It was stated in our travel permit that we wanted to go to Nepal. The idea seemed to please our questioners, and they promised to help us in every way. They said we could start on the following morning and by crossing the Korela Pass would be in Nepal in two days. This did not altogether suit us. We wished, at all costs, to remain in Tibet and were determined not to give up the idea without a struggle. We begged for right of asylum, hammered on the theme of Tibetan neutrality, and compared the situation of Tibet with that of Switzerland. The officials stubbornly, if courteously, insisted on the conditions laid down in our travel document. However, during the months of our sojourn in Tibet, we had become better acquainted with the mentality of Asiatics and knew that to give way early was against the rules. The remainder of our discussion passed off in perfect calm. We all drank endless cups of tea, and our hosts informed us modestly that they were there on a tax-raising journey and that in Lhasa they were not such exalted persons as they seemed to be in Tradün. They were traveling with twenty servants and a great number of pack animals, so that one got the impression that they were, at the least, ministers.
Before taking our leave, we stated clearly that we wished to remain in Tradün a few days longer. The next day a servant brought an invitation to luncheon from bönpos—as all high personages are called in Tibet. We had a wonderful meal of Chinese noodles and I think we must have appeared to be starving, to judge from the masses of food they piled on our plates. We were greatly impressed by the skill with which the Tibetans handled their chop-sticks, and our astonishment was great to see them picking up individual grains of rice with them. Mutual wonder helped to create a friendly atmosphere, and there was much hearty laughter. At the end of the meal, beer was served and added to the cheerfulness of the gathering. I noticed that the monks did not drink it.
Gradually the talk veered toward our problems, and we heard that the authorities had decided to send a letter to the central government in Lhasa, communicating our request for permission to stay in Tibet. We were told to compose a petition in the English language, which the two officials desired to forward with their letter. This we did on the spot, and our petition was in our presence affixed to the official letter, which had already been prepared. This was sealed with due ceremony and handed to a courier, who immediately started for Lhasa.
We could scarcely realize the fact of our friendly reception and that we should be allowed to stay in Tradün until an answer arrived from Lhasa. Our experience with junior officials had not been satisfactory, so we asked for written confirmation of the verbal consent to our residence in Tradün. This we obtained. At length we returned to our quarters, happy that things had gone so well. We had hardly arrived when the door was opened, and a regular procession of heavily laden servants trooped in. They brought us sacks of flour, rice, and tsampa as well as four slaughtered sheep. We did not know from whom the gifts had come until the mayor, who had accompanied the servants, explained to us that the two high officials had sent them. When we tried to thank him, the mayor modestly disclaimed all credit, and no one seemed willing to admit the generous action. As we parted, the easygoing Tibetan said something that was to serve me in good stead. The haste of Europeans has no place in Tibet. We must learn patience if we wished to arrive at the goal.
As we three sat alone in our house looking at all the gifts, we could hardly believe in our change of luck. Our request for permission to reside in Tibet was on its way to Lhasa, and we had now enough supplies to last us for months. For shelter we had a thick roof instead of a flimsy tent, and a woman servant—alas, neither young nor beautiful—to light the fire and fetch water. We regretted that we possessed nothing of worth which we might have sent to the bönpo in token of our gratitude. We had nothing but a little medicine to offer him, but we hoped for an occasion to express our thanks in due form. As in Gartok, we had here had occasion to encounter the courtesy of the nobles of Lhasa, in praise of which I had read so much in Sir Charles Bell’s books.
As we were to stay for months here, we made plans for passing the time. We must without fail make expeditions in the Annapurna and Dhaulagiri regions and in plains to the north. But, a little later, the abbot, whose assistance the mayor had tried to enlist on our behalf, came to see us. He told us that our stay in Tradün had been approved only on the condition that we must never go farther away from the town than one day’s march. We could go on excursions wherever we liked, provided we were back before night. If we did not comply with these instructions, he would have to report to Lhasa, and that would no doubt prejudice our whole case.
The village consisted of about twenty houses dominated by the hill on which the monastery stood. It housed only seven monks. The village houses were narrow and crowded together, but, nevertheless, every house had its own courtyard, in which wares were stored. All the inhabitants of the village were in some way connected with trade or transport; the real nomads lived scattered over the plain. We had occasion to attend several religious festivals, the most impressive of which was the harvest thanksgiving. We were now on a friendly footing with all the inhabitants and used to doctor them, being particularly successful in our treatment of wounds and colic.
The monotony of life in Tradün was varied now and again by the visits of high functionaries, and I have a vivid recollection of the arrival of the second garpon on his way to Gartok.
Long before there was any sign of his convoy, soldiers arrived to announce his coming. Then came his cook, who at once began to prepare his food, and it was only the next day that the garpon himself arrived with his caravan and retinue of thirty servants. The whole population, including ourselves, crowded to see him come in. The great man and his family rode on splendid mules, and the elders of the village each conducted a member of the family, holding his animal’s bridle, to the quarters prepared for them. We were less impressed by the garpon than by his daughter. She was the first soignée young woman we had seen since 1939 and we found her very pretty. Her clothes were of pure silk and her nails lacquered red. Perhaps she had slightly overdone the rouge, powder, and lipstick, but she exhaled freshness and cleanliness. We asked her if she was the prettiest girl in Lhasa, but she modestly said no, and declared that there were many far prettier girls in the capital. We were very sorry to lose her charming company when the party moved on the next day.
We had a new guest in Tradün soon after—a state official from Nepal who came to see us but posed as a pilgrim. We felt that he wished to persuade us to go to Nepal against our wishes. He said we should be well received in Katmandu, the capital, and find occupation there. Our journey would be organized by the administration and three hundred rupees already had been allocated for our expenses. That all sounded very attractive—perhaps too attractive—for we knew how great was British influence in Asia. We did not take his advice.
After months we began to lose patience and to get on each other’s nerves. Kopp kept on saying that he would gladly accept the invitation to go to Nepal. Aufschnaiter as usual went his own way. He bought four sheep as pack animals and wanted to go to Changthang. It is true that this was contrary to our original decision to await the letter from Lhasa, but we greatly doubted getting a favorable answer.
Aufschnaiter, losing patience, marched out one afternoon with his loaded sheep and pitched his camp a few miles away from Tradün. We helped him to carry his things there and intended to visit him the next day. Kopp also began to pack and the local authorities promised to give him transport. They were very pleased that he had decided to go to Nepal, but they disapproved of Aufschnaiter’s behavior. From that day on, guards slept in front of our door. But the next day, to our surprise, Aufschnaiter came back to us with his baggage. His sheep had been attacked by wolves, which had eaten two of them. This compelled him to return, and so we three spent one more evening together.
On the following morning, Kopp bade us farewell. The whole population collected to see him off. So now, out of the seven of us who had broken out of the internment camp, five of whom had
made for Tibet, only Aufschnaiter and I remained. We were the only mountaineers in the group, and consequently physically and mentally best fitted for the lonely and strenuous life in this bleak land.
It was now late November, and the caravan routes were no longer much frequented. The monastic official sent us some sheep and twelve loads of yak’s dung for fuel—and we needed it, for the temperature was already -12 degrees Centigrade.
4
The Village of Happiness
In spite of the wintry weather, we were more than ever determined to leave Tradün, with or without a letter of authorization. We started hoarding provisions and bought a second yak. But just in the middle of our preparations, the abbot arrived with the news that the long-awaited letter had come from Lhasa. What we had secretly feared had come true. We were forbidden to travel into Inner Tibet. The letter was not handed to us personally. We were merely told that we must go by the shortest route to Nepal, but that we might march in Tibetan territory as far as Kyirong. From there it was only eight miles to the Nepalese frontier and seven days’ march to the capital, Katmandu. We would be given transport and servants for the journey. We agreed at once to this ruling, as our route would take us somewhat farther into Tibet, and the longer we remained on the right side of the law the better.
On December 17, we left Tradün, which had sheltered us for four months. We felt no grudge against the Tibetans for not allowing us to go to Lhasa. Everyone knows how hard it is for foreigners without passports to get a footing in any country. By giving us presents and providing us with transport, the Tibetans had shown hospitality far exceeding that customary in other countries. Although I did not then appreciate our good fortune so much as I do now, Aufschnaiter and I were still thankful for the eight months we had passed outside the barbed wire.
Now we were on the march again. Our convoy consisted of Aufschnaiter and myself accompanied by two servants. One of these carried, wrapped up like a sacred relic, the letter of the government to the district officer at Kyirong. We were all mounted, and our two yaks were kept moving by a driver. One could see from far off that our caravan belonged to persons of consequence—very different from the three down-at-heel vagabonds who had crossed the Himalayas into Tibet some months before.
Our road took us again over the Himalayan watershed toward the southeast. The Tsangpo was already frozen when we crossed it, and the nights in the tent were bitterly cold.
After riding for a week, we reached Dzongka, which was visible from a long way off by reason of a thick cloud of smoke which hung over the houses. Dzongka really deserved to be called a village. It contained about a hundred mud-brick houses grouped about a monastery, and around the village were cultivated fields. The village was situated at the junction of two streams that form the river Kosi and, penetrating the Himalayas, flow into Nepal. The place was enclosed by a thirty-foot rampart and commanded by a splendid peak, some 20,000 feet high, called by the natives Chogulhari. It was Christmas Day when we came into Dzongka—our first Christmas since we had escaped. We were lodged in surprisingly comfortable quarters. The tree line was only two days away, and wood was no longer an expensive luxury; it could be used for building and for all household needs. A contraption of tin built around the stove in which we burned crackling juniper wood warmed the whole room very agreeably. When evening came we lit some Tibetan butter lamps, and to celebrate the day we soon had a leg of mutton stewing in our cooking pot.
As in every other place in Tibet, there were no public inns here. Billets in private houses are assigned to travelers by the authorities. This is done by rotation, so that the population is not too badly inconvenienced, and the arrangement forms part of the taxation system.
We had not planned to stay here long, but we were kept in Dzongka a whole month by heavy snowfalls. All day thick snow-flakes fell and communications were interrupted. We were glad of our rest here, and interested ourselves in some of the activities of the monks and enjoyed as spectators the performances of a group of dancers from Nyenam.
A number of aristocratic officials lived here, and we soon made friends with them. By now we spoke good Tibetan and carried on long conversations through which we got to know much about the manners and customs of the country. St. Sylvester’s Eve passed uncelebrated, but our thoughts dwelt more than ever on home.
Whenever we could, during this period of waiting, we made short expeditions in the neighborhood and found many sandstone caves, a mine of interest to us, containing as they did idols of wood or clay and leaves from Tibetan sacred books—offerings no doubt to the saints who used to live in these caverns.
On January 19, the roads were sufficiently passable to allow us to start off in company with a huge yak caravan. Ahead of us went a herd of yaks, carrying no loads, which acted as snowplows and seemed to enjoy the exercise very much. The country was intersected by valleys and ravines, and in the first two days we crossed no fewer than twelve bridges over the Kosi. My yak, which came from Changthang, was unused to bridges and jibed vigorously when he had to cross one. It was only by pushing behind and pulling in front—an operation in which the drivers enthusiastically assisted us—that we could get him across. I had already been warned not to bring him to Kyirong as he would not be able to stand the hot summer climate, but I had not wanted to leave him behind in view of our plans for flight, which we had not abandoned. Throughout all this time my thermometer showed an unvarying temperature of -30 degrees Centigrade. There were no lower markings on the instrument!
We were deeply impressed by a rock monastery in the neighborhood of the village of Longda. Seven hundred feet above the valley, red temples and countless cells were perched like birds’ nests on the rocks. Despite the danger of avalanches, Aufschnaiter and I could not refrain from climbing the rock face, and so obtained another wonderful view of the Himalayas. We also met some monks and nuns and learned from them that this was the monastery founded by Milarepa, the famous Tibetan saint and poet, who lived in the eleventh century. We could easily understand that the glorious surroundings and the loneliness of the place were peculiarly adapted to meditation and the making of poetry. We left this place regretfully and determined to revisit it one day.
Every day we found less snow and after reaching the tree line soon found ourselves in a really tropical region. In this atmosphere the winter garments given us by the Tibetan government were too warm for us. Now we came to Drothang, the last stopping place before Kyirong. I remember that all the inhabitants of this place had highly developed goiters, which one rarely sees in Tibet. We took a week to get to Kyirong, which when the road is good is only three days’ march from Dzongka, and can be reached in a single day by a fast courier.
THE NAME KYIRONG means “the village of happiness,” and it really deserves the name. I shall never cease thinking of this place with yearning, and if I can choose where to pass the evening of my life, it will be in Kyirong. There I would build myself a house of red cedarwood and have one of the rushing mountain streams running through my garden, in which every kind of fruit would grow, for though its altitude is over 9,000 feet, Kyirong lies on the twenty-eighth parallel. When we arrived in January the temperature was just below freezing; it seldom falls below -10 degrees Centigrade. The seasons correspond to what we have in the Alps, but the vegetation is subtropical. One can go skiing the whole year round, and in the summer there is a row of 20,000-footers to climb.
There are about eighty houses in the village, which is the seat of two district governors who administer thirty villages. We were told that we were the first Europeans who had ever come to Kyirong, and the inhabitants watched our entry with astonishment. This time we were quartered in the house of a farmer, which reminded me of our Tyrolese houses. As a matter of fact, the whole of the village might have been transplanted from the Alps, except that instead of chimneys the roofs of the houses were decorated with prayer flags. These were always in the five colors which represented different aspects of life in Tibet.
On the ground floor w
ere the stables for cows and horses. They were separated by a thick ceiling from the living rooms of the family, which are approached by a ladder from the courtyard. Thick stuffed mattresses served as beds and easy chairs, and near them were small, low tables. The members of the household kept their clothes in brightly painted wardrobes, and before the inevitable carved wooden altar, butter lamps were burning. In winter the whole family sits on the deal floorboards around a huge open log fire and sips tea.
The room in which Aufschnaiter and I were put was rather small, so I soon shifted to the hay barn next door. Aufschnaiter carried on our unceasing struggle with rats and bugs, while I had to cope with mice and fleas. I never got the better of the vermin, but the view over glaciers and rhododendron forests made up for my discomfort. We had a servant allotted to us, but preferred to do our cooking ourselves. We had a fireplace in our room and were given wood to burn. We spent very little money; our provisions did not cost us more than £2 10s. a month each. I had a pair of trousers made, and the tailor charged half a crown.