This little settlement certainly deserved to be called a village. It contained about forty houses with a monastery built above them on the hillside, a better-looking place than Gartok, standing several hundred feet higher. We had indeed discovered here the highest inhabited place in Asia and perhaps in the whole world.
The natives took us for Indians and sold us provisions freely. We were received hospitably in a house, and did we enjoy the luxury of being warm after long marches through snow and ice! We rested here a day and a night, eating well and feeding our dog. We avoided meeting the local authorities as the bönpo had locked up his residence and ignored us. Perhaps he was avoiding responsibility.
Willy-nilly we had to buy another sheepskin as our clothes were not made for the Tibetan winter. And after long and enjoyable bargaining we bought a yak. This was the fourth in our line of Armins, and he was no different from the others except that perhaps he was naughtier.
From here we went on to cross the Yagula Pass, meeting no one on the way. After three days we came to cultivated land belonging to the large village of Menkhap Me. We again introduced ourselves as Indians, and bought straw for our yak and tsampa for ourselves. The people here lead a very hard life. Their barley and lentil fields are strewn with stones and need a great deal of labor to produce a poor crop. But they are cheerful and friendly people, and in the evenings we sat with them and drank beer. On the slopes around the village there are some little monasteries, which the villagers, in spite of the hard lives they lead, keep going with their usual spirit of piety and self-sacrifice. On every side we found ruins of surprising dimensions, bearing witness that this region had seen better times. We could not ascertain if the decline had been due to wars or a change of climate.
We had been marching for an hour when we came out into the huge plain of Tingri. Behind—and we caught our breath—stood the highest mountain in the world, Mount Everest. Full of wonder, enthusiasm, and awe, we looked at the mighty peak and thought of the many expeditions in which brave men had lost their lives vainly trying to win the summit. We made a few sketches of the mountain, which certainly had never been viewed by a European from where we stood.
It was hard to turn from this marvelous spectacle, but we had to move on to our next objective, the 18,000-foot pass of Körala, which lay to the north. Before starting to climb, we spent the night in a little hamlet called Khargyu, at the foot of the pass. This time we could not pass ourselves off as Indians so easily, because the villagers had seen many Europeans. Nearby was the village of Tingri, where all the British Everest expeditions used to hire their bearers. The inhabitants seemed to be appraising us and asked us first if we had been to see the bönpo at Sutso. We then realized that the big house we had seen at that place must have been the official residence. We had noticed the house right enough, as it stood on a hill and commanded a view of the whole district. Luckily, we had got by without being observed.
Now we had to be cautious. We did not pursue the subject but repeated our story of being on a pilgrimage. The villagers appeared to be satisfied and told us about the road we should have to follow, which from their account was a good one.
Late in the afternoon, we reached the top of the pass. At last we would be going downhill again. We had finished with wearisome ascents for the time being and glad we were of it. Our yak, however, thought otherwise. He broke away and ran back uphill toward the pass. After endless difficulty we managed to catch him, but we could not get him to move and were obliged to camp in a most inhospitable spot where we could not light a fire—and so we supped on dry tsampa meal and raw meat. Our only consolation was the distant view of Mount Everest in the sunset glow.
The next day Armin again began to “create.” We tied a rope around his horns and led him over the pass, but he continued to misbehave. We had had enough of Armin IV and determined to exchange him at the next opportunity for another animal.
Our chance came soon. At the next village I made what I thought was a good bargain and exchanged him for a shaky-looking nag. We were overjoyed and went on our way in high spirits.
On the same day we reached a broad valley through which rushed a stream of green water carrying small ice floes with it. It was the Tsangpo (Brahmaputra). That disposed of our dream of finding the river frozen and getting across on the ice. But we did not lose heart. On the opposite bank we saw monasteries and a number of houses and reckoned there must be some means of getting across the river. We thought of a ferry, and as we were searching for one, I found the piers of a hanging rope bridge. When we came to it we concluded that the bridge was all right for us to cross but no good for our horse. Animals have to swim, although the coolies manage sometimes to carry their donkeys across the swaying rope bridges on their backs. We tried to drive our horse into the water, but he simply would not budge. By this time we were quite accustomed to having trouble with our animals, so I sadly made up my mind to go back to the village and try to effect a reexchange. It cost me money and hard words to get back Armin, but I got him. He showed no sign of pleasure or of sorrow at seeing me again.
It was dark by the time I brought him back to the bridge. By that time it was too late to get him across, so I tethered him to a stake nearby. Aufschnaiter had in the meantime found us a lodging, and we passed a pleasant, warm night under cover. The villagers were accustomed to passing traders and took little notice of us.
The next morning I forgave Armin all his misdeeds. When we had managed to persuade him to go into the water, he showed himself to be a splendid swimmer. He was often submerged by the rushing water and was carried some way downstream, but that did not disturb him. He swam steadily on, and when he had come to the other side we admired the gallant way in which he breasted the steep bank and shook the water out of his long coat. We spent the rest of the day in the village which was called Chung Rivoche—a very interesting place with a famous monastery. This building, which contained a number of temples with Chinese inscriptions on their doors, rose sheer from the rocky walls that flanked the river. One of the most remarkable things about this monastery was an outsize chorten (a form of totem), perhaps seventy feet high, which bore witness to the sanctity of the place. Around it were grouped a great number of prayer wheels—I counted up to eight hundred—which continually revolved with their drums containing strips of paper inscribed with prayers entreating the blessing of the gods. It is important that they should be continuously in movement, and I noticed a monk going around and greasing their axles. No devout person passes by the wheels without giving them a turn. Little old men and women often sit by these giant drums for the whole day, turning them with devotion and praying heaven to grant them and those who support them rebirth in a higher state. Others carry little handwheels with them when they go on pilgrimages. These prayer wheels and the childlike mentality that they express are as typical of Tibet as the cairns and prayer flags we had found on all the mountain passes.
As we were very pleased with our quarters and fascinated by all the interesting things we saw here, we decided to remain for another night. It was worth it, as we had a very interesting visitor, a Tibetan who had lived for twenty-two years in a Christian mission in India and had now returned, homesick for Tibet. Like us he had wandered alone over the passes through the winter snow, but when he could he had attached himself to caravans. He showed us English illustrated papers and in them we saw for the first time pictures of bombed cities and read about the end of the war. These were for us shattering moments and we were eager to hear more. In spite of the discouraging news he gave us, we were glad to meet someone who brought us a breath of air from the outside world—our world. What he told us strengthened our resolve to continue our journey into Central Asia. We would have been only too glad to take him with us as a traveling companion but could offer him neither protection nor comfort. We bought from him a few pencils and some paper so that we could continue writing up our diaries, then said good-bye to him and set out alone.
Our route now led us away from the Bra
hmaputra. We followed it over another pass, and in two days reached Sangsang Gevu and so joined once more the caravan road from Gartok to Lhasa, from which we had branched off a year ago on our way to Kyirong. The bönpo’s representative at Sangsang Gevu asked us many questions but treated us kindly. We felt that the gentlemanly way in which the two officials at Tradün had dealt with us had become known in the surrounding country as far as Sangsang and had set an example to other authorities. Fortunately, this officer had no idea that we were here contrary to instructions.
It was a blessing that he did not put additional difficulty in our way, as we already had worries and to spare. We had to make a decision one way or the other. We had only eighty rupees left and one gold piece. The rest had gone in the purchase of provisions and in buying a fifth yak to replace our latest Armin. We found prices higher as we approached the towns, and it was clearly impossible for us to think of getting through to the Chinese frontier with no more than the money we had. We still had thousands of miles to cover before we came to China. But our money would be enough to get us to Lhasa. There it was again—the lure of the “Forbidden City.” And the possibility of getting acquainted with the object of our dreams was now almost within our grasp. Anyhow, we could not control our desire to go there, and this new objective seemed to us worth any sacrifice.
While we were in the POW camp, we had greedily read every book we could get that dealt with Lhasa. There were few of these, and all of them had been written by Englishmen. We had learned that in 1904 a British punitive expedition consisting of a small force had marched as far as the capital, and that in the last twenty years several Europeans have visited it. Since that time the world possesses only superficial knowledge of Lhasa, and no goal is more attractive to the explorer than the Dalai Lama’s home. And we, so short a distance away, should we not seek to get there? For what other purpose had we overcome every sort of difficulty by cunning and stratagem, exerted ourselves physically to the limit of our endurance, and learned to speak the language of the country? The more we thought about it, the stronger was our resolve, and “On to Lhasa” became our motto. Our experience had shown us that high officials were much easier to deal with than subordinates. We felt that we should be all right once we got to Lhasa. I kept thinking of a brilliant example we might follow, that of Father Johann Grueber, who smuggled himself into Lhasa in a caravan three hundred years ago and was hospitably entertained there.
So there was no doubt about our goal, but we were not so sure how to reach it. We were of course attracted by the much-frequented highroad with its roadhouses. Going by it, we should reach Lhasa in a few weeks. But we risked discovery and arrest. Even if we bypassed Shigatse, the second-largest city of Tibet, we should find several other administrative centers on the way, each of which might mar our chances. The risk this way was too great. So we decided to travel through the northern plains, which they call Changthang. This district is inhabited solely by nomads with whom we could safely associate. Then, we thought, we could approach Lhasa from the northwest. No one expects foreigners to come from that direction, and it would be easier for us to slip into the town. Sven Hedin made a similar plan forty years ago, but it failed owing to the obstinacy of some local officials. His failure to reach Lhasa may have seemed a great misfortune to him personally, but it enabled him to explore regions hitherto completely unknown. There were no maps or accounts of the route that we meant to follow: we simply had to push on into the unknown, always aiming for the northeast. We should probably meet nomads here and there on our way and get them to put us wise about directions and distances.
While in Sangsang we naturally said nothing about our plans but gave out that we wished to go to the salt deposits in the north. People were horrified at the idea and tried hard to dissuade us. The country was so inhospitable that only lunatics would wish to go there. But our deception had the desired result of removing any suspicion that we might be bound for Lhasa. Our plan, as a matter of fact, involved considerable dangers, and the icy blizzards we encountered in Sangsang gave us an idea of what to expect.
Nevertheless, we set out on December 2, 1945. While at Sangsang we had made friends with some Sherpas. These people are Tibetans who live mostly in Nepal and have made a name for themselves as guides and bearers in the Himalayas. They are nicknamed “the tigers of the Himalayas.” They gave us valuable advice regarding our preparations and helped us to find a new yak, which was a real service to us, as we had hitherto invariably been swindled when we bought one of these creatures. We noted with satisfaction that our new yak was a well-behaved beast. He was a powerful bull, black with a few white flecks, and his long flowing coat nearly swept the ground. In his youth his horns had been removed and the operation seemed to have improved his temper without diminishing his strength. He wore the usual nose ring. With a very little encouragement, one could get him to exceed his average speed of two miles an hour. The poor devil had a lot of weight to carry, as we had made it a rule always to have at least eight days’ rations with us.
Our first day out from Sangsang passed without difficulties. Our way led through a gently rising valley. Just as the sun went down and the biting cold began to penetrate our clothing, we saw, as if we had ordered it, a black nomad tent. It was pitched in the shelter of a surrounding stone called a lhega. One finds these enclosures scattered over the whole of Tibet, as the nomads are always moving to new pastures, and when they do, they put stone fences around their tents. The lhegas also help to protect their beasts against the cold and the attacks of wolves. As we approached the tent, some dogs made for us, barking. The noise brought a nomad out of the tent. He was not very forthcoming when we asked for a night’s shelter, and flatly refused to allow us into his tent, but afterward he brought us some dried yak’s dung with which to make a fire. We had to camp in the open, but eventually made ourselves fairly comfortable; we collected a lot of juniper branches with which we managed to keep a good fire going throughout the night.
All the same I could not sleep. I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach reminding me of my sensations before tackling the North Wall of the Eiger. It is certainly a good thing that we did not know what lay before us. Had we had even a faint idea of it, we would certainly have turned back. We were setting out into terra incognita, marked only by blank spaces on the maps, magnetized by the ambition of the explorer.
The next day we reached the top of the pass and were astonished to find that there was no descent and that we had simply come to a high plateau. The view over the unending plain was discouraging. One seemed to be facing infinity, and the huge spaces would certainly take months to cross. As far as we could see, there was no sign of life, and an ice-cold wind blew over the snow.
We spent the following night in abandoned lhegas, finding enough yak’s dung to make a fire. In summer, nomads evidently lived here, and caravans passed through the region. The snow plains were then, no doubt, green Alpine pastures—and the thought of them reminded us that we had not chosen the best time of year for our journey.
Then we had a lucky day. We ran into a tent and got a warm reception from an old married couple and their son, who had been camping there for several months. They had had a hard time of it and since the heavy snowfalls eight weeks before had hardly left their tent. Many of their yaks and sheep had died since the deep snow had buried their pasture. The rest stood apathetically near the tent or kicked up the snow with their hoofs in the hope of finding fodder. These heavy falls of snow are rare in Central Asia and do not count among the normal risks of life.
Our hosts seemed glad to see human faces again. This was the first time that we had been invited into a nomad’s tent and asked to stay the night. We were taken for Indians and aroused no suspicion. There was plenty of meat as many of the animals had had to be killed. We bought a leg of yak for a sang and at once sawed off a huge chunk with a kukri in order to make a meal. Our hosts were horrified to hear of the route we proposed to take and strongly advised us to give it up. However, in the c
ourse of conversation they did say that we should find other nomad tents on our road, and this information strengthened our determination to carry on.
The next day, soon after setting out, we ran into a deep snow-drift. Walking with our inadequate footwear soon became a torture. The upper crust of snow was treacherous, and we and our yak often broke through. In some places there were streams running under the snow, and we found ourselves wading through ice-cold water, which we could feel but not see, and our shoes and stockings were soon frozen stiff. We had an exhausting day and covered only a few miles. Glad indeed we were to see another nomad tent toward evening. This time the inmates did not invite us to come inside, but they were not unfriendly and pitched a little yak-hair tent for us. I was happy to be able at last to remove my shoes from my smarting feet. Some of my toes showed signs of frostbite, but I rubbed them for a long time and at last the circulation came back.
The difficulties of this day’s march and the warning of frostbite had made us anxious, and Aufschnaiter and I had a long and earnest talk. We could still return, and we thought seriously of doing so. We were worried about our yak, which had not eaten properly for days, and we could reckon on our fingers how many days he would last. But we could not think of going on without him. For a long time we argued backward and forward, and eventually came to a compromise solution. We would continue our march for one more day and then decide. Our decision would depend on the snow conditions.
The next day we passed through undulating country till we came to a pass. On crossing it, what was our astonishment but to find no more snow! Providence had decided for us.
We soon ran into a nomad’s tent, where we were well received and allowed to graze our yak to his heart’s content. This time our hostess was a young woman. She quickly made us cups of butter tea, and for the first time I drank this brew with relish. The warmth ran through our frozen bodies and brought us to life again. Only then did we notice what a picturesque figure our young hostess made. Over her bare skin she wore a sheepskin cloak reaching down to the ground. In her long black pigtail she wore mussel shells, silver coins, and various cheap ornaments imported from abroad. She told us that her two husbands had gone out to drive in the animals. She said they had fifteen hundred sheep and a great many yaks. We were astonished to find polyandry practiced among the nomads. It was only when we were in Lhasa that we came to know all the complicated reasons that led to the simultaneous existence in Tibet of polyandry and polygamy.