and he found three new species of allium. Lizards scurried past ‘at every step’, Przhevalsky found not only the Eremias he had discovered in 1872, but three more new species. He was in luck—rain had wetted the sand, the going was easy and tracks of earlier caravans remained visible.