Next came a weight-lifting competition. The weight is a heavy, smooth stone, which must have seen hundreds of New Year festivals. It has to be lifted and carried around the flagstaff. Very few people can perform this feat. There is much laughter when a competitor swaggers up to the stone with an air of overweening confidence and then finds that he can hardly lift it off the ground, or when it slips out of his hands, threatening to squash his toes in its fall.
Then suddenly one hears the far-off thud of galloping horses. Weight lifting comes to an end. The horse races are starting. Here come the beasts in a thick cloud of dust. In these races there is no staked-out course. The riderless horses take their own line, often through the crowd, whom the monk-soldiers have been trying to drive out of the way with their cudgels. These races, like some of the other events, are hard to understand. The unridden beasts start off in a mass some miles outside the town and burst through the excited public, who unwillingly withdraw to the side of the track in order to let them go by on their way to the winning post. Only horses bred in Tibet are allowed to enter, and each horse carries the owner’s name on a cloth on his back. There is keen competition between the stables, but when the Dalai Lama or a minister has a horse running, it is obvious that he has got to come in first. When it looks as if an outsider is likely to beat an “official” horse, grooms run out and stop him before he gets to the post. The races are followed with tremendous excitement. The crowd and the servants of owners howl and cry to encourage the runners, while the noble lords who own the animals try to look dignified. The whole field storms madly past toward the winning post, which lies a little way to the back of the town.
The cloud of dust kicked up by the hoofs of the horses had scarcely time to settle before the first of the foot runners came panting up. And what a rabble they were! Anyone can take part in a footrace, from old men to small boys. Here they come—with bleeding, blistered feet, out of breath and with distorted faces. One can see that they have never been in training in their lives. Many drop out long before completing the five-mile course, having gained nothing by their efforts except the laughter of the bystanders.
The last of the runners are still limping in when the next event is started. This time it is a mounted race with the riders wearing historic costumes. They are greeted with cries of enthusiasm and use their whips wildly to get the last ounce out of their beasts. The crowd wave their arms and shout, a horse bucks and his rider flies in an arc into the midst of the spectators. Nobody minds. This is the last athletic event of the meeting, and afterward the prizewinners come forward, each carrying a wooden square showing in what order he reached the post. There are about a hundred runners and almost the same number of riders in the two events. They receive colored or white scarves from the judges, but there is no applause from the spectators.
To close the proceedings, a gymkhana is held in a huge field outside Lhasa. We hurried along with the crowd and were very glad to be invited by one of the nobles into his tent. These festival tents offer a wonderful picture. They are pitched in serried ranks, and each is furnished in a manner corresponding to the station of its owner. Many of them are draped with silks and brocades and decorated with gorgeous ornaments. Add to them the rich robes of the men and women, and you have a real symphony in color. Civil officials of the fourth rank and upward wear glossy yellow silk robes with large plate-shaped hats with brims of blue-fox fur. (These furs come from Hamburg! Tibetans find their own foxes are not good enough.)
Competition in smartness of dress is not confined to the women. The men take their part. Their Asiatic love of finery puts them in contact with many parts of the world. Thus blue foxes come from Hamburg, cultured pearls from Japan, turquoise from Persia via Bombay, corals from Italy, and amber from Berlin and Königsberg. I have often written letters for rich noblemen to addresses all over the world ordering this or that article de luxe. Pomp and decoration are here a necessity. They have to be displayed to advantage in clothes and furnishings. The common people enjoy no luxury themselves but appreciate it in their betters.
The great festivals are really an occasion for displaying pomp and power, and the high dignitaries know that they owe it to the people to make a good show. When, on the last day of the feast, the four cabinet ministers exchange their costly headdresses for the red-fringed hats of their servants in order to show for a moment their equality with the people, the enthusiasm and admiration of the public know no bounds.
The gymkhana, or horse show, is the most popular of all spectacles. It is probably a survival of former great military parades. In the past the feudal lords had at certain times to march their troops past their overlord and thus show their readiness for war, but this significance has long disappeared. Nevertheless, there are many features of these games that recall the warlike days of Mongol influence, when marvelous feats of horsemanship were the order of the day.
We had occasion to admire some incredibly skillful performances by Tibetan horsemen. Every noble family enters a certain number of participants for these games, and, of course, there is the utmost keenness to choose the best men so that the team may do well in the final classification. Competitors have to show off their skill in riding and shooting. When I saw what they could do, I simply could not get over it! They stood upright in the saddle and while their horses were galloping past a hanging target, swung up their matchlocks and shot into the bull’s-eye. Before they had reached the next target, twenty yards away, they had exchanged their muskets for bows and arrows. Shouts of joy acclaimed the mounted archer who hit the mark. It is incredible how adroit the Tibetans are at changing from one weapon to another.
At these festivities the Tibetan government displays typical hospitality, even toward foreigners. Splendid tents of honor are put up for all the foreign legations, and servants and liaison officers see to it that the guests have everything they want.
I noticed an unusual number of Chinese on the sports ground. They are easily distinguishable from the Tibetans though they belong to the same racial family. The Tibetans are not markedly slit-eyed; they have pleasant, refined faces and red cheeks. The rich Chinese costumes of the past have in many cases given way to European suits, and many Chinese, in this respect more progressive than the Tibetans, wear spectacles. Most of the Chinese in Lhasa are merchants who maintain prosperous trade relations with their own country. They enjoy living in Tibet, and many settle down permanently in Lhasa. One reason for this is that most Chinese are passionate opium smokers, and there is no explicit prohibition of opium smoking in Tibet. Sometimes a Tibetan, seduced by the example of the Chinese, takes to the opium pipe. If he does, he is likely to be punished. There is no danger that opium smoking may become a national vice. The vigilance of the authorities is far too keen. They already consider tobacco smoking to be a vice and control it very closely and, though one can buy any sort of cigarette in Lhasa, there is no smoking in offices, in the streets, or at public ceremonies. When the monks take control in the Fire-Hound-Year they even forbid the sale of cigarettes.
That is why all Tibetans are snuff takers. The laity and the monks use their own preparation of snuff, which they find stimulating. Everyone is proud of his own mixture, and when two Tibetans meet, the first thing they do is to take out their snuffboxes and exchange a pinch of snuff. Snuffboxes, too, are a subject for pride. One finds them in all materials from yak horn to jade. The hardened snuff taker spreads his dose on his thumb-nail, sniffs it up, and then blows a cloud of dust out of his mouth, and never dreams of sneezing. If anyone burst out into a fearful sneeze, it was always I, and the company never failed to laugh.
There are also Nepalese in Lhasa, richly clad and stout of body. One can see, even at a distance, that they are prosperous. By virtue of an old treaty, they are exempt from taxation, and they have the means to exploit this favored situation thoroughly. The finest businesses in the Parkhor belong to them. They are expert dealers, with a sixth sense for a good bargain. Most of them leave their families at home and go back to th
em from time to time, unlike the Chinese, who are apt to marry Tibetan women, to whom they make model husbands.
At official festivities the representatives of Nepal outdo even the gaily clad Tibetans in brilliance of dress, and the red tunics of the Gurkhas, who form their bodyguard, are conspicuous from afar. These Gurkhas have acquired a certain reputation in Lhasa. They alone venture to contravene the prohibition against fishing. When the government hears of such breaches of the law, it sends a solemn protest to the Nepalese Legation. This gives rise to a nice little comedy. The guilty persons must, of course, be punished, as the legation sets much store on good relations with the Tibetan government. But as a matter of fact, more important persons than mere soldiers are often involved—indeed many high-class Tibetans enjoy a plate of fish when they can get it. The poor culprits receive a terrible reprimand and are sentenced to be whipped, but the chastisement is not meant to hurt.
No one would dare to go fishing in Lhasa. In the whole of Tibet there is only one place where fishing is allowed, and that is where the Tsangpo River runs through a sandy desert. Here there are no crops and no pasture for animals: in fact, there is nothing to eat but fish, and so the law has been relaxed. The people of this region are looked down upon, like the slaughterers and black-smiths.
In point of numbers the Muslims form an appreciable part of the population of Lhasa. They have a mosque of their own and enjoy full freedom to practice their religion. (One of the best characteristics of the Tibetan people is their complete tolerance of other creeds. Their monastic theocracy has never sought the conversion of infidels.) Most of the Muslims have immigrated from India and have intermingled with the Tibetans. Their religious zeal led them at first to demand that their Tibetan wives should be converted, but here the Tibetan government stepped in and made it a condition that native women could marry Muslims only if they kept to their own faith.
At the gymkhana it is possible to pick out examples of all the population groups. One sees Ladhakis, Bhutanese, Mongolians, Sikkimese, Kazaks, and representatives of all the neighboring tribes, among whom one finds Hui-Huis—Chinese Muslims from the province of Kuku-Nor. These people own the slaughterhouses situated in a special quarter outside the Lingkhor. Buddhists look askance at them because they take the life of animals, but they are allowed to have their own place of worship.
At the end of the festival the nobles and notables march back to the town in a glittering procession. The common people stand by the roadside and admire the splendor of their demigods. They have had their fill of excitement and drama, and the faithful will feast for long on the memory of these tremendous ceremonies at which the God-King showed himself to them. Workaday life begins again. Shops are opened, and bargains driven as keenly as ever. Dice players appear at street corners, and the dogs, who during the “Lenten” fast have migrated to the outskirts of the Lingkhor, come back to the town.
Our life continued peacefully. Summer approached. My sciatica got better, and nothing was said about our expulsion. I was receiving regular treatment from the English doctor, but on fine days I was able to work in the garden. And I had a lot to do, for when it was known that I was responsible for Tsarong’s fountain and various other rearrangements in his grounds, notables came, one after another, and asked me to do the same for them.
Aufschnaiter was very busy making his canal. From early morning till evening, he was at his workplace, for work stopped only on feast days. It was a fortunate thing that he had been employed by the monks, for though the lay nobles play an important part in the administration of the country, a small group of monks has the last word in everything. For this reason I felt no little satisfaction when one day I was summoned to the garden of the Tsedrung.
The monks of this foundation are officials who form a sort of monastic order. Brought up to be strictly loyal to their own community, they have become far more powerful than the secular officials. They provide the immediate entourage of the Dalai Lama, and all the personal servants of the young God-King belong to this order. His chamberlains, his tutor, and his personal guardians are all Tsedrung monks of high standing. Moreover, the Dalai Lama attends the meetings which they are obliged to hold daily, to discuss the interests of their community.
The officials of this order are, without exception, strictly trained. Their school is situated in the east wing of the Potala, and their teachers come, according to tradition, from the famous cloister of Möndroling, which specializes in Tibetan calligraphy and grammar. Anybody can enter the school, but adoption into the order is very difficult. A rule dating from many centuries prescribes that the members of the Tsedrung shall not exceed 175.
When the student has reached his eighteenth year and has passed his examinations, he can enter the order with powerful patronage. Beginning at the bottom, he may, if sufficiently capable, attain to the third class in the order. Monks of the Tsedrung wear, in addition to the usual red cowls, garments distinctive of their rank. Most of the students in the Tsedrung school come from the people, and they provide a useful counterpoise to the influence of the hereditary nobles. They have a wide field of activity as there are no government offices in which there is not at least one monastic official to every layman. This system of dual control is considered an insurance against the exercise of dictatorial power, which is one of the standing dangers of feudalism.
It was the High Chamberlain who had sent for me. He proposed that I should rearrange the garden of the Tsedrung. That was a great chance for me. I was told that additions were to be made to the Dalai Lama’s garden as well, and if my work was found satisfactory, I might be employed there. I set to work at once with the utmost zeal. They placed a number of men under my orders, and we soon got things moving. I now had no time for the private lessons in English and mathematics that I was giving to some young nobles.
Suddenly, just as I was beginning to feel sure of our position in view of the powerful protection we now enjoyed, I had a fearful shock. One morning we received a visit from Mr. Kyibub, a high official at the foreign ministry and the last of the four Tibetans who had been educated at Rugby many years ago. He was clearly upset by his mission. After many apologies and expressions of regret, he told us that the English doctor had now certified that I was fit to travel and that the government expected us to depart at once. In confirmation he showed us the certificate, which stated that although I was not completely cured, I could travel without endangering my life.
This was a stunning and unexpected blow to Aufschnaiter and me. We pulled ourselves together and endeavored politely and calmly to present our side of the question. We explained that my illness might recur at any moment. What would I do if, in the middle of an arduous journey, I found I could not move a step farther? Moreover, the hot season in India had just begun. No one who had been living for so long in the healthy highland air of Tibet could endure the transition without prejudice to his health. And what was to happen to the tasks with which we had been charged by the highest authorities, and which we felt bound to carry to completion? We promised to submit another petition to the government.
From this day forth we heard never a word more about an order of expulsion, though for a while we lived in daily expectation of it.
In the meantime, we had come to feel at home in Lhasa, and the people had got used to us. We received no more visits from curious people—only from friends. The British Legation seemed convinced that we were not dangerous, for though Delhi had asked for our surrender, the point was not pressed. The Tibetan authorities assured us that we were not considered undesirable.
We were now earning so much that we were no longer dependent on Tsarong’s hospitality. We made many friends during the course of our work, and time passed very quickly. The only thing for which we hankered was letters from home. We had now been over two years without news. Still, we comforted ourselves with the thought that our life was very tolerable and that we had many reasons for satisfaction. We had a good roof over our heads and were no longer struggling to exist. We d
id not miss the appliances of Western civilization. Europe with its life of turmoil seemed far away. Often as we sat and listened to the radio bringing reports from our country we shook our heads at the depressing news. There seemed no inducement to go home.
10
Life in Lhasa—I
All my previous experiences were put in the shade by the first official party I attended at the home of the parents of the Dalai Lama. It was by chance that I was there. I was working in the garden, where I had some new plots to lay out, when the Holy Mother sent for me and told me to leave my work for the day and join her guests. With some embarrassment I joined the brilliant throng in the reception room. Some thirty nobles were gathered there, all in their finest robes, and the scene was one of dignified splendor. The reception was to celebrate the birth of our hostess’s youngest son, born three days before. I haltingly stammered my congratulations and offered a white scarf that I had managed to borrow. The Holy Mother smiled graciously. It was wonderful to see her walking unconcernedly about the room and entertaining her guests. The women here recover from their confinements with miraculous speed, and make very little fuss about childbirth. No doctors are called in, but the women help one another. Every woman is proud to have a lot of healthy children. The mother invariably nurses her own children and sometimes goes on suckling them for three or four years.