We were hungry, tired and nearly frozen, when we heard the hoof-beats of horses. Mohammed Isa and two men had come to our rescue. They had believed us drowned in the storm and had just started out to look for us.
A few days later we camped again on the west shore of a bitterly salt lake, which also had to be sounded. Supplied with provisions, sweet water, and warm clothing, Robert Rehim and I rowed across to the north shore in glorious weather and had our breakfast.
The greatest depth was only fifty-two feet. The shores were low and the bottom consisted of a deposit mixed with salt in hard, keen-edged cakes. A row of these blocks of sale extended out into the lake at our landing place. We walked on them and drew our boat into somewhat deeper water.
We stepped aboard. At that moment the western sky took on a threatening aspect. We raised the mast and the first gust of wind caused the sail to flutter.
“Perhaps it is safer to spend the night here.” We had provisions and furcoats and would have time to gather yak-dung before it was dark.
As we were about to land we saw two large light gray wolves standing on the shore at a distance of fifty feet with dripping tongues and eyes aglow with hunter and blood thirstiness. Neither the fluttering soil, nor the rocks of salt that we threw, frightened them away. They seemed to understand that we had not brought weapons to a lake of salt water, where no fowl are found. I had previous proofs of the wolf ’s unlimited audacity and if these two specimens were the heralds of a whole pack we might have an uncomfortable night on the shore.
The wolves paced back and forth impatiently. The storm increased and the waves rose high and white. Our choice was between the wolves and the storm. A sudden squall moved the boat from the shore. My oarsmen took their places. The wolves contemplated us with disappointment and anger and trotted eastward along the shore, sensing that sooner or later we must land.
With wind and waves from starboard we crossed the lake and fought for our lives. The greatest peril was landing among the sharp salt-slabs where the boat would be split like paper. As the depth was only six feet. I intended to turn and take a chance on the open water among rolling, silvery waves, rather than to suffer shipwreck on the shore.
In that moment the undulations ceased and we discovered that we were in calm water. A salt point that we had not noticed gave us shelter. That night, spent on this wet shore of salt in a biting cold, I prefer to pass over in silence. It was beastly, and endlessly long. On the following morning we found the camp, where we had hot tea, wrapped ourselves in furs and slept like the dead for a whole day.
We had now come to the stage where hardly a day elapsed that we did not lost one of our animals. Eighteen horses and two mules had died. A pack of wolves followed us faithfully and gorged itself on the fallen martyrs. A death watch of six ravens had followed us for six weeks. The black birds of death laughed hoarsely at the attempts of the puppies to drive them away. When a storm approached they sounded cries of alarm. As soon as a horse had died, they pecked his eyes out. Nevertheless, we would have missed them, if they had deserted us.
The herd of sheep was soon gone. Tundup Sonam, the hunter, provided us with daily meat. He sometimes killed a yak with one ball straight to the heart. Once he killed two wild sheep. Quite often he came lugging an antelope, whose meat was better than that of other animals.
We halted for a day or two at fairly good pastures. Our pack animals were not tethered at night, but were guarded on account of wolves. The mules were more sensitive to the cold than the horses. On the night of October seventh when the temperature sank to –24°c, a few mules stationed themselves at the door of my tent. They knew that the tent gave shelter against the cold.
We once missed three horses. Robsang started out afoot and alone to look for them. He was absent three days. I feared that the wolves had devoured him, but in the evening he returned with two horses. The third horse had been driven by the wolves to the shore of a small salt lake, that was still open, where they expected that he would turn back to become the victim of their fangs. The horse, however, as his tracks indicated, had jumped into the lake to swim to the other shore, but strength failed him and he was drowned. Robsang believed that the tracks of the wolves betrayed their confusion and disappointment.
Mohammed Isa started off with the horses in the direction I had indicated. After breakfast I rode on with Robert and Rehim Ali, who held my horse at all stops. When we came by dried yak-dung, we built a fire to warm my hands sufficiently to take notes and sketches.
Tsering was always the last person to leave. He was responsible for my tent and for the baggage that I needed daily. His little caravan usually passed me at one of the resting places. Once I caught up with him on a pass, where he exerted himself to build a cairn.
“What good will that do? We are the last ones in the train.”
“To appease the mountain spirit and give us a safe pilgrimage to Tashilumpo,” he answered.
All the Lamaists were just as desirous as I that the pilgrimage would be made successfully.
Winter was now setting in. On October seventeenth the cold was –2°c. At that time I had an equal number of men, horses and mules, or twenty-seven of each kind. Superfluous baggage was discarded. I gave up several books. In two months we had not seen the trace of a human being.
Tsering sat by the fire preparing my dinner in a violent snowstorm. In the meanwhile he told stories to the others. Snowflakes sputtered in the fire.
By October twentieth the whole country was white. The caravan proceeded to a pass. I trailed, as usual. The snow became deeper. There, a horse had fallen! The ravens had already pecked his eyes out. The wind had driven the snow up against his back. He lay as though resting on a bed of white sheets.
The pass was 18,400 feet above sea level. Icy winds. Ten degrees cold, impenetrable snowstorm. Confuses by the snowstorm, Mohammed Isa had chosen the wrong course. We must remain together. It would be perilous to lose each other after all tracks had been obliterated. I followed his tracks in the snow and we camped in an abyss, almost snowed in. We hoped for Nomads who could sell us yaks and horses.
In the morning one mule was dead at the camp and two horses had collapsed near by. At Camp Number 46 there was no grazing. The horses chewed each other’s tails and packsaddles. The latter were stuffed with hay. Forty days’ rations of rice were reserved for the men, the balance, as well as barley and corn, was fed to the pack-animals. Mohammed reconnoitered the nasty labyrinth of snow covered mountains into which we had been misled. He had discovered level ground with pasture in the southeast. At twilight he asked for permission to conduct the caravan there. I remained with Tsering and three other men.
The cold sank to –27°c. In the morning one mule was dead—frozen stiff. If we had raised him, he would have stood like a horse in a gymnasium. Another one died as the sun rose and the reflection of the rays gave almost a sign of life to the open eye.
I started out with the shattered wreck. We met Tundup Sonam, who had been sent to show us the road. The caravan had lost its way in the night and became divided. Four mules had died; herder and sheep had disappeared. The caravan was facing destruction. If we could not find Nomads soon, we would be compelled to throw the baggage away and continue foot. We were piloted by the hunter in biting cold and a blinding snowstorm. In time we reached the plain, built a fire so that we would not freeze to death. A little later we met a scout, who directed us to the division that was led by Sonam Tsering. Nine pack animals had died in this terrible night. Twenty-one emaciated horses and twenty mules in the same pitiful condition remained. We could not proceed far under such conditions. Four hundred miles separated us from Dangra-yun-tso, the lake, to which I had asked the private secretary of the Viceroy to dispatch my mail by special courier. The goals I had set seemed to be out of reach.
The other part of the divided caravan was reassembled. The herder had tethered the sheep in a ravine and sat among them to keep from freezing to death. By a miracle they had escaped the wolves.
Wooden boxes were burned in the evening fires, dispensable cooking utensils, felt-carpets and horseshoes were discarded. The other articles were put in sacks. Tundup Sonam shot three antelopes, one of which had been devoured by wolves, before we could get him.
A short day’s march led us to a small deeply frozen lake. Late in the evening a flock of wild geese flew on its way to warmer regions. Their chorus of honks indicated that they had intended to settle by a spring at the shore. When they saw their rendezvous occupied they rose higher and their honks died away in the distance. Their forbears had traveled the same course in falls and springs. They journeyed in snow storms and sunshine, night and day. By light of moon and stars they saw the little lake gleam like a shield of silver. I envied them. In a few days and nights they traversed the entire Tibet and lifted themselves over the highest mountain chains on earth, while we needed months and our animals were perishing.
Wherever Tibet is crossed, wild geese may be seen every spring and fall. Separate colonies travel on different, traditional, direct routes. Do they select the time of the full moon for their flight, when the earth is illumined? Tibetans have a touching reverence for the wild geese, not the least because these winged Nomads of the air practice monogamy. A Tibetan would rather die of starvation than do violence to a wild goose.
The wolves became holder and howled just outside of our tents. The night-guard was increased. One night Tundup lay in ambush and shot a wolf that limped out on the ice and lay down to die.
On another occasion Tundup shot a yak that had two Tibetan balls in its body. He surprised a herd of yaks in a glen. They all fled with the exception of a bull who stopped and was wounded. Foaming with rage, the animal charged. In the last moment the hunter swung himself up on a terrace from which he aimed straight to the heart and the yak fell. We erected out tents on this spot and had meat for several days.
On a day when my usual companions and I were about two hundred meters away from the camp, Mohammed Isa fired a bullet into a herd of yaks that was grazing near by. Instead of venting his fury on the marksman, a stately bull charged with full speed directly at Robert, Rehim Ali and me. Foaming with rage the yak lowered his horns to raise me and my horse in the air. I removed my fur coat to throw it over the yak’s head in the last second. But Rehim Ali had stumbled and fallen and the yak selected him as victim, rushed over him and continued his flight. I rode back to the prostrate man in the belief that he had been gored to death. He had escaped with a bloody streak on one leg and torn clothing. As a result of shock to his nervous system in the terrifying experience, Rehim Ali showed signs of an unbalanced mind for a time.
***
At last we were getting nearer to human beings. We noticed several old fireplaces and a placer mining camp, where gold prospectors had occupied a score of tents. One night our last horses and mules were chased northward by a pack of hungry wolves, but were overtaken and saved in time.
Tundup returned from a hunting expedition on November tenth and related that he had discovered a black tent in a valley towards the west. Upon closer investigation we learned that the tent was inhabited by a woman, who had two husbands, both of whom were away hunting. They had neither yaks, horses nor provisions for sale.
Three horses died and only thirteen remained. A report was made to me on November twelfth: “Sir, Tundup Sonam is returning from the valley with two Tibetans.” Seeing our tents they were frightened and wanted to flee, but Tundup reassured them. They laid down their guns at a proper distance and followed Mohammed Isa with lagging steps to his tent, where they were offered tea and tobacco.
Afterward they came to my tent, fell on their knees and opened their mouths to exhibit the construction of a talking machinery that could turn out only the absolute truth.
As an introduction they requested consent to present to Bombo Chimbo, “the great chief,” two sheeps’ stomachs filled with butter and goat’s milk. They volunteered to show us the way as far as they knew it and would also sell us a few yaks, if we were willing to pay their price.
“You will receive silver for the animals you can spare, if you deliver them here.”
“Bombo Chimbo, you must remain over tomorrow. We cannot close the transaction earlier.”
“Well and good, but you stay here tonight.”
This was a precaution against their escape. The shyness of the Tibetans vanished at the music from guitars and the melody of the steaming teakettle in Mohammed Isa’s tent.
The mountains glowed purple from the evening light; the grayish-blue smoke from the camp fires created a picture of dancing elves in the air; night was approaching from the east, dark violet and biting cold—the same monotonous experience, but inhospitable and desolate Tibet seemed friendlier tonight, for Puntsuk and Tsering Dava had come to us.
On the following morning we were the owners of five splendid yaks, who relieved ten tired veterans of their burdens. We traded our last eleven sheep and goats and some silver money for new animals.
These poor knights of the wilderness in greasy and shaggy fur coats, dirty and well-worn felt boots, and without trousers had come to the camp and improved our prospects at one stroke. They carried all kinds of articles inside of their baggy coats, dried chunks of meat, wooden bowls for tsamba and tea. Tobacco pouch, pipe, steel, bodkins and knives dangled from belts in rhythm with their steps. Their black coarse hair hung in tufts around the greasy coatcollar and the lice that inhabited these primeval forests had never in their lives run the risk of being caught in a comb. Musketoons and bifurcated props were strapped over the shoulders, the belt held broad swords and the men rode small, chubby, long-haired horses with bright, lively eyes.
They call themselves Changpas or Northmen and spend their winters in the desolate regions of Chang-tang in northern Tibet to eke out a living by hunting. Cows furnish them milk, butter, cheese and cream. From big game they secure meat, skins and fur. They prefer the meat when it is raw, hard, dry and old. They may often be seen taking out the rib of a yak or a wild ass, more like a blackened stick of wood, from the ample folds of their fur coats, and carve it with their sharp case knives. Chinese brick-tea is the chief delicacy among the good things of life, especially if it has an abundance of leaves and stems. A lump of butter swims in the wooden bowl like oil among driftwood. In this country even the horses eat meat on account of the scarcity of pasture. It seems strange to see small grass-eating animals stand and munch the strips of meat, until the saliva hangs in long icicles from their mouths.
Not even a person of refined taste need turn up his nose at the menu placed before him in the tent of a yak-hunter: goat’s milk with fat, yellow cream; yak kidneys browned in fat; yak-marrow, toasted over dung-fire; small, fat pieces of the tender meat along the spine of the antelope, or its head held by the long horns in the flames until the skin has been burned away and it all looks like a mass of soot. Table salt is found in inexhaustible quantities on the shores of lakes.
Nomads and hunters, in common with wild geese, are migratory and know all springs and pastures. They rest and hunt where their forebears have tented and hunted. They bait their traps for antelopes or lie in ambush for wild asses by a stone wall that perhaps has stood since time immemorial. Quietly and stealthily the hunter steals up on the yak against the wind and knows by experience just when to stop and shoot. Then he strikes sparks with the steel against the flint. The burning tinder lights the end of a cord, that is brought in contact with the touch-hole by the hammer, after the bead has been drawn. He does not shoot until he is sure of hitting the mark, for he must save powder and lead. The yak falls, the meat is cut up and preserved under the folds of the tent. The pelts of yaks, wild asses, antelopes and wild sheep are tanned and utilized. Boots, harness, straps and many other articles are made from them and the sinews serve as thread.
When the Changpa men are on the hunt, the women care for the domestic animals and as the hunter returns at sunset the ruminating yaks are lying down in front of the tent. There they lie all night and
the Nomads need not go far for dung, their only fuel. The sheep are herded into a circular fold of stone, and wolves are kept at a distance by large wild dogs.
As darkness falls the family is seated around the fire over which the teakettle is boiling. The long pipe moves from mouth to mouth. The conversation touches upon the success of the hunt, the care of the herds and the removal to better pasture. Worn-out soles are repaired and hides are tanned by hand. A woman churns butter in a wooden stoup, while her small naked children are playing in the light of the fire. Each one retires to his own lair of furs and before the rising sun has gilded the mountain tops the bellows are blowing to revive the fire.
Thus they live and thus they roam and thus it has been generation after generation, for uncounted centuries. Chang-tang is their poor homeland, where they live bravely and largely in God’s free air, struggling against poverty and dangers. They have no fear of the roar of the storm: the clouds are their brothers. They share dominion over mountains and valleys only with the beasts of the wilderness, and the eternal stars twinkle over their tents by night. They love the icy cold, the dancing drift-snow and the white moonlight in quiet Tibetan wintry nights.
During his whole life the Nomad has the deepest reverence for the spirits of the mountains, lakes and springs. He is convinced that the hunt will be unsuccessful if he does not read devoutly his “Om mani padme hum.” He knows that the spirits of the air, unless due veneration be accorded them, will bury all pastures under heaps of snow,—the doom of inevitable starvation of sheep and goats, and he may well fear an unfortunate end to his wandering if he does not add a new stone to the old cairn on the mountain passes as he goes by. He does not have the slightest idea of the splendor of temple halls and of the blue smoke that circles up to the faces of the gilded gods. A pilgrimage to the great monastic cities is the privilege of rich Nomads. He believes in transmigration and is convinced that all evil deeds will be punished in the next existence, when he reappears in the form of a pack animal, a dog, or a vulture.
The Best Adventure and Exploration Stories Ever Told Page 35
