CHAPTER XVII

CHRISTMAS IN THE WILDS

Much depressed but outwardly composed, I dismounted from the yak and entered my tent just as Tsering brought in the brazier. The tent seemed more dismal than usual, the brazier made me feel weary, and at this moment I seemed to realize how lonely and dull my life had been all through the winter; but Tsering was as tranquil as usual, and raked the fire with the tongs to remove some still smoking dung.

"Now you see that I was right; how often have I told you that we should be ordered to halt at the Bogtsang-tsangpo?" I said.

"Ordered to halt?" exclaimed Tsering in astonishment.

"Yes, now we are stuck fast, but I will not move a step from the spot until the Tibetans have provided me with a new caravan, though I have to wait all the winter. Then we will go north-eastwards, look for the Mongolian pilgrim road, and hasten to Pekin. I will force the Mandarins to allow me to see the parts of Tibet where no European has yet been."

"I do not understand what the Sahib means; hitherto no one has hindered us, and the country southwards lies open before us."

"What are you talking about? Have they not come this very day to stop our further progress?"

"No, on the contrary, three Tibetans are sitting with Muhamed Isa, and they are most civil and friendly."

"Has, then, Rabsang played a trick on me and the Babu Sahib?"

"Ah," replied Tsering, laughing, "now I understand the matter. Rabsang was up at the tents this morning, and allowed himself to be frightened by a Tibetan, who told him that we should be forced to remain where we are, for we had no right to travel southwards to Naktsang. But that was only the Tibetan's own notion, and Rabsang, who had to go immediately after to the valley with the yaks, had not heard how matters really stood with us."

"Bravo, Tsering, slay the fattest sheep we have got, and invite every one to a feast. I will have the kidneys fried in their own fat."

Now the storm-beaten tent seemed more comfortable and the brazier sent out a pleasant kindly heat. I sat buried in thought, wondering whether this were a good omen, when Muhamed Isa announced a visit of the three Tibetans. I invited them to take a seat at the fire. Turning to the chief man, who wore a blood-red fur coat and a brick-red fox-skin cap, I asked him who he was.

"I am Karma Tamding from Tang-yung," he answered; and I was astonished that he gave his name at once, for the Tibetans are generally shy of doing so, lest they should bring upon themselves retaliation on the part of their superiors when their names are known.

"We are, then, in the province of Tang-yung?"

"Yes, Bombo Chimbo, the pass you crossed yesterday is its northern boundary; to the west Tang-yung extends for three days' journey, and as far to the east, and southwards to the Dangra-yum-tso."

"Why have you come to my tent, Karma Tamding? Has one of your superiors sent you?"

"No, but idle rumours have been current here for some time. First it was an old woman, who would have it that two hundred men were coming down from the north. Large bands of robbers from Nakchu have plundered the nomads in the north, and we felt sure that they were robbers who were coming into our country. The day before yesterday we heard that it was only a peaceful European, who took, indeed, yaks, sheep, butter, and milk from our people, but always paid well for them. I am now come to see our guests with my own eyes, and I am very glad to find you instead of a robber band."

"You have not heard, then, that any messenger from Shigatse has been inquiring about us?"

"No, not a word. But this very day I have heard that an express has been sent from the Bogtsang-tsangpo to Shansa-dzong, and that messengers will travel thence to Lhasa."

"Will you be so good as to sell us yaks, Karma Tamding?"

"Yes, willingly. I saw you five years ago at the Bogtsang-tsangpo. Then you were conducted over the frontier by a large escort and two officers, but now Europeans seem to be privileged to pass through the country."

"Will you procure us guides?"

"Certainly; but which way do you think of taking? If you wish to go to the Dangra-yum-tso, you must cross the Kam-la, which lies a little farther up this valley. But if you prefer the route to the Ngangtse-tso, you must travel on eastwards. It is all the same to us which way you take, but I must know for certain. I will ride back to my tent and fetch parched meal, which you can buy when I overtake you in a few days. The yaks I will send to-morrow morning."

Karma Tamding seemed so trustworthy that I handed him half the purchase money in advance, and the next day we bought 3 yaks at 20 rupees a head, and received a guide, who conducted us over two difficult passes, eastwards to the Rara country, and on December 16 over the Pike-la, a gap in a longitudinal valley running parallel to the Bogtsang-tsangpo.

We were compelled to camp early by one of our three mules, which could not travel any farther. He came up to the fire with trembling legs and laid himself down. "The news of his death will be the first I shall hear in the morning," I thought, but I had not to wait so long, for before the stars had begun to twinkle he lay stiff and cold in the smoke of the camp-fire. Only two of the Poonch mules were left.

Then Karma Tamding rode up with twelve other Tibetans, two of them women. They sat down by the fire and looked at me; and I looked at them. The older woman had a fine sheepskin, and on the forehead an ornament of pendent coral and silver coins from Lhasa. The younger was similarly dressed, and had a huge lambskin cap. Little could be seen of her, but the little that was visible was dirty beyond belief. The men were strongly built and well proportioned--one could perceive that, when they drew off the right sleeve and exposed their breasts to the heat of the fire.

When we had gazed at one another long enough, and I had learned that the small lake near by was called the Tarmatse-tso, the whole party crawled into Muhamed Isa's tent to offer their edibles for sale. And there parched meal and barley was bought to the value of 68 rupees; it was quite a pleasure to see with what an appetite our last twelve animals emptied their bags of barley; they had so long had to put up with the execrable grass of the desert.

Next day we took leave of honest Karma Tamding. "On the boundary of Naktsang you will meet with an elderly man, named Chabga Namgyal, who is just as nice as I am," were his last words. We continued our long winter journey through Tibet eastwards along the same convenient longitudinal valley, and bivouacked in the district Neka, an ominous name (it means in Swedish to refuse), which might perhaps have brought us bad luck had the supreme chief of Tang-yung, whose headquarters are here, been at home at the time. Fortunately he had a short time before set out with his wife and children to Tashi-lunpo for the New Year festival, and had consigned his large herd of yaks and flock of sheep to the care of his servants and his herdsmen. They sold us milk and butter, but disapproved of my disturbing the gentle fish in a neighbouring pool. Within an hour I had twenty-five on dry land, which were a great treat at dinner. Robert had been unwell for some days, and now developed high fever, which confined him to his bed. Sonam Tsering suffered from a curious mountain sickness, in consequence of which all his body swelled up and assumed a livid hue. Two others were unwell, and the medicine chest stood open again. Sonam Tsering's tent was like an hospital, where all the sick found shelter as soon as they were incapacitated. Only old Guffaru was still healthy, did the work of two, and had at present no use for the shroud he brought from Leh. His large white beard had turned yellow in the smoke of the fires, and his hands, frost-bitten in winter, were dark and hard as iron. We stayed two days in camp No. 90, to give the invalids a rest. My dapple-grey from Yarkand was nearly drowned in a spring; fortunately he was seen from the camp, and ten strong men pulled him out of the mud. Then he was dried at the fire, rubbed well down, and covered with cloths. But his days were numbered.

On December 20 we ride on along the longitudinal valley parallel to the Bogtsang-tsangpo, and encamp at the mouth of a transverse valley, which belongs to the southern mountains, and is called Kung-lung. Frozen springs are seen on all sides; the farther we advance southwards the more the country is fertilized by the monsoon rains. The ground is honeycombed by millions of mouse holes; they are so close together that there is no room for more. The field-mouse here does the work of loosening and ploughing up the ground that the worm does in our soil. But the herbage derives no benefit from it, for the mice subsist on the roots and destroy the grass.

When we had passed the boundary between Tang-yung and Naktsang, and had just pitched our camp at the source of the brook draining the Kung-lung valley, three riders with guns suddenly appeared, who were making for the same spot, and behind them came a dark group, perhaps soldiers. Probably they were about to arrest us here, at the first camp in Naktsang. No; another false alarm. They were simply peasants from the Bogtsang-tsangpo, who had been to Naktsang to barter salt for _tsamba_ (parched meal) and barley, and were now on their homeward journey. The troop consisted of members of several tent villages, among which the goods would be distributed. The _tsamba_ and the barley were carried by yaks, horses, and sheep, and seemed sufficient to last many households all the winter.

Here I heard for the first time of the lake Shuru-tso, but I little thought that I should bivouac on its shore next spring. The range on the north, in which the Keva is the highest summit, is the water-parting between the Dagtse-tso and the Kung-tso, a lake visible to the east. On the south we had the range which we had first seen at the Dangra-yum-tso, and which afterwards skirts the south side of the Tang-yung-tso.

In the night the continued westerly storm increased to a hurricane, which blew down my tent. It was fastened up again, but at dawn I was awakened by a report like a gunshot, for one of the strained tent ropes broke, and another tore itself out of its iron cap, which fell with a sharp clatter against the tent. A shower of stones and coarse sand beat about my airy dwelling, so that it required a certain amount of resolution to issue forth in weather worse than we had experienced in Chang-tang.

"How much longer will the storm last?" I asked our guide, as he joyfully and thankfully pocketed his 18 rupees after he had handed us over to another guide of the Naktsang tribe.

"Six months," he replied.

We marched eastwards, gradually diverging to the south, and thus passed round the chain which had hitherto lain on our right. On the way we found Adul in a hollow, and asked him how he was.

"I am dying," he answered, without moving a muscle. I sent one of his comrades and a horse from the camp to bring in his corpse, but next morning he was as lively as a cricket. Such weather is certainly not enjoyable, but it is no use to complain of wind and weather. My horse staggers about as if he had drunk too much. At the opening of every lateral valley we may be sure of a buffet that will make us reel in our saddles. We bend sideways against the wind to help the horse in maintaining his equilibrium, and we draw ourselves together so as to present a smaller surface to the wind--indeed, we are like a sail that must always be set according to the direction of the wind, and we have to trim ourselves just as one would handle a sailing-boat in a high sea. We rested awhile in the shelter of a rock, to recover our breath, and when at length we reached the camp in Nadsum we had suffered as much as we were able to bear. To the north-east, beyond the mountains, lies the Dagtse-tso, which Bower, Dutreuil de Rhins, Littledale, and I have visited; on the way thither a lake is passed, called the Goang-tso.

On the 22nd we took our way to the south, where a range of considerable height bars the road to the Ngangtse-tso. We followed the river Sertsang-chu upwards; a little water still bubbled and trickled down under its thick covering of ice. In the evening we received a visit from eight Tibetans, two of whom had lost all their yaks by a kind of cattle-plague. We ascended the same valley for another day's journey, and found five tents in an expansion of the valley which was called Torno-shapko; at several spots we saw large flocks of sheep guarded by dogs as snappy and impudent as the nomads themselves. Some of these fellows came into our camp and used very rude language, daring even to say that we must not remain here but must pack off with all speed. To buy milk and butter was out of the question. Muhamed Isa drove them away and threatened to report their conduct to the Governor of Naktsang. Our guide, a boy of fifteen, was frightened, but was persuaded to accompany us a day longer.

December 24. When I woke an old mendicant lama sat singing before my tent. He had a little withered woman with him, and their small light tent was pitched quite close to us. In his hand he held a staff bedecked with coloured strips and with brass plates, coral, shells, tassels, and other ornaments, which he made to spin round as he sang. The old man had in his lifetime wandered far and wide, begging his way from tent to tent, but when I asked him to accompany us and to bring in the Christmas festival with song at our camp at night he declared he was too tired.

The road led us higher up the same valley, soon leaving the sources behind. We passed two _manis_ with prayers inscribed on the slabs, one of which was 23 feet long. Two tents stood at a spot where two large valleys converged. The unfriendly men we had met yesterday had gone on before us and had warned the people not to sell us anything if we asked them. Two of our men tried to trade, but met with a refusal, whereupon Muhamed Isa laid his riding-whip smartly across the backs of the mischief-makers. Then the whole company fell on their knees, became remarkably civil, and brought out at once all the butter and milk they had on hand.

Our valley now runs eastwards, and at last rises in a south-easterly direction to a pass. Evidently no great road runs over it, for there is no cairn on the summit. It turned out later that the youth had led us astray, omitting to turn aside through a southern valley to the pass Gurtse-la. However, it was of no consequence, for the view from our pass was grand, and below us lay a lake not marked on Nain Sing's map. The valley descending from the pass is so deeply eroded that we had to keep for some distance to the heights on the right side. Islam Ahun led my tall dapple-grey, which was weak and sickly; he took only a few steps at a time, but he could still graze. We had made a long march, and the camp could not be far distant, so he would perhaps reach it. I therefore only stroked him as I passed, while he held his nose to the ground and plucked up the grass. But when I left him to his fate and rode on, he raised his head, sighed heavily, and gazed after me. I was deeply grieved afterwards that I did not remain with him. He had carried me faithfully on the long dreary journey from our departure from Leh until his back became one great sore; then he was not worked till his back was healed. Afterwards he was degraded to a pack-horse, but when our caravan was reinforced with yaks, he was exempted from work of any kind. Latterly we had had abundance of barley for the animals, but he had shown no signs of recovery. This day, however, he had managed to climb the pass, and would surely be able to get over the short remaining distance. But Islam Ahun came into camp alone. The horse had stumbled on a very steep descent, rolled over several times in the débris, and then remained lying. Islam, who had received strict orders to be careful of the dapple-grey, stood and waited, but the horse did not move again, and died where he was. Why did I not understand him when he so plainly said a last good-bye? I was much grieved at it, and for a long time could not forget the troubled expression of his eyes as he saw me ride away. The remembrance haunted me when it grew dark at night and the winter storm howled in cold dreary Tibet.

Down below in the valley basin lay the Dumbok-tso asleep under its ice mantle, out of which rose a small rocky ridge, the Tso-ri or "Lake Mountain." Up above the heights were still bathed in sunshine. The Dumbok-tso was the most important discovery of the day. The watch-fires burned in front of the tents and threw a yellow light on the surroundings.

Then the day's notes were filled in, and Robert, as usual, labelled the rock specimens we had collected. "Dinner is ready," says Tsering, as he brings in fresh fuel, and the _shislik_ and sour milk are served and placed on the ground before my bed. Then I am left alone with a thousand memories of Swedish Christmas feasts, and the words: "Christmas is now under every roof," and "Frozen is the limpid lake, it waits for the winds of spring," from the poet Topelius' Christmas song, rings in my ears. The Christian community in our camp consisted only of Robert and myself, but we determined to celebrate the Christmas festival so that the heathen also might have their share in the enjoyment. For some time we had kept all the candle ends, and now had forty-one pieces of various lengths. We set up a box in the middle of my tent, and arranged the candles on it so that the largest stood in the middle, and the others became smaller and smaller towards the corners. That was our Christmas-tree. When all the candles were lighted we threw back the flaps of the front of the tent, and the Ladakis, who meanwhile had assembled outside, gave vent to a murmur of astonishment. They sang softly in rising and falling tones. I forgot for a time the solemnity of the moment, and gazing into the flickering flames of the candles let the minutes of the holy night glide slowly by. The sentimental air was now and then interrupted by a thundering _khavash_ and _khabbaleh_ in which all joined, howling like jackals. The flutes performed the accompaniment, and a saucepan served as a drum. Lamaist hymns at a Christmas festival under the constellation of Orion! Dimly illuminated from the tent, and flooded by the silvery light of the moon, my men presented a weird appearance as they turned themselves round in their native dance, keeping time to the noise of the saucepan. The Tibetans of the neighbouring tents perhaps thought that we had all gone mad, or perhaps that we were executing an incantation dance, and had lighted sacrificial lamps to propitiate our gods. What the wild asses, grazing on the lake shore, thought of it, no one can tell.

Our young guide, who had been placed in the middle of the tent door, caused us much amusement. He stared, now at the lights, now at me, without uttering a sound, sat like a cat on the watch with its fore-paws on the ground, and did nothing but gaze. He would have wonderful stories to tell his fellow-tribesmen, which would certainly lose none of their effect by the embellishments added by himself and amplified in the course of repetition. Perhaps the memory of our visit still survives in the country, in a legend of singular fire-worshippers who danced and bellowed round an altar adorned with forty-one burning candles. When the youth was asked how he liked the illumination, he made no answer. We laughed till our sides ached, but that did not disturb him; he continued to glare with eyes full of astonishment. When he had somewhat recovered his senses next morning, he told Tundup Sonam in confidence that he had had many experiences, but that he had never met with anything so extraordinary as the evening's entertainment. He would not sleep with us that night, but went off to the tents of his people, and on the first holiday he begged permission to return home.

The lower the candles burned down, the brighter the stars of Orion shone into the opening of the tent. The corner lights had long gone out, and only a couple in the middle continued to flicker. Then I distributed a small sum of money among the men, beginning with Robert and Muhamed Isa. That was the only Christmas present. After this the men retired to their fires, which had in the meantime gone out. Two had to stay behind to explain to me one of the songs in which the word Tashi-lunpo had repeatedly occurred. It was more difficult than I expected to translate the song. In the first place, the men did not know it well themselves, and, secondly, they did not know the meaning of some of the words it contained. Other words they understood well enough, but they could not translate them into Turki or Hindustani. First we wrote out the hymn in Tibetan, then Robert translated it into Hindustani, and I into Turki, and finally from the two translations we concocted an English version which had no sense or meaning. But by repeatedly taking the song to pieces and analyzing it, we at last made out what the subject was--it was a glorification of the monastery Tashi-lunpo, which was the goal of our hopes. The learned who happen to be acquainted with ancient Tibetan hymns will be very much amused if they take the trouble to read the following translation. It certainly has the merit of forming a record in poetic license.

Now rises the sun shining in the east, From the eastern lands over the heights of the east. It is now the third month that the sun mounts up, Pouring forth floods of heat. First fall the beams on the temple, The house of the high gods, and caress The golden battlements of Tashi-lunpo, The roof of the venerable cloister temple, And with threefold brilliance glitter the pinnacles in the sun. On the highest meadows of the temple vale Shy antelopes graze in thousands. Hard is its crumbly soil, but still Rich is the vale and green and lovely, And grass thrives on its poor land, And brooks ripple down with cool water. The highest, ice-covered mountains glitter Like transparent glass. The nearer summits Rise like a row of lofty _chhortens_, And close at their feet beat the blue waves Of the Yum-tso, playing on the holy strand. Take water from the lake and fill The sacrificial bowls of the holy idols, Moulded of brass. Then decorate with silk cloths Of every kind and colour, which from Pekin come, And adorn also with veils the tall golden images of the gods, And fill the temple halls with hanging standards. Take _kadakh_ cloths, holy and dear, Of best silk from the town of Lhasa, And lay them on the forehead of Buddha's image.

So ended our Christmas Eve in the wilderness, and while the glow of the Christmas fire sank down in the ashes I read the old Bible passages relating to this day, put out my light, and dreamed of Christmas festivals in the north, and of Tashi-lunpo down in the south behind the mountains, the goal towards which we had been struggling amid suffering and privation all through the cold winter, and which was still far off and perhaps even beyond our reach.