From Pole to Pole: A Book for Young People — Sec 9 In the Forbidden Land (1901-2)

IN THE FORBIDDEN LAND (1901-2, 1906-8)

THE PLATEAU OF TIBET

South of Eastern Turkestan lies the huge upheaval of the earth's crust which is called Tibet.

Its other boundaries are: on the east, China proper; on the south, Burma, Bhutan, Sikkim, Nepal, and British India;

on the west, Kashmir and Ladak.

Political boundaries, however, are of little and only temporary importance.

They seldom remain unchanged from century to century, for from the earliest times a nation as it increased in strength has always extended its domain at the expense of its neighbours.

The earth's crust, on the other hand, remains unchanged--if we disregard the continual work performed by rain and streams, weather and wind, which tends to fill up the hollows with mud and sand, to cut the valleys ever deeper, and to diminish the mountain masses by weathering.

However powerfully these forces may have acted, Tibet still remains the highest mountain land of the world.

If you lay your left hand on a map of Tibet so that the part nearest the wrist touches the Pamir, the flat of the hand covers the region of central Tibet, where there is no drainage to the ocean, but where the country falls instead into a number of isolated lake basins.

Your thumb will represent the Himalayas, the forefinger the Trans-Himalaya, the middle finger the Karakorum, the third finger the Arka-tagh, and the little finger the Kuen-lun.

The highest mountain ranges of the world are under your fingers; and also, as the longest finger is the middle of the five, so the Karakorum is the central range of Tibetan mountains.

Now let a little stream of water fall on the back of your hand as you hold it on a table with the fingers spread out.

You will see that a tiny quantity remains on the back of the hand, but that the greater part runs away between the fingers.

Thus it is in Tibet.

The water poured on your hand represents the rain of the south-west monsoon, which falls more abundantly on the eastern part of the country than on the western.

The water which stays on the back of the hand represents the small scattered salt lakes on the plateau country which has no drainage to the sea, while the large quantity which runs off between your fingers represents the large rivers which flow between the ranges.

[Illustration: TIBET.

] Of these rivers two stream eastwards: the Yellow River (the Hwang-ho), which falls into the Yellow Sea, and the Blue River (the Yang-tse-kiang), which empties its waters into the Eastern Sea.

The others run southwards, the Mekong into the China Sea, the Salwin, Irawaddy, and Brahmaputra into the great inlet of the Indian Ocean which is called the Bay of Bengal.

A large quantity of water runs off along the outer side of your thumb; this is the Ganges, which comes down from the upper valleys of the Himalayas.

And, far to the west, nearest to the wrist, you find two rivers with which you are already acquainted: the Indus, which flows southwards into the Arabian Sea, and the Tarim, which runs north and east and falls into Lop-nor.

The Himalayas are the loftiest range on earth, and among their crests rise the highest peaks in the world.

Three of them should be remembered, for they are so well known: Mount Everest, which, with its 29,000 feet, is the very highest summit in the world; Kinchinjunga (28,200 feet), and Dhwalagiri (26,800 feet).

Mount Godwin-Austen in the Karakorum is only about 650 feet lower than Mount Everest.

The Himalayas present a grand spectacle when seen from the south.

No other mountain region in the world can vie with it in awe-inspiring beauty.

If we travel by rail from Calcutta up to Sikkim we see the snow-clad crest of the Himalayas in front and above us, and Kinchinjunga like a dazzling white pinnacle surmounting the whole.

We see the sharply defined snow limit, and the steep, wooded slopes below.

If it is early in the morning and the weather is fine, the jagged, snowy crest shines brightly in the sun, while the flanks and valleys are still hidden in dense shadow.

And during the journey to the great heights we shall notice that the flora changes much in the same way as it does from South Italy to the North Cape.

The last forms of vegetation to contend against the cold are mosses and lichens.

Then we come to the snow limit, where the mountains and rocks are bare.

North and Central Tibet have a mean elevation of 16,000 feet; that is to say, one is almost always at a greater height than the summit of Mont Blanc.

Where the plateau country is so exceedingly high the mountain ranges seem quite insignificant.

We have spoken of five great ranges, but between these He many smaller, all running east and west.

What a fortunate thing it is for the people of Asia that the interior of the continent rises into the tremendous boss called Tibet!

Against its heights the water vapour of the monsoon is cooled and condensed, so that it falls in the form of rain and feeds the great rivers.

Were the country flat like northern India or Eastern Turkestan, immense tracts of the interior of Asia would be complete desert, as in the interior of Arabia; but as it is, the water is collected in the mountains and runs off in all directions.

Along the rivers the population is densest;

around them spring up cities and states, and from them canals branch off to water fields and gardens.

You know, of course, that Asia is the largest division of land in the world, and that Europe is little more than a peninsula jutting out westwards from the trunk of Asia.

Indeed, Asia is not much smaller than Europe, Africa, and Australia put together.

Of the 1550 millions of men who inhabit the world, 830 millions, or more than half, live in Asia.

If, now, you take out your atlas and compare southern Europe and southern Asia, you will find some very curious similarities.

From both these continents three large peninsulas point southwards.

The Iberian Peninsula, consisting of Spain and Portugal, corresponds to the Arabian Peninsula, both being quadrangular and massive.

Italy corresponds to the Indian Peninsula, both having large islands near their extremities, Sicily and Ceylon.

The Balkan Peninsula corresponds to Further India (the Malay Peninsula), both having irregular, deeply indented coasts with a world of islands to the south-east, the Archipelago and the Sunda Islands.

Tibet may be likened to a fortress surrounded by mighty ramparts.

To the south the ramparts are double, the Himalayas and the Trans-Himalaya, and between the two is a moat partly filled with water--the Upper Indus and the Upper Brahmaputra.

And Tibet is really a fortress and a defence in the rear of China.

It is easily conceivable that a country surrounded by such huge mountain ranges must be very difficult of access, and the number of Europeans who have crossed Tibet is very small.

The inaccessible position of the country has also had an influence on the people.

Isolated and without communication with their neighbours, the people have taken their own course and have developed in a peculiar manner within their own boundaries.

The northern third of the country is uninhabited.

I once travelled for three months, and on another occasion for eighty-one days, without seeing a single human being.

The middle part is thinly peopled by herdsmen, who roam about with their flocks of sheep and yaks, and live in black tents.

Many of them also are skilful hunters of yaks and antelopes.

Others gather salt on the dried-up beds of lakes, pack it in double-ended bags, and carry it on sheep to barter it for barley in the southern districts, which are the home of the great majority of Tibet's two or three million inhabitants.

There are to be found not only nomads, but also settled people, dwelling in small villages of stone huts in the deeper river valleys, especially that of the Brahmaputra, and cultivating barley.

A few towns also exist here;

they are all small, the largest being Lhasa and Shigatse.

When our journey takes us to India again we shall have an opportunity of learning about the religion of Buddha, which is called Buddhism.

In a different form this religious creed found its way into Tibet a thousand years ago.

Before this time a sort of natural religion prevailed, which peopled the mountains, rivers, lakes, and air with demons and spirits.

Much of the old superstition was absorbed into the new teaching, and the combination is known by the name of Lamaism.

There are 620 millions of Christians in the world and 400 million Buddhists; and of the Buddhists all the Tibetans and Mongolians, the Buriats in eastern Siberia, the Kalmukhs on the Volga, the peoples of Ladak, northern Nepal, Sikkim, and Bhutan are Lamaists.

They have a great number of monks and priests, each of whom is called a Lama.

The principal one is the Dalai Lama, in Lhasa, but almost on a par with him is the Tashi Lama, the head of Tashi-lunpo, the large monastery at Shigatse.

The third in rank is the High Lama at Urga in northern Mongolia.

These three and some others are incarnated deities.

The Dalai Lama never dies; the god that dwells in him merely changes his earthly body, just as a snake when it casts its skin.

When a Dalai Lama dies it means that the divinity, his soul, sets out on its wanderings and passes into the body of a boy.

When the boy is found he becomes the Dalai Lama of Lhasa.

Lamaists believe, then, in the transmigration of souls, and the end, the fullest perfection, is peace in Nirvana.

There are many monasteries and nunneries in the upper Brahmaputra valley.

The temple halls are adorned with images of the gods in metal or gilded clay, and butter lamps burn day and night in front of them.

Monks and nuns cannot marry, but among the ordinary people the singular custom prevails that a wife can have two or several husbands.

Among Mohammedans the case is just the reverse: men can have several wives.

ATTEMPT TO REACH LHASA

It was from Lop-nor in the year 1901 that I penetrated into this lofty mountain land for the third time.

The summer had just set in with its suffocating dust storms, and we longed to get up into the fresh, pure air.

The caravan was large, for I had sixteen Mohammedan servants from Eastern Turkestan, two Russian and two Buriat Cossacks, and a Mongolian Lama from Urga.

Provisions for seven months, tents, furs, beds, weapons, and boxes were carried by 39 camels, 45 horses and mules, and 60 asses;

and we also had 50 sheep for food, several dogs, and a tame stag.

When all was ready we set out towards the lofty mountains and crossed one range after another.

When we reached the great heights the caravan lost strength day by day.

The atmosphere is so rare that a man cannot breathe without an effort, and the slightest movement produces palpitation of the heart.

The grazing becomes more scanty the higher you go, and many of the caravan animals succumbed.

At last we seldom travelled more than twelve miles in a day.

After forty-four days' march due southwards we came to a part of the country where footprints of men were seen in several places, and Lhasa was only 300 miles away.

Up to this time all Europeans who had tried to reach the holy city had been forced by Tibetan horsemen to turn back.

The Tibetans are at bottom a good-tempered, decent people, but they will not allow any European to enter their country.

They have heard that India and Central Asia have been conquered by white men, and fear that the same fate may befall Tibet.

Two hundred years ago, indeed, Catholic missionaries lived in Lhasa, and the town was visited in 1845 by the famous priests Huc and Gabet from France.

Since then two Europeans who had made the attempt to reach the place had been murdered, and others had to turn back without success.

Now it was my turn to try my luck.

My plan was to travel in disguise with only two followers.

One was the Mongolian Lama, the other the Buriat Cossack, Shagdur.

The Buriats are of Mongol race, speak Mongolian, and are Lamaists.

They have narrow, rather oblique eyes, prominent cheek-bones, and thick lips.

The dress of both peoples is the same--a skin coat with long sleeves and a waistbelt, a cap, and a pair of boots with turned-up toes.

My costume was of exactly the same kind, and everything we took with us--tent, boxes, cooking utensils, and provisions--was of Mongolian style and make.

The European articles I required--instruments, writing materials, and a field-glass--were carefully packed in a box.

For defence we had two Russian rifles and a Swedish revolver.

Of the caravan animals, five mules and four horses, as well as two dogs, Tiger and Lilliput, were to go with us.

I rode a handsome white horse, Shagdur a tall yellow horse, and the Lama a small greyish-yellow mule.

The baggage animals were led by my men and I rode behind.

During the first two days we had a Mohammedan with us, Ördek, but he was to go back to headquarters, where all the rest of the caravan were ordered to await our return.

We were to ride south-eastwards and endeavour to strike the great Mongolian pilgrim route to Lhasa.

Many Mongolians betake themselves annually in large armed caravans to the holy city to pay homage to the Dalai Lama, and obtain a blessing from him and the Tashi Lama.

Perhaps it was wrong of me to give myself out for a Lamaist pilgrim, but there seemed no other means of getting to the forbidden city.

We left the main camp on July 27, and those we left behind did not expect ever to see us again.

The first day we did not see a living thing, and the second day we rode twenty-five miles farther without hindrance.

Our camp that day was situated on open ground beside two lakes, and to the south-east stood some small hills, in the neighbourhood of which our animals grazed.

Ördek was to watch them during the night in order that we might have a good sleep, for when he left us we should have to guard them ourselves.

Here my disguise was improved.

My head was shaved so that it shone like a billiard ball.

Only the eyebrows were left.

Then the Lama rubbed fat, soot, and brown colouring-matter into the skin, and when I looked in a small hand-glass I could hardly recognise myself; but I seemed to have a certain resemblance to my two Lamaist retainers.

In the afternoon a storm broke out from the north, and we crept early into our little thin tent and slept quietly.

At midnight Ördek crept into the tent and whispered in a trembling voice that robbers were about.

We seized our weapons and rushed out.

The storm was still raging, and the moon shone fitfully between the riven clouds.

We were too late.

With some difficulty we made out two horsemen on the top of the hills driving two loose horses before them--we found afterwards that one was my favourite white horse, the other Shagdur's yellow one.

Shagdur sent a bullet after the scoundrels, but it only hastened their pace.

It was still dark, but there was no more sleep for us.

We settled ourselves round a small blaze, boiled rice and tea, and lighted our pipes.

When the sun rose we were ready to go forward.

First we examined the tracks of the thieves and found that they had come down on us with the wind, and had thus eluded the watchfulness of the dogs.

One of the men had crept along a rain furrow right among the grazing horses, and, jumping up, had frightened the best two off to leeward.

There a mounted Tibetan had taken them in hand and chased them on in front of him.

The third had waited with his comrade's horse and his own, and then he also had made off.

They had no doubt been watching us all day.

Perhaps they already knew that we came from my headquarters, and they might even send a warning to Lhasa.

Ördek was beside himself with fright at having to make the two days' journey back on foot and quite alone.

We heard afterwards that he did not dare to go back on our trail, but sneaked like a wild cat along all the furrows, longing for night; but when darkness came he was still more terrified and thought that every stone was a lurking villain.

A couple of wild asses nearly frightened him out of his senses, and made him scuttle like a hedgehog into a ravine.

When he arrived in the darkness of night at the main camp, the night watchman took him for a stranger and raised his gun.

But Ördek shouted and waved his arms, and when he got to his tent he lay down and slept heavily for two whole days.

We three pilgrims rode on south-eastwards, and pitched our tent on open ground by a brook twenty-five miles farther on.

Our positions were now reversed; Shagdur was the important man and I was only a mule-driver.

With the Cossacks I always spoke Russian, but now no language must be used but Mongolian, which the Lama had been teaching me for a long time previously.

After dinner I slept till eight o'clock in the evening, and when I awoke I found my two comrades in a state of the greatest anxiety, for they had seen three Tibetan horsemen spying upon us from a long distance.

We must therefore expect fresh trouble at any moment.

The night was divided into three watches, from nine o'clock to midnight, midnight to three o'clock, and three o'clock to six o'clock, and usually I took the first and the Lama the last.

The animals were tethered to a rope fastened to the ground in the lee of the tent, and Tiger was tied up in front of them and Lilliput behind them.

At half-past eight Shagdur and the Lama were asleep in the tent, and my first night watch began.

I strolled backwards and forwards between Tiger and Lilliput, who whined with pleasure when I stroked them.

The sky was covered with dense black clouds, lighted from within by flashes of lightning, while thunder rolled around us and rain streamed down in a perfect deluge.

It beat and rang on the Mongolian stewpans left out at the fireplace.

Sometimes I tried to get a little shelter in the tent opening, but as soon as the dogs growled I had to hurry out again.

At last it is midnight and my watch is at an end; but Shagdur is sleeping so soundly that I cannot find it in my heart to waken him.

I am just thinking of shortening his watch by half an hour when both dogs begin to bark furiously.

The Lama wakes up and rushes out, and we steal off with our weapons in the direction in which we hear the tramp of a horse going away through the mud.

In a little while all is quiet again, and the dogs cease to bark.

I wake up Shagdur and creep into my berth in my wet coat.

Next day we travel on under a sky as heavy as lead.

No human beings or nomad tents are to be seen, but we find numerous tracks of flocks of sheep and yaks, and old camping-grounds.

The danger of meeting people increased hourly, and so did my anxiety as to how the Tibetans would treat us when we were at last discovered.

On July 31 the rain was still pouring down.

We were following a clear, well-trodden path, along which a herd of yaks had recently been driven.

After a while we came up with a party of Tangut pilgrims, with fifty yaks, two horses, and three dogs.

The Tanguts are a nomadic people in northeastern Tibet, and almost every second Tangut is also a robber.

We passed them safely, however, and for the first time encamped near a Tibetan nomad tent occupied by a young man and two women.

While the Lama was talking with these people, the owner of the tent came up and was much astonished to find an unexpected visitor.

He followed the Lama to our tent and sat down on the wet ground outside the entrance.

His name was Sampo Singi, and he was the dirtiest fellow I ever saw in my life.

The rain-water dropped from his matted hair on to the ragged cloak he wore; he wore felt boots but no trousers, which indeed almost all Tibetan nomads regard as quite, superfluous.

Sampo Singi blew his nose with his fingers, making a loud noise, and he did it so often that I began to think that it was some form of politeness.

To make sure I followed his example.

He showed not the slightest suspicion, only looked at our things and gave us the information we wanted.

We had a journey of eight days more to Lhasa, he assured us.

Then Shagdur gave him a pinch of snuff which made him sneeze at least fifty times.

We laughed at him when he asked whether we put pepper in our snuff, whereupon, in order to keep up our story, Shagdur roared at me, "Do not sit here and stare, boy; go and drive in the cattle."

I started up at once, and had a terrible job to get the animals in to the camp.

We had an undisturbed night, thanks to the neighbourhood of the nomads, for they too had fierce dogs and arms.

Early in the morning Sampo came with another man and a woman to visit us.

We had asked if we might buy some food from them, and they brought several choice things with them--a sheep, a large piece of fat, a bowl of sour milk, a wooden bowl of powdered cheese, a can of milk, and a lump of yellow cream cheese.

Then came the question of payment.

Our money consisted of Chinese silver pieces, which are valued by weight, and are weighed out with a pair of small scales.

Sampo Singi, however, would take only silver coins from Lhasa, of which we had none.

Fortunately I had provided myself with two packages of blue Chinese silken material in Turkestan, and a length of that is a substitute for silver of all kinds.

The Tibetans became quite excited when they heard the rustle of the silk, and after the usual haggling and bargaining we came to an agreement.

The sheep was then slaughtered, some fat pieces were fried over the fire, and after a solid breakfast, of which a share was bestowed on the dogs, we bade farewell to the Tibetans and rode on through the valley, still in pouring rain.

Soon we came to the right bank of a broad river which was composed of about twenty arms, four of which were each as large as an ordinary stream.

Without hesitation our courageous little Lama rode straight out into the rapid turbid current, and Shagdur and I followed.

When we had crossed about half the river we rested a while on a small mud flat, from which neither bank could be seen owing to the rain.

On all sides we were surrounded by swiftly flowing water, yet it seemed as if the water was standing still while the small sandbank rushed up the river at a terrific pace.

The Lama again started off with his mule into the water, but he had not gone many steps before the water rose to the root of the animal's tail.

He was also leading the mule which carried our two hide trunks, which until the water soaked into them acted like corks.

In this way the mule lost her footing on the bottom of the river, swung round, and was quickly carried down-stream.

We saw her disappear in the rain and thought that it was certainly her last journey, but she extricated herself in a marvellous manner.

Near the left bank of the river she managed to get her hoofs on the bottom again, and clambered up; and what was most singular, the two trunks were still on her back.

At length we all got safely across, and rode on.

My boots squelched, and water dropped from the corners of the boxes.

Our camp that evening was truly wretched--not a dry stitch on us, continuous rain, almost impossible to make a fire.

At length, however, we succeeded in keeping alight a small smoking fire of dung.

That night I did not keep watch a minute after midnight, but waked up Shagdur mercilessly and crept into bed.

On August 2 we made only fifteen and a half miles.

The road was now broad and easy to follow.

On the slope of a hill was encamped a large tea caravan; its twenty-five men were sitting round their fires, while the three hundred yaks were grazing close at hand.

The bales of tea were stacked up in huge piles; it was Chinese tea of poor quality compressed into cakes like bricks, and therefore called "brick-tea."

Every cake is wrapped in red paper, and about twenty cakes are sewed up together into a hide tightly bound with rope.

The caravan was bound for Shigatse.

As we rode by, several of the men came up to us and put some impertinent and inconvenient questions.

They were well armed and looked like robbers, so we politely refused their proposal that we should travel together southwards.

We pitched our camp a little farther on, and next morning we saw this curious and singular caravan pass by.

It was a great contrast to the fine camel caravans of Persia and Turkestan, for it marched like a regiment in separate detachments of thirty or forty yaks each.

The men walked, whistling and uttering short sharp cries; ten of them carried guns slung on their backs, and all were bareheaded, sunburnt, and dirty.

The whole of the next day we remained where we were in order to dry our things, and the Lama again stained my head down to the neck and in the ears.

The critical moment was approaching.

On August 4 we met a caravan of about a hundred yaks, accompanied by armed men in tall yellow hats; but they took us for ordinary pilgrims and did not trouble themselves about us.

Then we rode past several tents, and when we reached the top of the next pass we saw that tents lay scattered about on the plain like black spots, fourteen together in one place.

We were now on the great highway to Lhasa.

The next day we came to a flat open valley, where there were twelve tents.

Three Tibetans came to our tent there at dusk, and had a long conversation with the Lama, who was the only one of us who understood Tibetan.

When he came back to us he was quite overcome with fright.

One of the three men, who was a chief, had told him that information had come from yak-hunters in the north that a large European caravan was on the way.

He had a suspicion that one of us might be a white man, and he ordered us on no account to move from where we were.

In fact, we were prisoners, and with great anxiety we awaited the morning, when our fate would be decided.

All night a watch was kept round our tent, as we knew by the fires, and next day we were visited by several parties, both influential chiefs and ordinary nomads, who warned us, if we valued our lives, to wait there till the Governor of the Province arrived.

In the meantime they did all they could to frighten us.

Troops of horsemen in close order dashed straight towards our tent, as if they meant to stamp us into the earth, and so finish us off at once.

On they rushed, the horses' hoofs ringing on the bare ground and the riders brandishing their swords and lances above their heads and uttering the wildest shrieks.

When they were so near that the mud was splashed on to the tent, they suddenly opened out to right and left, and returned in the same wild career to the starting-point.

This martial manoeuvre was repeated several times.

During the following days, however, they behaved in a more peaceful fashion, and eventually we came to be on quite a friendly footing with most of our neighbours.

They visited us constantly, gave us butter, milk, and fat, and when it rained crept coolly into our tent, which became so crowded that we could hardly find room for ourselves.

They informed us that the Dalai Lama had given orders that no harm should be done to us, and we saw that messengers on horseback rode off daily along the roads leading to Lhasa and the Governor's village.

We did not know where our seven baggage and riding animals were, but we made it clear to the Tibetans that, as they had stopped us against our will, they must be answerable for the safety of our animals and possessions.

On August 9 things at last began to look lively.

A whole village of tents sprang up at some distance from us, and round the new tents swarmed Tibetans on foot and horseback.

A Mongolian interpreter escorted by some horsemen came to our tent.

"The Governor, Kamba Bombo, is here, and invites you to-day to a feast in his tent."

"Greet Kamba Bombo," I answered, "but tell him that it is usual first to pay a visit to the guests one invites."

"You must come," went on the interpreter; "a sheep roasted whole is placed in the middle of the tent, surrounded by bowls of roasted meal and tea.

He awaits you."

"We do not leave our camp.

If Kamba Bombo wishes to see us he can come here."

"If you will not come with me I cannot be responsible for you to the Governor.

He has ridden day and night to talk with you.

I beg you to come with me."

"If Kamba Bombo has anything to say to us, he is welcome.

We ask nothing from him, only to travel to Lhasa as peaceful pilgrims."

Two hours later the Tibetans came back again in a long dark line of horsemen, the Governor riding on a large white mule in their midst.

His retinue consisted of officials, priests, and officers in red and blue cloaks carrying guns, swords, and lances, wearing turbans or light-coloured hats, and riding on silver-studded saddles.

When they came up, carpets and cushions were spread on the ground, and on these Kamba Bombo took his seat.

I went out to him and invited him into our poor tent, where he occupied the seat of honour, a maize sack.

He might be forty years old, looked merry and jovial, but also pale and tired.

When he took off his long red cloak and his _bashlik_, he appeared in a splendid dress of yellow Chinese silk, and his boots were of green velvet.

The interview began at once, and each of us did his best to talk the other down.

The end of the matter was a clear declaration on his part that if we tried to move a step in the direction of Lhasa our heads should be cut off, no matter who we were.

We did our best, both that day and the next, to get this decision altered, but it was no use and we had to yield to superior force.

So we turned back on the long road through dreary Tibet, and eventually regained our headquarters in safety.

THE TASHI LAMA

Thus it was that we came back to the little town of Leh, the capital of Ladak, and again saw the winter caravans which come over the lofty mountains from Eastern Turkestan on their way with goods to Kashmir.

Then several years passed, but in August, 1906, I was once more in Leh, having travelled (as has been described) across Europe to Constantinople, over the Black Sea, through Persia and Baluchistan, then by rail to Rawalpindi, in a tonga to Kashmir, and lastly on horseback to Leh.

On this occasion the caravan consisted of twenty-seven men and nearly a hundred mules and horses, besides thirty hired horses, which were to turn back when the provisions they carried had been consumed.

Our course lay over the lofty mountains in northern Tibet, and for eighty-one days we did not see a single human being.

But when we turned off to the right and came to more southern districts of the country, we met with Tibetan hunters and nomads, from whom we purchased tame yaks and sheep, for the greater part of our animals had perished owing to the rarefied air, the poor and scanty pasture, and the cold and the wind.

The temperature had on one occasion fallen as low as 40° below zero.

After wandering for about six months we came to the Upper Brahmaputra, which is the only place where the Tibetans use boats, if indeed they can be called boats at all.

They simply take four yak hides, stretch them over a framework of thin curved ribs and sew them together, and then the boat is ready; but it is buoyant and floats lightly on the water.

When we were only a day's journey from Shigatse, the second town of Tibet, the caravan was ferried across the river.

I myself with two of my servants took my seat in a hide boat, dexterously managed by a Tibetan, and we drifted down the Brahmaputra at a swinging pace.

A number of other boats were following the same fine waterway.

They were full of pilgrims flocking to the great Lama temple in Shigatse.

Two days later was the New Year of the country, and then the Lamaists celebrate their greatest festival.

Pilgrims stream from far and near to the holy town.

Round their necks they wear small images of their gods or wonder-working charms written on paper and enclosed in small cases, and many of them turn small praying mills, which are filled inside with prayers written on long strips of paper.

When the mills revolve all these prayers ascend up to the ears of the gods--so easy is it to pray in Tibet!

All the time a man can continue his conversation with his fellow-travellers.

[Illustration: PLATE XI.

TASHI-LUNPO.

From a sketch by the Author.

] Many of the pilgrims, however, like all Tibetans, murmur the sacred formula _Om mane padme hum_ over and over again.

These four words contain the key to all faith and salvation.

They signify "O, jewel in the lotus flower, amen."

The jewel is Buddha, and in all images he is represented as rising up from the petals of a lotus flower.

The more frequently a man repeats these four words, the greater chance has he of a happy existence when he dies and his soul passes into a new body.

We reached Shigatse and pitched our tents in a garden on the outskirts of the town.

Outside Shigatse stands the great monastery of Tashi-lunpo (Plate XI.

), in which dwell 3800 monks of various grades, from fresh young novices to old, grey high priests.

They all go bareheaded and bare-armed, and their dress consists of long red sheets wound round the body.

The priest who is head of all is called the Tashi Lama; he is the primate of this part of Tibet and enjoys the same exalted rank and dignity as the Dalai Lama in Lhasa.

He has a great reputation for sanctity and learning, and pilgrims stand for hours in a queue only to receive a word of blessing from him.

This Tashi Lama was then a man of twenty-seven years of age, and had held the position since he was a small boy.

He invited me to the great festival in the temple on New Year's Day.

In the midst of the temple town is a long court surrounded by verandahs, balconies, and platforms.

Round about are seen the gilded copper roofs over the sanctuaries and mausoleums where departed high priests repose.

Everywhere the people are tightly packed, and the visitors from far and near are dressed in their holiday clothes, many-coloured and fine, and decorated with silver ornaments, coral and turquoise.

The Tashi Lama has his seat in a balcony hung with silken draperies and gold tassels, but the holy countenance can be seen through a small square opening in the silk.

The festival begins with the entry of the temple musicians.

They carry copper bassoons ten feet long, so heavy that their bells have to rest on the shoulder of an acolyte.

With deep, long-drawn blasts the monks proclaim the New Year, just as long ago the priests of Israel announced with trumpet notes the commencement of the year of jubilee.

Then follow cymbals which clash in a slow, ringing measure, and drums which rouse echoes from the temple walls.

The noise is deafening, but it sounds cheerful and impressive after the deep stillness in the valleys of Tibet.