Seven Years in Tibet

by Heinrich Harrer

  There was a good deal of variety in life at Kyirong. In summer caravans came through every day. After the rice harvest in Nepal, men and women brought rice in baskets and exchanged it for salt, one of the most important exports of Tibet. It is brought from the lakes in Changthang, which have no exit.

  Transport from Kyirong to Nepal is effected by means of coolies, as the road goes through narrow ravines and is often cut into stairways. Most of the carriers are women from Nepal wearing cheap dresses and showing their stout muscular legs below their short skirts. We witnessed a curious drama when the Nepalese came to gather honey. The Tibetan government has officially forbidden Tibetans to take honey, because their religion does not allow them to deprive animals of their food. However, here, as in most other places, people like to circumvent the law, and so the Tibetans, including the bönpos, allow the Nepalese to have the honey they collect, and then buy it back from them.

  This honey taking is a very risky adventure as the bees hide the honeycomb under the projecting rocks of deep ravines. Long bamboo ladders are dropped, down which men climb sometimes two or three hundred feet, swinging free in the air. Below them flows the Kosi, and if the rope that holds the ladder breaks it means certain death for them. They use smoke balls to keep the angry bees away as the men collect the honeycomb, which is hoisted up in containers by a second rope. A condition of the success of this operation is perfect and well-rehearsed combination, as the sound of shouts or whistles is lost in the roar of the river below. On this occasion eleven men worked for a week in the ravine, and the price at which they sold the honey had no relation to the risks they ran. I much regretted that I had no ciné-camera with which to take a picture of this dramatic scene.

  When the heavy summer rains were over, we began to explore the long valleys systematically. We often stayed out for several days, taking provisions, drawing materials, and compass with us. At these times we camped on the high pastures alongside the herdsmen, who, just as they do in the Alps, spend the summer months grazing their cattle on the luxuriant mountain meadows. There were hundreds of cows and female yaks feeding on the green stretches of pasture in the middle of a world of glaciers. I often helped with the buttermaking, and it was a pleasure to receive a slab of fresh golden butter for my pains.

  By all the inhabited huts are found fierce, pugnacious dogs. Mostly they are chained up and by their barking at night protect the cattle from leopards, wolves, and wild dogs. They are very powerfully built, and their usual diet of milk and calves’ flesh gives them enormous strength. They are really dangerous, and I had several disagreeable encounters with them. Once one of these dogs broke loose from his chain as I came up and sprang at my throat. I parried his attack, and he sank his teeth into my arm and did not let go till I had wrestled him down. My clothes hung in rags from my body, but the dog lay motionless on the ground. I bound up my wounds with what remained of my shirt, but I still bear deep scars on my arm. My wounds healed very quickly as a result of prolonged baths in the hot springs, which at this season of the year are more frequented by snakes than by Tibetans. The herdsmen told me later that I was not the only sufferer from this battle. The dog had lain in his corner and refused to eat for a week afterward.

  During our excursions we found masses of wild strawberries, but where we found the best we also found the most leeches. I knew from my reading that these creatures are the plague of many Himalayan valleys, and now learned from personal experience how helpless one is against them. They drop from trees on men and animals and creep through all the openings in one’s clothes, even the eyelets in one’s shoes. If one tears them off, one loses more blood than if one lets them drink their fill, when they fall off by themselves. Some of the valleys are infested to such a degree by leeches that one simply cannot protect oneself against them. The best way of keeping them out is by wearing socks and trousers steeped in salt.

  Our excursions gave us many opportunities of mapmaking and sketching, but we found no pass that would have provided us with a line of escape. Without ropes and other mechanical aids, we could not hope to cross any of the high mountain ridges, heavily laden as we should be. And neither of us was enthusiastic about the idea of returning by the Dzongka road, which we knew already. We sent a petition to Nepal to ascertain whether, if we went there, we would be handed over to the British or not, but got no answer. At this time we had still about two months to run before we should have to leave Kyirong, and we spent our days in preparing for our journey. In order to increase my capital, I lent it to a merchant at the usual 33 percent rate of interest. I was to regret this later, as my debtor delayed repayment and this nearly prevented our departure.

  Our contact with the peaceable, industrious villagers had become more and more intimate. They did not reckon their work by the hour, but used every minute of daylight. As there was a shortage of labor in the agricultural regions, hunger and poverty were unknown. The numerous monks, who do no manual work and occupy themselves with spiritual matters, are supported by the community. The peasants are well-off, and their wardrobes contain enough tidy clothes for the whole family to wear on feast days. The women weave their own cloth, and all the clothes are made at home.

  There are no police in our sense of the word. Evildoers are publicly sentenced. The punishments are pretty drastic, but they seem to suit the mentality of the population. I was told of a man who had stolen a golden butter lamp from one of the temples in Kyirong. He was convicted of the offense, and what we would think an inhuman sentence was carried out. His hands were publicly cut off and he was then sewn up in a wet yak skin. After this had been allowed to dry, he was thrown over a precipice.

  We never saw any punishments as cruel as this. As time has gone on, the Tibetans seem to have become more lenient. I remember witnessing a public flogging, which I thought was not severe enough. The condemned persons were a monk and a nun belonging to the Reformed Buddhist Church, which enforces celibacy. The nun had cohabited with the monk and had had a child by him, which she killed when it was born. Both were denounced and put in the pillory. The guilt was publicly announced and they were condemned to a hundred lashes each. During the flogging the inhabitants begged the authorities to show mercy, offering them presents of money. This produced a reduction of the sentence, and sobs and sighs of relief were heard among the crowd of onlookers. The monk and the nun were exiled from the district and deprived of their religious status. The sympathy shown by the whole population toward them was, to our notions, almost inconceivable. The sinners received numerous presents of money and provisions, and left Kyirong with well-filled sacks to go on a pilgrimage. The reformed sect, to which these two persons belonged, is dominant in Tibet, although in our particular neighborhood there were a large number of monasteries obeying other rules. In them monks and nuns could live a family life together, and the children remained in the monastery. They worked in their fields, but were never appointed to official posts, which were reserved for members of the Reformed Church.

  The supremacy of the monastic orders in Tibet is something unique. It can well be compared to a stern dictatorship. The monks mistrust any influence from the outside would that might undermine their authority. They are clever enough not to believe that their power is limitless, but they punish anyone who suggests that it is not. For that reason some of the monks of Kyirong disapproved of our close contact with the villagers. Our behavior, which remained uninfluenced by any of their superstitions, must have given the Tibetans something to think about. We used to go by night into the forests without being molested by demons, we climbed mountains without lighting sacrificial fires, and still nothing happened to us. In some quarters we noticed a certain reserve, which could only be attributed to the influence of the lamas. I think they must have credited us with supernatural powers, for they were convinced that our excursions had some hidden purpose. They kept on asking us why we were always communing with streams and birds. No Tibetan ever takes a step without a particular object, and they felt that when we roamed in t
he woods or sat by brooks we were not doing so aimlessly.

  5

  On the Move

  Meanwhile autumn was upon us and the permitted term of our residence coming to an end. It was hard to have to quit this paradise of nature, but we had not succeeded in obtaining a residence permit, and there was no doubt that we would have to leave. Realizing from past experience the importance of a sufficient reserve of provisions, we made a cache twelve miles away on the Dzongka road, where we deposited tsampa, butter, dried meat, sugar, and garlic. As had been the case when we escaped from the camp, we had no transport and had to carry all our stores on our backs.

  Heavy snowfalls betokened an early winter and interfered with our calculations. We had already decided what was the maximum weight we could carry, and now had to make up our minds to take another blanket each. The winter was, of course, the most unfavorable season for crossing the high plateaux of Central Asia, but we could not remain in Kyirong. For a time we played with the idea of hiding ourselves somewhere in Nepal and spending the winter there, but we gave it up as the Nepalese frontier guard were known to be highly efficient.

  When our depot was ready we set to work to rig up a portable lamp. It was clear that the villagers knew we were up to something, and we were continually spied upon; so in order to prepare our lamp we went one day for a walk in the mountains, where we manufactured a sort of lantern out of Tibetan paper and the binding of a book, inside which we placed a cigarette box filled with butter to keep the flame burning. We needed a light, however faint, as we had determined to travel by night as long as we were in inhabited country. I was now waiting for the repayment of the money I had lent. I expected to get it on the next day and we stood prepared for action.

  For tactical reasons it was agreed that Aufschnaiter should go first on the pretext of an excursion. On November 6, 1945, he boldly left the village by daylight with his pack on his back. With him went my long-haired Tibetan dog—a present from a notable of Lhasa. In the meantime I tried to get my money back, but had no luck. My debtor was suspicious and did not want to repay me till Aufschnaiter had returned. It was no wonder that we were suspected of plotting to escape. If we really meant to go to Nepal, there was no need for secrecy. The officials were afraid of getting into trouble with the government if we succeded in getting into Inner Tibet, and so they egged on the villagers against us. The latter were in constant fear of the local authorities and did what they were told.

  A hunt for Aufschnaiter was organized, and I was hauled up and questioned. The authorities were not impressed by my feeble attempts to persuade them that he had gone on one of his usual excursions. As for my money, I had to wait another day and then received only part of it. It would never be repaid in full before Aufschnaiter’s return.

  I had resolved to break away on the evening of November 8—by force if need be. I was shadowed wherever I went. There were spies inside and outside the house. I watched till ten o’clock, hoping that they would go to bed, but they showed no signs of doing so. Then I made a scene, pretending to be very angry and saying that the conduct of the people in the house had made it impossible for me to remain there and that I must go and sleep in the forest. As they watched me I started packing. My hostess and her mother rushed in, and when they saw what was happening threw themselves on the ground before me and entreated me with tears not to go. They said that if I did, they would be whipped out of the village and would lose their house and be outlawed. They had not deserved this at my hands. The old mother handed me a white veil in token of her respect for me, and when she saw that my heart was not softened by her appeals, offered me money. I felt sorry for the two women and tried to persuade them that nothing would happen to them if I went away. Unfortunately, their cries and screams had aroused the whole village, and I had to act at once, if it was not already too late.

  I can still see the butter-smeared Mongol faces staring into my window with the light of their pine torches shining on them. And now the two mayors arrived panting with a message from the bönpos to say that if I would stay till morning, I could then go wherever I wished. I knew that this was a trick to keep me and did not answer. So they ran off to fetch their chiefs. My hostess clung to me weeping and saying that I had always been like one of her own children and that I ought not to cause her such pain. My nerves were overstrung. Something had to happen. I resolutely shouldered my pack and walked out of the house. I was astonished that the crowd collected round the door did not interfere with me. They said, “He’s going, he’s going,” but no one touched me—they must have noticed that I really meant business. A couple of young men called to one another to stop me, but they got no further than saying it. I walked untouched through the crowd, which gave way before me.

  But I was glad when I had passed out of the torchlight into the dark. I hurried along the Nepal road for a bit in order to deceive possible pursuers, then I made a wide detour around the village and by morning had reached our depot. Aufschnaiter was sitting on the side of the road, and my dog jumped up to greet me. We walked on for a bit in search of a good hiding place for the day.

  FOR THE LAST TIME for years we camped in a wood. The next night we marched up the valley and soon were far above the tree line. We knew the mountain path well from our excursions, and our feeble lantern did its job. Still, occasionally we did get off the track. We had to be very careful in crossing the narrow wooden bridges over the river. They were glazed over with ice and we had to balance ourselves like tightrope walkers. We made good progress, though each of us was carrying a weight of nearly ninety pounds. By day we always found good secluded spots to rest in, but camping in that temperature was too cold for pleasure.

  One fine day we found we could not go on. In front of us was an unclimbable rock face. A path led up to it and lost itself in the wall. What were we to do? We could never get up it with heavy loads on our backs, so we decided to turn back and try to wade through the stream, which here divided into several branches. The cold was intense—fifteen degrees below zero. Earth and stones froze onto our feet when we took off our shoes and stockings to wade across, and it was a painful business pulling them off before putting on our shoes again. And then we were faced by fresh streams. There must have been an exit as the caravans passed that way, but we could not see where. So we decided to pass the night where we were, and the next day to watch from our hiding place to see how the caravans dealt with the situation. Soon after dawn a caravan came along, stopped before the rock face, and then (we could hardly believe our eyes) the heavily laden coolies climbed swiftly up the rocky path like chamois one after the other—a lesson to us hardened mountaineers—while the yaks waded across the stream with their drivers on their backs.

  We determined to try again, and after a day that seemed to us endless, night came, and we tackled the difficult ascent. We had the moonlight to see by, which was much more helpful than our little lantern. If we had not seen the coolies negotiating the rocky wall we should have given it up again, but manage it we did.

  After two more night marches, we bypassed Dzongka and found ourselves in unknown country. Our next objective was the Brahmaputra River, which provided the most serious question mark in our itinerary. How were we to cross it? We hoped that it was already frozen over. We had only a vague notion of the road that led to the river, but hoped that it would not offer serious obstacles. The great thing was to go ahead as fast as possible and to avoid all places in which we might run into officials. Shortly after passing Dzongka, we camped in a cave where we found thousands of small clay idols. The place must formerly have been a hermitage. The next night we climbed steeply, hoping to get over the pass in one march. But we had overrated our strength; breathless and exhausted by marching in the thin air at an altitude of over 16,000 feet, we had to stop in an ice-cold camp. We were again approaching the Himalayan watershed. The view from the top of the Chakhyungla Pass was disappointing; we had the satisfaction of thinking that we were probably the first Europeans to cross it, but the weather was
far too cold to feel pleasure or pride in anything.

  In this snowy deserted waste, we ventured to travel by day. We made good progress, and after spending the night freezing in camp, we were rewarded the next morning by a magnificent view of a great deep-blue lake, Pelgu Tso, lying below us. The plateau on which we were was ringed by a gleaming chain of glaciers; we felt proud of knowing the names of two of the peaks, Gosainthan (26,000 feet) and Lapchi Kang. Both were yet unconquered, which one can say of most of the Himalayan peaks. Our fingers were stiff with cold, but we got out our sketchbook and in a few strokes drew the outlines of these mountains. Aufschnaiter took the bearings of the most important peaks with our compass and wrote down the figures, which one day might be of use. We went down through this dreamlike winter landscape to the shore of the lake, where we found a ruined caravansary, and had once more to spend the night in the snow.

  As a matter of fact,we were surprised how well we could stand the high altitude and what speed we made, considering our heavy loads. But our poor dog was miserable. He was half-starved. At night he lay across our feet and helped to warm us, and we needed it, for there must have been twenty-two degrees of frost.

  How happy we were to find a trace of life the next day! A flock of sheep came slowly toward us, followed by some shepherds muffled in thick cloaks. They pointed out where the next habitations lay, and the same evening we reached the village of Trakchen, which lay a little off the caravan route. It was high time for us to be with human beings again as our provisions had run out. Even if we were arrested! . . .