by John Keay
From the Tant La mountains onwards, we noticed a gradual descent all the way to Lhasa. As we went, the cold became less intense and the soil produced stronger and more varied grasses. One day we camped in a great plain where the grazing was marvellously abundant. As our animals had long suffered from terrible starvation, it was decided to stop for two days and to let them enjoy this opportunity.
Next morning, as we were peacefully making tea inside our tent, we saw in the distance a troop of horsemen bearing down on us at full speed. Our blood froze at the sight, and we stood a moment petrified. When we had recovered from the shock, we rushed to Rala Tchembé’s tent. “The Kolo! The Kolo!” we shouted. “Here comes a great troop of Kolo!” The Tibetan merchants, who were sitting drinking their tea and dunking their tsamba, laughed and asked us to come and sit down.
“Take tea with us,” they said. “There are no more Kolo to be afraid of here; these horsemen are friendly. We are beginning to reach inhabited country; behind that hill over there on the right there are a large number of black tents. The horsemen you took for Kolo are local herdsmen.” These words brought us comfort, and comfort bringing appetite, we were glad to sit down and share the Tibetan merchants’ breakfast. But no sooner had they poured us a bowlful of buttered tea than the horsemen arrived at our tent door. Far from being brigands they were splendid fellows who had come to sell us butter and fresh meat. Their saddles looked like butchers’ shops, with numerous joints of mutton and venison hanging along the horses’ flanks. We bought eight legs of mutton, which being frozen were easy to carry. They cost us an old pair of Peking boots and the saddle from our little mule, which luckily was also from Peking. Everything that comes from Peking is greatly prized by the Tibetans, especially by those who are still herdsmen and nomads. Hence the merchants who accompanied the embassy had carefully marked all their bales of merchandise “Goods from Peking”. Snuff is greatly in demand in Tibet. All the herdsmen asked us if we had any Peking snuff. I, the only snuff-taker of the party, had once had some, but for the past week I had been filling my snuff-box with a horrible mixture of earth and ashes. Inveterate snuff-takers will appreciate the grimness of my situation.
Condemned as we had been for the last two months to live exclusively on barley-meal dipped in tea, the mere sight of our joints of mutton seemed to act as a tonic on our stomachs and to strengthen our scraggy limbs. The rest of the day was devoted to culinary operations. For spice and seasoning we had only garlic, but it was so frozen and dried up that there was next to nothing inside the skin. We took all we had left and stuck it into two of the legs of mutton which we put into our biggest pot to boil. As there was an abundance of argols on this happy plain we were able to make a good enough fire to cook our priceless supper. The sun was on the point of setting and Samdadchiemba, who had just inspected one of the joints with his thumbnail, was triumphantly announcing that the meat was done to a turn, when we heard all around us cries of disaster: “Mi yon! Mi yon! Fire! Fire!” We bounded out of our tent. The fire had started indeed inside the camp, burning the dry grass, and threatening to destroy our tents; the flames spread everywhere with terrifying speed. All the travellers, armed with felt rugs, were trying to beat it out, or at least prevent it from reaching the tents. These, fortunately, escaped destruction. The fire, though pursued in all directions, found a way out and escaped into the wilds. Then, fanned by the wind, it spread over the wide prairie, consuming the pasture as it went. We thought that there was nothing more to fear, but shouts of “Save the camels! Save the camels!” soon made us realise how little experience we had of the dangers of fire in the wilderness. We then saw how the camels stood stupidly waiting for the flames to envelop them, instead of running away from them, like the horses and the cattle. So we tore off to save ours, which were still some way from the fire. But the flames were there almost as soon as we were. Soon we were surrounded by fire. We pushed and beat those silly camels to try and force them to run, but in vain: they stood still, turning their heads to look at us coolly, as if asking us what right we had to come and stop them from grazing. We could have killed them! The flames ate up the grass at such speed that it soon reached the camels. Their long thick coats caught fire, and we had to run at them with felt rugs to put out the flames as they ran over their bodies. We were able to save three whose coats were only singed. But the fourth was in a pitiful state; it hadn't a hair left on the whole of its body; nothing remained but skin, and this too was horribly burnt.
The area of grazing land that had been destroyed by the fire was about a mile and half long by three-quarters of a mile wide. The Tibetans again and again blessed their lucky stars that they had succeeded in stopping the fire, and we heartily joined in when we realised the extent of the danger we had run. They told us that if the fire had gone on much longer it would have reached the black tents, and that then the herdsmen would have pursued and certainly slaughtered us. Hell knows no fury like that of these poor dwellers in the wilds when, by mistake or on purpose, someone reduces to ashes the pasturelands which are their only means of livelihood. It is tantamount to destroying their cattle.
When we resumed our journey, the burnt camel was not dead, but it was unusable; the three others had to fill the gap by sharing the load of their unfortunate fellow between them. In any case, the loads were much lighter than when we had left the Koukou Noor; our sacks of meal were almost empty; and since the crossing of the Tant La we had been reduced to a ration of two bowlfuls of tsamba a day. We had got our sums more or less right before we left, but we had not reckoned on the wastefulness of our two camel drivers: the one out of foolishness and carelessness, the other out of malice. Fortunately we were about to reach a large Tibetan supply base, at which we would be able to stock up.
For several days now our route took us along a succession of valleys, with here and there a few black tents and some large herds of yaks. Then at last we pitched our camp outside a large Tibetan village. It was on the Na Pichu River, marked on the Andriveau-Goujon map in its Mongol form of Khara Oussou; both mean “Black Waters”. Na Pichu was the first Tibetan settlement of any size on the road to Lhasa. It consisted of some adobe houses, and a large number of black tents. There was no sign of any cultivation. Although the inhabitants were settled, they were herdsmen like the nomadic tribes, and cattle-raising was their only occupation. We were told that long ago a king of the Koukou Noor had made war on the Tibetans, had conquered a large part of the country and given the Na Pichu area to the soldiers he had brought with him. Although by now these Tartars had merged with the Tibetans, we did see a few Mongol yurts amongst the black tents. This historical event may perhaps also explain why a number of Mongol expressions were in use locally, and had become part of the Tibetan language.
All caravans bound for Lhasa had to stop at Na Pichu for some days, to change their means of transport, because the route from then on was so rocky that camels could go no further. Our first task therefore was to sell ours; they were in such poor shape and so exhausted that nobody wanted them. Finally a man claiming to be an animal doctor turned up: he probably knew a way of improving their condition, for we sold him three of them for fifteen ounces of silver, and threw in the “burnt” one for nothing. These fifteen ounces of silver were just what we needed to hire six yaks to carry our baggage to Lhasa.
Our second task was to get rid of our assistant camel driver, the lama from the Ratchico mountains. After paying him off handsomely we told him that if he intended going on to Lhasa he must choose other companions, and that he could regard himself as freed from any obligations contracted with us. So at last we were parted from this fellow who, by his malice, had so increased the hardships we had had to bear on our journey.
We feel that we have a duty to warn anyone who for any reason might have to stop at Na Pichu that he would do well to be on his guard against thieves. The inhabitants of this Tibetan village are remarkable rogues; they exploit Mongol and other caravans to a shocking extent. At night they adroitly slip into the
tents and take what they can lay their hands on; even by day they ply their profession with a cool skill which would be the envy of the cleverest crooks in Paris.
After stocking up with butter, tsamba and some joints of mutton, we went on towards Lhasa, which was now only about a fortnight’s march away. We had as company some Mongols from the kingdom of Khartchin, who were on pilgrimage to Lhasa, the “Eternal Sanctuary”; they had taken their Grand Chaberon with them, that is, a Living Buddha who was the superior of their lamasery. He was a young man of eighteen; his manners were pleasant and refined, his expression was open and artless, contrasting strangely with the role he was made to play. At the age of five he had been declared a Buddha and Grand Lama of the Buddhists of Khartchin. He was going to Lhasa to spend some years in one of the great lamaseries, in the study of prayers and other knowledge required by his position. A brother of the king of Khartchin and several high-ranking lamas acted as his retinue. To be a Living Buddha was evidently a heavy burden for this young man. We could see that he would have enjoyed laughing and playing; he would have preferred to canter around on his horse, but was forced to proceed solemnly between a guard of honour of two horsemen who never left him. When we camped, instead of sitting all the time on cushions inside his tent, trying to look like an idol in a lamasery, he would much have preferred to be free in the wilds, busy with the tasks of nomadic life, but none of that was allowed. His life-task was to act the Buddha, and he must have no part in the everyday affairs of ordinary mortals. This young Chaberon enjoyed coming from time to time to chat with us in our tent; with us at least he could put off his official divinity and belong to the human race. He was most interested to hear us talk of Europe and the Europeans. He questioned us with artless candour about our religion, and greatly admired it; and when we asked him if it would not be better to be a worshipper of Jehovah than to be a Chaberon, he answered that he did not know. He disliked being asked about his previous lives and continual reincarnations; such questions made him blush, and in the end he told us that he found it painful when we spoke of such matters. This poor boy was clearly caught in a maze of religion of which he understood not a word.
The road from Na Pichu to Lhasa was mostly rocky and very hard going. When we reached the Koiran mountain chain it became extremely difficult indeed. Yet as we went along we were of good cheer, as we saw more and more signs of habitation. The sight of black tents in the distance, of many pilgrims on their way to Lhasa, of frequent inscriptions written on cairns by the wayside, and of many small caravans of yaks which we met from time to time all helped to lighten the fatigues of the journey. At a few days’ march from Lhasa, the population ceased to be entirely nomadic. A few cultivated fields appeared in the wilderness, and gradually black tents gave way to houses. Then finally there were no more herdsmen and we were amongst an agricultural people. Fifteen days after we had left Na Pichu we arrived at Pampou, which, because of its closeness to Lhasa, was regarded by pilgrims as the gateway to the holy city. Pampou, erroneously marked on the map as Panctou, was a fine plain watered by a large river, which irrigated the land by means of a number of canals. There was no village as such, but large flat-roofed farmhouses were dotted everywhere, mostly well whitewashed. They were all surrounded by large trees, and each one had a little turret like a dovecot from which floated many-coloured pennants covered with Tibetan characters. After more than three months spent in dreary deserts, with nothing to see but wild beasts and brigands, the plain of Pampou seemed to us the most beautiful place on earth. Our long hard journey had brought us so close to the savage state that we were lost in ecstasy at anything connected with civilisation. The houses, the ploughs, even a simple furrow seemed exciting. But what struck us most of all was the extraordinary mildness of the temperature. Although it was the end of January, the river and the canals had only a little thin ice along the edges; and hardly anyone was dressed in furs.
At Pampou we again had to reorganise the caravan. Yaks normally go no further than this; they are replaced by donkeys, very small but strong and trained as pack animals. As it was difficult to find enough donkeys for the baggage of the lamas from Khartchin and for our own, we were forced to stay two days. We used these days in an attempt to do something about our appearance. Our hair and our beards were so shaggy, our faces so sooty from the smoke of the tent, so cracked with the cold, so thin, so misshapen, that we felt sorry for ourselves when we looked at ourselves in a glass. As for our clothes, they were no better than we were.
The people of Pampou were most of them very well off; so they were continually gay and carefree. Each evening they gathered in front of their farms and we saw men, women and children jigging to a voice accompaniment. When the dances were over, the farmer plied everyone with a sourish drink made of fermented barley. It was like beer without the hops.
After two days’ search in all the farms of the plain, enough donkeys had been collected to equip the caravan and we started off. One mountain stood between us and Lhasa, but it was undoubtedly the hardest and steepest of all that we had come across in our journey. The Tibetans and the Mongols climb it with great reverence; they believe that whoever has the good fortune to reach the top receives absolution for all his sins. Whether or not this is so, it is certain that climbing this mountain is a long, hard act of penance. We left at an hour after midnight, and it was not until nearly ten in the morning that we reached the summit. We were forced to do almost all the climb on foot, as riding was most difficult owing to the steepness and the rocky terrain.
The sun was just about to set when we had negotiated all the zigzags of the descent. We came out into a wide valley, and on our right we saw Lhasa, capital of the Buddhist world. A multitude of ancient trees; large white houses, flat-roofed and turreted; countless temples with golden roofs; the Buddha La, with the palace of the Dalai Lama on it: all this we saw, an impressive and majestic city.
At the entrance to the city, the Mongols whom we had got to know on the journey and who had arrived a few days before us met us and invited us to put up at a lodging that they had arranged for us. It was 29 January 1846; eighteen months had elapsed since we had left the valley of Black Waters.
View of Lhasa. From Travels in Tartary, Tibet and China, London, 1852.
EXPLORING ANGKHOR
Henri Mouhot
(1826–61)
Born in France, Mouhot spent most of his career in Russia as a teacher and then in the Channel Islands. A philologist by training, he also took up natural history and it was with the support of the Royal Zoological Society that in 1858 he set out for South East Asia. From Siam (Thailand) he penetrated Cambodia and Laos, where he died; but not before reaching unknown Angkhor and becoming the first to record and depict the most extensive and magnificent temple complex in the world. His discovery provided the inspiration for a succession of subsequent French expeditions up the Mekong.
On the 29th November I took leave of my amiable fellow-countryman and friend, M. Arnoux, to, I may venture to affirm, our mutual regret, and set off, accompanied by Father Guilloux, who had some business at Pinhalú. They both wished me to remain with them until Cochin China was open, and I could travel through the country in safety: I should have liked to do so, could I have foreseen an approaching termination of the war; but in the then state of affairs that was impossible.
As far as Pump-Ka-Daye, the first village we came to after leaving Brelum, I had the society and aid of the missionaries, and of the old chief of the Stiêns, who furnished me with three waggons for my baggage, while Phrai and M. Guilloux’s Annamite attendants took charge of my boxes of insects, which, if placed among my other goods, would have been injured by the jolting.
The rains had ceased for the last three weeks, and I was agreeably surprised at the improvement in the state of the country since August. The paths were dry, and we had no longer to flounder through dirty marshes, nor suffer from the wet nights which we formerly found so unpleasant. When we reached the station where we were to pass the first night,
our servants lighted a fire to cook their rice, as well as scare away the wild beasts; but, notwithstanding this, we remarked that our oxen, dogs, and monkey showed signs of great fear, and, almost immediately afterwards, we heard a roaring like that of a lion. We seized our guns, which were loaded, and waited in readiness.
Henri Mouhot, drawn by M. Rousseau. From Travels in Central Parts of Indo China (Siam), Cambodia, and Laos, during the years 1858, 1859, and 1860, London, 1864.
Fresh roarings, proceeding from a very short distance off, completed the terror of our animals; and we ourselves could not help feeling uneasy. I proposed to go and meet the enemy, which was agreed to, and we accordingly plunged into that part of the forest whence the sound came. Although familiar with these terrible creatures, we felt far from comfortable; but before long we came upon recent tracks which were quite unmistakeable, and soon, in a small clearing in the forest, perceived nine elephants, the leader being a male of enormous size, standing right in front of us.
On our approach he set up a roar more frightful than ever, and the whole herd advanced slowly towards us. We remained in a stooping position, half hidden behind the trees, which were too tall for us to climb. I was in the act of taking aim at the forehead of the leader, the only vulnerable part, but an Annamite who stood beside me, and who was an old hunter, knocked up my rifle, and begged me not to fire; “for,” said he, “if you kill or wound one of the elephants we are lost; and even if we should succeed in escaping, the oxen, the waggons, and all their contents would be overwhelmed by the fury of these animals. If there were but two or three, we might hope to kill them; but nine, of whom five are very large, are too many; and it will be more prudent to retreat.” At this moment, Father Guilloux, who had not much confidence in his powers of locomotion, fired his gun in the air to frighten the elephants; and this plan fortunately succeeded: the herd stopped in astonishment for an instant, then turned round, and marched into the forest.