While we were marching along, a young couple caught up to us. They had come a long distance and, like us, were bound for Lhasa. They were glad to join the caravan, and we fell into conversation with them. Their story was a remarkable one.
This pretty young woman with her rosy cheeks and thick black pigtails had lived happy and contented with her three husbands—three brothers they were—for whom she kept house in a nomad tent in the Changthang. One evening a young stranger arrived and asked for lodging. From that moment everything was different. It must have been a case of this famous “love at first sight.” The young people understood each other without saying anything and the next morning went off together. They made nothing of a flight over the wintry plain. Now they were happy to have arrived here, and meant to begin a new life in Lhasa.
I remember this young woman as a gleam of sunshine in those hard, heavy days. Once as we were resting she took out her wallet and smilingly handed each of us a dried apricot. This modest gift was as precious to us as the white bread the nomad had given us on Christmas Eve.
In the course of our journey, I realized how strong and enduring Tibetan women are. This very young woman kept up with us easily and carried her pack as well as a man. She had not to worry about her future. In Lhasa she would hire herself out as a daily servant and with her robust country-girl’s health easily earn her living.
We marched for three successive days without coming to tents. Then we saw in the distance a great column of smoke rising into the sky. We wondered if it came from a chimney or a burning house, but when we got near we saw it was the steam rising from hot springs. We were soon gazing at a scene of great natural beauty. A number of springs bubbled out of the ground, and in the middle of the cloud of steam shot up a splendid little geyser fifteen feet high. After poetry, prose! Our next thought was to have a bath. Our young couple disapproved, but we did not let that deter us. The water was boiling when it came out of the ground, but it was quickly cooled to a bearable temperature by the frosty air. We hurriedly turned one of the pools into a comfortable bathtub. What a joy it was! Since we had left the hot springs at Kyirong we had not been able to wash or bathe, and our hair and beards were frozen stiff. In the brook which flowed out of the hot springs there were a lot of good-sized fish. We hungrily debated how to catch them—we could boil them easily enough in the spring—but we found no way, and so, much refreshed, we hurried on to catch up with the caravan.
We spent the night with the yak drivers in their tent. There I had for the first time in my life a bad attack of sciatica. I had always regarded this painful complaint as a disorder of old age and had never dreamed I should make acquaintance with it so soon. I probably contracted it as a result of sleeping every night on the ground.
One morning I could not get up. Besides suffering frightful pain, I was chilled by the thought that I would not be able to go on. I clenched my teeth and hoisted myself to my feet and took a few steps. The movement helped, but from that time on I suffered much every day during the first few miles of our march.
In the evening of the fourth day after crossing the pass, we reached Samsar, where there was a road station. At last we were in an inhabited place with built houses, monasteries, and a castle. This is one of the most important road junctions in Tibet. Five routes meet here, and there is a lively caravan traffic. The roadhouses are crowded, and animals are changed in the relay stables. Our bönpo had already been here for two days, but though on a government mission he had to wait five days for fresh yaks. He procured us a room, fuel, and a servant. For the moment the traffic was, so to speak, intense and we had to make up our minds for a long wait, for we could not go on alone.
We used our leisure to go on a day’s excursion to some hot springs that we had seen steaming in the distance. These turned out to be a unique natural phenomenon. We came to a regular lake whose black bubbling waters flowed off into a clear brook. Of course we decided to bathe, and walked into the water at a point where it was pleasantly warm. As we walked upstream toward the lake, it grew hotter and hotter. Aufschnaiter gave up first, but I kept on, hoping that the heat would be good for my sciatica. I wallowed in the hot water. I had brought with me my last piece of soap from Kyirong, and put it on the bank beside me, looking forward to a thorough soaping as the climax of my bath. Unluckily, I had not noticed that a crow was observing me with interest. He suddenly swooped and carried off my treasure. I sprang onto the bank with an oath, but in a moment was back in the hot water, my teeth chattering with cold. In Tibet the crows are as thievish as magpies are with us.
On our way back we saw for the first time a Tibetan regiment—five hundred soldiers on maneuvers. The population is not very enthusiastic about these military exercises, as the soldiers have the right to requisition what they want. They camp in their own tents, which are pitched in very orderly fashion, and there is therefore no billeting, but the local people have to supply them with transport and even riding horses.
When we came back to our lodging a surprise was awaiting us. They had given us as roommate a man wearing fetters on his ankles and able to take only very short steps. He told us smilingly, and as if it was a perfectly normal thing, that he was a murderer and a robber and had been condemned first to receive two hundred lashes and afterward to wear fetters for the rest of his life. This made my flesh creep. Were we already classed with murderers? However, we soon learned that in Tibet a convicted criminal is not necessarily looked down on. Our man had no social disadvantages: he joined in conversation with everybody and lived on alms. And he didn’t live badly.
It had got around that we were Europeans, and curious persons were always coming to see us. Among these was a nice young monk, who was bringing some goods to the monastery of Drebung and had to be off the next day. When he heard that we only had one load of baggage and were very keen to continue our journey, he offered us a free yak in his caravan. He asked no questions about our travel permit. As we had previously reckoned, the nearer we came to the capital, the less trouble we had—the argument being that foreigners who had already traveled so far into Tibet must obviously possess a permit. Nevertheless, we thought it wise not to stay too long in any one place, so as not to invite curiosity.
We accepted the monk’s offer at once and bade farewell to our bönpo with many expressions of gratitude. We started in pitch darkness, not long after midnight. After crossing the district of Yangpachen, we entered a valley that debouched into the plain of Lhasa.
So near to Lhasa! The name had always given us a thrill. On our painful marches and during icy nights, we had clung to it and drawn new strength from it. No pilgrim from the most distant province could ever have yearned for the Holy City more than we did. We had already got much nearer to Lhasa than Sven Hedin. He had made two attempts to get through from the region through which we had come, but had always been held up in Changthang by the escarpment of Nyenchenthangla. We two poor wanderers were naturally less conspicuous than his caravan, and we had our knowledge of Tibetan to help us, in addition to the stratagems we had been compelled to use; so we had some things in our favor.
In the early morning we arrived at the next locality, Dechen, where we were to spend the day. We did not like the idea. There were two district officers in residence, and we did not expect them to be taken in by any travel document.
Our friend the monk had not yet arrived. He had been able to allow himself a proper night’s sleep, as he traveled on horseback, and no doubt he started about the time when we arrived at Dechen.
We cautiously started looking for a lodging and had a wonderful “break.” We made the acquaintance of a young lieutenant, who very obligingly offered us his room, as he had to leave about midday. He had been collecting in the neighborhood the money contributions payable in lieu of military service. We ventured to ask him whether he could not take our baggage in his convoy. Of course we would pay for it. He agreed at once, and a few hours later we were marching with light hearts out of the village behind the caravan.
Lhasa was only three days away. All day Aufschnaiter and I tramped on alone and caught up with the lieutenant and his little caravan only in the evening. In this region all sorts of animals were used for transport—donkeys, horses, cows, and bullocks. One saw yaks only in the caravans, as the peasants had not enough pasture to feed herds of them. Everywhere we saw the villagers irrigating their fields. The spring gales would come later, and if the soil were too dry it would all be blown away in dust. It often took generations before constant watering made the soil fertile. Here there is very little snow to protect the winter seed, and the peasants cannot grow more than one crop. The altitude has naturally a great influence on agriculture. At 16,000 feet only barley will thrive, and the peasants are half-nomads. In some regions the barley ripens in sixty days. The Tölung valley through which we were now passing is 12,000 feet above sea level, and here they grow roots, potatoes, and mustard.
We spent the last night before coming to Lhasa in a peasant’s house. It was nothing like so attractive as the stylish wooden houses in Kyirong. In these parts, wood is rare. With the exception of small tables and wooden bedsteads, there is practically no furniture. The houses, built of mud bricks, have no windows; light comes in only through the door or the smoke hole in the ceiling.
Our hosts belonged to a well-to-do peasant family. As is usual in a feudally organized country, the peasant manages the property for his landlord and must produce so much for the latter before making any profit for himself. In our household there were three sons, two of whom worked on the property while the third was preparing to become a monk. The family kept cows, horses, a few fowls, and pigs—the first I had seen in Tibet. These are not fed but live on offal and whatever they can root up in the fields.
We passed a restless night thinking of the next day, which would decide our future. Now came the great question: even if we managed to smuggle ourselves into the town, would we be able to stay there? We had no money left. How, then, were we going to live? And our appearance! We looked more like brigands from the Changthang than Europeans. Over our stained woolen trousers and torn shirts we wore greasy sheepskin cloaks, which showed, even at a distance, how we had knocked about in them. Aufschnaiter wore the remains of a pair of Indian Army boots on his feet, and my shoes were in fragments. Both of us were more barefoot than shod. No, our appearance was certainly not in our favor. Our beards were perhaps our most striking feature. Like all Mongols, the Tibetans have almost no hair on their faces or bodies, whereas we had long, tangled, luxuriant beards. For this reason we were often taken for Kazaks, a Central Asian tribe whose members migrated in swarms during the war from Soviet Russia to Tibet. They marched in with their families and flocks and plundered right and left, and the Tibetan army was eager to drive them on into India. The Kazaks are often fair-skinned and blue-eyed and their beards grow normally. It is not surprising that we were mistaken for them, and met with a cold reception from so many nomads.
There was nothing to be done about our appearance. We could not spruce ourselves up before going into Lhasa. Even if we had had money, where could we buy clothes?
Since leaving Nangtse—the name of the last village—we had been left to our own devices. The lieutenant had ridden on into Lhasa, and we had to bargain with our host about transport for our baggage. He lent us a cow and a servant, and when we had paid we had a rupee and a half left, and a gold piece sewn up in a piece of cloth. We had decided that if we could not find any transport, we would just leave our stuff behind. Barring our diaries, notes, and maps, we had nothing of value. Nothing was going to keep us back.
7
The Forbidden City
It was January 15, 1946, when we set out on our last march. From Tölung we came into the broad valley of Kyichu. We turned a corner and saw, gleaming in the distance, the golden roofs of the Potala, the winter residence of the Dalai Lama and the most famous landmark of Lhasa. This moment compensated us for much. We felt inclined to go down on our knees like the pilgrims and touch the ground with our foreheads. Since leaving Kyirong we had covered over six hundred miles with the vision of this fabulous city ever in our mind’s eye. We had marched for seventy days and rested during only five. That meant a daily average of almost ten miles. Forty-five days of our journey had been spent in crossing the Changthang—days full of hardship and unceasing struggle against cold, hunger, and danger. Now all that was forgotten as we gazed at the golden pinnacles—six miles more and we had reached our goal.
We sat down near the cairns that the pilgrims put up to mark their first sight of the Holy City. Our driver, meanwhile, performed his devotions. Going on, we soon came to Shingdongka, the last village before Lhasa. The cowman refused to come any farther, but nothing could discourage us now. We went to find the bönpo and coolly informed him that we were the advance party of a powerful foreign personage on his way to Lhasa and that we had to reach the city as quickly as possible in order to find quarters for our master. The bönpo swallowed our tale and gave us an ass and a driver. Years later this story used still to set people laughing at parties in Lhasa, even in the houses of ministers. The fact is the Tibetans are very proud of their organization for keeping foreigners out of the country, and they found the manner in which we had broken through the barriers not only deserving of attention but highly humorous. That was all to our advantage, for the Tibetans are a laughter-loving folk.
During the last six miles of the road, we mixed with a stream of pilgrims and caravans. From time to time we passed stalls displaying all sorts of delicacies—sweets, white bread, and whatnot—which almost brought the tears to our eyes. But we had no money. Our last rupee belonged to our driver.
We soon began to recognize the landmarks of the town about which we had read so often. Over there must be Chagpori, the hill on which stands one of the two famous schools of medicine. And here in front of us was Drebung, the greatest monastery in the world, which houses ten thousand monks and is a city in itself, with its multitude of stone houses and hundreds of gilded pinnacles pointing upward above the shrines. Somewhat lower down lay the terraces of Nechung, another monastery, which has for centuries been the home of the greatest mystery of Tibet. Here is made manifest the presence of a protective deity, whose secret oracle guides the destinies of Tibet and is consulted by the government before any important decision is taken. We had still five miles to go and every few steps there was something fresh to look at. We passed through broad, well-tended meadows surmounted by willows where the Dalai Lama pastures his horses.
For nearly an hour a long stone wall flanked our road, and we were told that the summer palace of the God-King lay behind it. Next we passed the British Legation, situated just outside the town, half-hidden by willow trees. Our driver turned to go toward it, thinking it must be our destination, and we had some trouble in persuading him to go straight on. In fact, for a moment we hesitated about going there ourselves, but the memory of the internment camp was still present in our minds, and we thought that, after all, we were in Tibet and that it was the Tibetans we should ask for hospitality.
Nobody stopped us or bothered about us. We could not understand it, but finally realized that no one, not even a European, was suspect, because no one had ever come to Lhasa without a pass.
As we approached, the Potala towered ever hi
gher before us. As yet, we could see nothing of the town itself, which lay behind the hills on which the palace and the school of medicine stood. Then we saw a great gate crowned with three chortens, which spans the gap between the two hills and forms the entrance to the city. Our excitement was intense. Now we should know our fate for certain. Almost every book about Lhasa says that sentries are posted here to guard the Holy City. We approached with beating hearts. But there was nothing. No soldiers, no control post—only a few beggars holding out their hands for alms. We mingled with a group of people and walked unhindered through the gateway into the town. Our driver told us that the group of houses on our left was only a sort of suburb, and so we went on through an unbuilt area coming ever nearer to the middle of the town. We spoke no word, and to this day I can find no terms to express how overwhelming were our sensations. Our minds, exhausted by hardships, could not absorb the shock of so many and such powerful impressions.
WE WERE SOON in front of the turquoise-roofed bridge and saw for the first time the spires of the Cathedral of Lhasa. The sun set and bathed the scene in an unearthly light. Shivering with cold, we had to find a lodging, but in Lhasa it is not so simple to walk into a house as into a tent in the Changthang. We should probably be at once reported to the authorities. But we had to try. In the first house we found a dumb servant, who would not listen to us. Next door there was only a maid who screamed for help till her mistress came and begged us to go somewhere else. She said she would be driven out of the quarter if she received us. We did not believe that the government could be as strict as all that, but we did not want to cause her unpleasantness and so went out again. We walked through some narrow streets and found ourselves already at the other side of the town. There we came to a house much larger and finer looking than any we had yet seen, with stables in the courtyard. We hurried in to find ourselves confronted by servants, who abused us and told us to go away. We were not to be moved and unloaded our donkey. Our driver had already been pressing us to let him go home. He had noticed that everything was not in order. We gave him his money, and he went off with a sigh of relief.
Seven Years in Tibet Page 13
