Read Ebook: Trans-Himalaya: Discoveries and Adventurers in Tibet. Vol. 1 (of 2) by Hedin Sven Anders

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In my compartment we sat as close as herrings in a barrel. The air became hotter and hotter; from the pleasant coolness of the heights we came again into the oppressive heat of the Indian plains. Passing Kalka, Ambala, and Lahore I came to Rawalpindi, where I put up at a passable hotel. But the room was hot and stuffy, and the punkah, the great fan hanging down from the ceiling, was in motion all through the night, but did not prevent the gnats from paying me importunate visits.

In Gurie we breakfast, and rest a quarter of an hour on a comfortable couch in the verandah. Here, four years previously, I spent a memorable hour with Sir Robert and Lady Harvey. The wind whistles through the same poplars, elms, and willows to-day; I feel extraordinarily forlorn and melancholy. Then I had come from a great journey, now the future seems to me hopelessly dark. Before me rise the softly rounded but steep slopes of the wooded mountains on the right side of the valley; down yonder the village of Gurie lies on both sides of the river. The air is mild. I dream of eternal spring and forget my cares. Beyond Chinawari tall conifers are again seen on the cliffs. My driver, who speaks Persian, points to a huge block of stone embedded in the margin of the road; ten days ago it fell and killed a man and two horses. At dangerous spots, where landslips may be expected, small white flags are stuck up. The mountain landscape becomes wilder, and its sharp outlines become more distinct in the shades of evening. We come to Urie and Rampur and often drive through dense forest. When we arrive at Baramula we have covered 106 miles in fourteen hours.

This day everything seemed to go wrong, and out of spirits I returned to Nedou's Hotel just as the gong announced eight o'clock. I sat down at the long table among some thirty ladies and gentlemen, all as strange to me as I to them. But in some of the parties the conversation turned on me.

"Have you heard that Hedin is in Srinagar?"

"No, really? When did he come?"

"To-day. Of course he wants to go to Tibet."

"Yes, but he has been forbidden, and the Government has orders to prevent him crossing the frontier."

"Well, then, he can pass round Tibet and enter it from the north."

"Yes, he has done it before, and can of course find the way again."

Next day I called on the private secretary of the Maharaja, the Pundit Daya Kishen Kaul, a stately, distinguished man who speaks and writes English perfectly. He carefully read through my letter of introduction, and kindly promised to get everything ready for me as quickly as possible. During the conversation he took notes. His agents were to receive his orders on that same day, mules would be procured, four soldiers be told off to accompany me during my whole journey, provisions, tents, and pack-saddles be bought, and he would find a pleasure in fulfilling all my wishes. No one would have an inkling that all this was done for me; every outlay would be lost among the heavy items entered under the heading "Maintenance of the Maharaja's Court." And Daya Kishen Kaul kept his word and became my friend. The business proceeded slowly, but still it did go forward. Not a word was spoken of Tibet. I was ostensibly getting ready for a journey to Eastern Turkestan, but his meaning smile told me that he divined my intention.

Even at a base of operation where one has full liberty it is not quite easy to get a caravan ready for the march; how much more difficult here where I was in the midst of intrigues and political vexations. But my self-respect and energy were stimulated, and I felt certain of succeeding in the end. The whole affair reminded me of a drama with an interminable list of r?les; the complications were great and I longed only for action. One act of the play was performed at Srinagar, and I cannot pass it over, as it had a sequel later on. When everything else had been denied me from London the road to Eastern Turkestan still lay open.

On June 22 I received from the Resident, Colonel Pears, the following letter:

The Indian Government has ordered me by telegraph not to permit you to cross the frontier between Kashmir and Tibet. They have no objections to your travelling to Chinese Turkestan, taking it for granted that you have a Chinese passport. But as you have lately informed me that you do not possess such a document, I have telegraphed to the Indian Government for further instructions.

Now I telegraphed to the Swedish Minister in London, Count Wrangel, and begged him to procure me a passport for Eastern Turkestan, a country I never thought of visiting, and then informed the Government in Simla of this step and of the satisfactory reply. Nineteen days later I received the following letter from Sir Francis Younghusband, who meanwhile had arrived in Kashmir as the new Resident:

I have received a telegram from the Government informing me that you may set out before the arrival of the Chinese passport, but on the condition that you do not travel beyond Leh. As soon, however, as the Chinese Government, or the Swedish Minister , telegraphs that your passport is drawn out, you may cross the Chinese frontier at your own risk; your passport will then be sent after you.

Then I telegraphed to Count Wrangel again, asking him to assure the Indian Government that the passport had really been granted me and was already on the way. It was already awaiting me in Leh when I arrived there. It was a pure formality, for I did not need it, and it would have to be decided first where the boundary lay between Eastern Turkestan and Tibet. The representative of China in London subsequently expressed his astonishment to Count Wrangel that I was travelling about in Tibet with a passport made out for Eastern Turkestan, but Count Wrangel replied very justly that he could not possibly control me and the roads I followed in Asia. The English Government had done its best to prevent my travelling through Tibet, and so there was no resource left but to outwit my opponents. How I succeeded will appear in the pages of this book.

On one of the first days, accompanied by Daya Kishen Kaul, I called on the Maharaja of Jammu and Kashmir, Sir Pratab Sing, whose brother, Emir Sing, was also present. His Highness is a little middle-aged man of dreamy, melancholy aspect . He received me with great friendliness, and promised to meet my wishes in every respect. He had heard of my journey through the desert in 1895, and when I had narrated its incidents I had won him over to my side; he would be pleased, he assured me, to see my new expedition start from his territory.

In all my purchases and transport arrangements I received invaluable help from Cockburn's Agency. It provided me with stores of rice, maize, meal and barley; for it was impossible to get together sufficient quantities in Leh. It also looked after the transport of this heavy baggage, and I had every reason to be satisfied with its arrangements. I had myself brought a boat with oars, rudder, mast, sails, life-buoys and centre-board, in the large chests I had sent out to India. Then I had the same scientific instruments as before: an alt-azimuth, two chronometers, meteorological instruments, compasses, photographic apparatus and plates, writing-blocks, sketch-and note-books, writing materials, field-glasses, hunting-rifles, revolvers, etc.

Burroughs and Wellcome of London had been so kind as to present me with an unusually complete medicine-chest, which was in itself a tasteful and elegant work of art, and contained drugs specially selected for a high, cold, and dry climate. All the remedies were in tabloids, well and orderly packed, and could easily be found with the aid of a printed catalogue. The whole was carefully stowed in a pretty aluminium chest which shone like silver. The medicine-chest was from the first exceedingly popular in the caravan; every one had a blind confidence in it. I had a suspicion that many ailments were feigned just to get another look at the chest. At any rate it contained the best portable medical outfit I have ever seen.

I had some difficulty in finding an assistant for meteorological observations. There was none at the Central Institute in Simla, and therefore I applied to the Meteorological Station in Srinagar. The chief recommended a youngster to me who had been assistant at the station and had been baptized under the name of Rufus, but he was a fat Bengali, who always walked about with an umbrella even when it did not rain. I was not troubled about his corpulence; he would soon be cured of that on the mountains; but, what was worse, he had certainly never seen an aneroid barometer, and I could not, try as I would, teach him to read it. I therefore dismissed him, for at the worst I could read the instruments, though I had a superabundance of other things to do.

Then just at the right moment a Eurasian, three-and-twenty years old, presented himself, named Alexander Robert. In his first letter to me he gave himself no other title than the very correct one of a "stranger in Srinagar"; this indicated modesty. He came to my hotel, showed me his testimonials, which were all excellent, and he struck me as a pleasant, strong, and healthy man. Among other employments he had worked on the railway at Peshawar and had been an assistant in Dr. Neve's hospital. Dr. Neve recommended him most warmly, and as, besides, he acquired a good knowledge of the instruments after a single lesson and needed only a few days' practice in Srinagar in handling and reading them, I was very glad to engage him. He left his mother and young wife at home, but they were in no straits, and a part of his wages was paid to him in advance. I did not regret taking him, for he had a knowledge of many things, was capable, cheerful, and ready for work of any kind. When I knew him better I entrusted all my cash to his care, and could do it without hesitation, for his honesty was beyond suspicion. He was a companion to me during the long winter evenings, was a favourite in the caravan and among the Tibetans, and carefully watched that every one did his duty. Robert was only once a cause of grief to me, when he left me in December 1907, in consequence of sad news he received of his family through Gartok .

After Robert joined me matters went on more easily. He superintended the packing of the baggage and the weighing of it out into equal loads, and helped me in stowing and distributing the heavy money-bags which held 22,000 silver and 9000 gold rupees. Thus the days passed, and at last the hour of release struck. I had longed for it as for a wedding feast, and counted the intervening hours. I took leave of my old friend Younghusband, who at the last moment recommended to me a caravan leader, Muhamed Isa of Leh, and bade farewell to the Maharaja, Emir Sing, and Daya Kishen Kaul; and Mrs. Annie Besant, who on several occasions had shown me great kindness, expressed the best and most sincere wishes for the success of my journey.

My people were ordered to be ready on the morning of July 16, 1906, in the courtyard of the hotel . The start should be delayed not a day longer; I had now waited long enough. It was evident that some hours would be required to get all in marching order for the first time. At eight o'clock the men from Poonch came with their mules, but only to tell me that they must have 5 rupees each for new clothes. The purchase of these articles of clothing took up four more hours, and in the afternoon the preparations had progressed so far that there was only the loading-up to see after. Some hours elapsed before the pack-saddles and loads had been adjusted. The mules were very excited, danced round in circles, and kicked so that the boxes flew about, and at last each animal had to be led by a man . The hired horses were more sensible. Manuel on his steed presented rather a comical appearance: he had never mounted a horse in his life, and he looked frightened; his black face shone in the sun like polished iron. The whole company was taken by at least half-a-dozen amateur photographers . At length we moved off in detachments, exactly twelve hours behind time; but the long train was at any rate on the way to Gandarbal and Tibet--and that was the main thing. What did it matter what time it was? Feeling as though my prison doors were opened, I watched my men pass along the road , and the whole world lay open before me.

I was most sorry for the animals, for I knew that famine awaited them. As long as there were opportunities they should satiate themselves with maize and barley that they might subsist as long as possible afterwards on their own fat.

At length I stood alone in the yard, and then I drove to Dal-dervaseh, where a long, narrow, five-oared boat awaited me at the stone steps, and placed myself at the tiller, when the boat put off and I was at last on the way to the forbidden land. All the long journey through Persia and Baluchistan had been only a prologue, which had really no result except to land me in the spider's nest in which I found myself caught in India. Now, however, I was free, out of the reach of all that is called Government; now I could rule, myself.

The canal, on the bright mirror of which we now glided along, was varied by water plants, ducks, and boats, almost sinking under their loads of country produce. On the banks washerwomen crouched, and here and there a group of merry children were bathing; they scrambled up projecting points and mooring places, let themselves tumble into the canal, splashed and threw up the water like small whales. The canal becomes narrower, only a few yards broad, our boat takes the ground, and the oarsmen get out and draw it over the shallows. The waterway is very winding, but runs on the whole to the north; the water is shallow, but the current is with us. On either side stand picturesque houses of wood and stone as in a street of Venice. At every corner the eye encounters a new charming subject for the brush, which gains additional effect from the motley figures, the vegetation, and the light lancet-shaped boats. The lighting up of the picture is also fine now that the sun is setting, bathing everything in its warm glowing beams, and causing the outlines to stand out clearly against the deep shadows. Between the houses the water is as black as ink. We draw near to a small projecting height, behind which the road runs to Kangan and Leh. Side branches debouch into the canal, but we make for a lake called Anchar; its water is greyish blue, and comes from the Sind, or Send as they here pronounce the name of the river.

After a while eddies and sandbanks show that we are in the river. The sun has set; the summer evening is quiet and peaceful, only the gnats buzz over the water.

Though the rowers work steadily, putting forth all their strength, we make slow progress, for the current is strong against us. I have therefore opportunity to peep into the domestic affairs of a whole series of English families in the house-boats. It is just upon nine o'clock and the inmates are gathered round the table in dress coats and elegant toilets. At one table sat three young ladies; I thought that they had spent too much trouble over their toilet, for there was nowhere any sign of a cavalier to be charmed with their appearance. Through the open windows the glaring lamplight fell on the water; they saw us pass, and perhaps puzzled their heads over the reason of so late a visit. Now the century-old planes of Gandarbal appear, we row into a creek of stagnant water and go on shore.

What noise and confusion in this throng of men and baggage animals! The place was like a fair where all scold and scream and no one listens. The escort tried in vain to get a hearing, the Rajputs were quieter, but the Pathans abused the disobedient Kashmiris and the saucy men from Poonch as robbers and murderers. The animals were tethered with long cords to the foot of the trees, and on a small open space my tent pegs were for the first time driven into the ground. The tent was a present from my friend Daya Kishen Kaul, and was my home for a long time. The baggage was piled up in walls of provision sacks and boxes, and Manuel got hold at length of his kitchen utensils and unpacked his enamelled ware. The animals neighed and stamped and occasionally gave their neighbours a friendly kick, but when the barley nose-bags were carried round and hung on their necks only a whinnying was heard, which signified impatience and a good appetite. And then these children of the East, this gathering of dark-skinned men who strode about in the red firelight with tall white turbans--what a fine striking picture on the background of a pitch-dark night! I smiled to myself as I saw them hurrying hither and thither about their numerous affairs.

But now dinner is ready in the lighted tent, and a box lid serves as a table. A carpet, a bed, two boxes for daily use, and the young dogs are the only furniture. There are three of the last, of which two are bitches. They are pariahs; they were enticed away from the street in Srinagar and have no trace of religion . Robert and I, who always speak English, call the white and the yellow ones simply "Puppy"; the third soon received the name of "Manuel's Friend," for Manuel and he always kept together.

And all this company which the sport of fortune had collected around me was to be scattered again, one after the other, like chaff before the wind. I was the only one who, six-and-twenty months later, reached Simla again, and the last of all the men and animals who now lay in deep sleep under the planes of Gandarbal.

But I was not the last to lay myself down to rest on this first night, for when I put out my light at three o'clock the firelight still played on the side of the tent, and I seemed to feel the brisk life out in Asia like a cooling breath of pine forests and mountains, snowfields and glaciers, and of broad open plains where my plans would be realized. Should I be tired of it? Nay, should I ever have enough of it?

THE ROAD TO LEH

The day ended late. Next morning I was awaked late, and the sun stood high in the heavens before we were ready to start. It took four hours to get the whole camp under weigh, to pack up and load the animals; but the work would be done more expeditiously when all knew their parts.

The long train begins to move, troop after troop disappears among the trees. On both sides of the road country houses and villages peep out between willows, walnut and apricot trees, and small channels of water murmur through the rice-fields, where men are hoeing, moving in regular order, and singing a rhythmical encouraging song; the singing lightens the work, for the weeds are torn up in time with the air, and no one likes to be behind another.

A bridge crosses the Sind, which rolls its greyish blue water, rushing and roaring, through several large arms. Now the road ascends the valley of the river, then we turn eastwards, and soon the broad valley of Kashmir with its level country disappears behind us. The rise is already noticeable, and we are glad of it, for the day is warm. Trees become fewer, and we ride for greater and greater stretches in the blazing sun; but all around us is green and abundantly watered, the mild air is full of life and productive energy, and the whole valley resounds with the roar of the river and the echo it calls forth. I have passed this way twice before, but on both occasions the Sind valley was covered with snow; now summer reigns in the deep hollows and on the heights.

So we had accomplished another day's journey. We all delighted in the free, active life. But the day was declining, the shadows grew longer, the sun disappeared an hour sooner than usual, for it was concealed by the mountains, and after we had listened for a while to the plaintive bark of the jackals we also went early to rest. In the stillness of the night the roar of the stream sounded still louder; its water came from the heights which were the goal of our hopes; but with still greater longing would my eyes one day watch these eddies on their way to the sea.

When I came out of my tent in the cool of the morning the rest of the caravan had already set out, and the camp looked empty and deserted. The new day was not promising, for it rained hard, and thunder growled among the mountains; but the summer morning gave forth an odour of forest and fresh green vegetation, and after a good breakfast my detachment, to which Robert and Manuel belonged, started on its march.

The sun soon came out, and with the warmth great swarms of flies, which tortured our animals and made them restive. The road ran down to the river and through the trees on its right bank. On the crest of the left flank of the valley some patches of snow still defied the summer sun, and the wood opposite was much thicker than on our side. Here and there a conifer raised its dark crown above the lighter foliage. At the village Mamer, where a mill-wheel swished through the waterfall, and an open booth invited the traveller to refresh himself, Khairullah remained awhile behind in company with a smoking narghil?. At Ganjevan we crossed the river by three shaking bridges. In the background of the narrowing valley rose a mountain covered with snow. The scenery was fine, and we enjoyed a ride really elevating in a double sense. Our caravan had to halt several times when a mule threw off its load; but the animals were already quieter, and I looked forward with anxiety to the time when they would become meek as lambs, and when no objurgations would induce them to move on.

The camp at Gunt was already in order when we arrived. My first thought is always for the puppies; in the morning, during the first hours of the march, they whine, finding the movement of the mule very uncomfortable, but the rocking soon sends them to sleep. But as soon as they are taken out of the basket they fall foul of one another, and then they wander all the evening among the tents, gnawing and tearing at everything.

Even with a temperature of 52.2? F. I felt so cold in the night, after the heat of the plains, that I woke and covered myself with a fur rug. The river in the morning marked only 46.2?. Upstream the view became ever finer. Sometimes we rode through narrow defiles, sometimes up steep dangerous slopes, sometimes over broad expansions of the valley with cultivated fields. Then the precipitous rocks drew together again, and cool dense shadows lay among willows and alders. The roar of the stream drowned all other sounds. The river had now become smaller, so many tributaries having been left behind us, but its wild impetuosity and its huge volumes of dashing water were the more imposing; the water, greenish blue and white, foaming and tossing, boiled and splashed among huge blocks of dark green schist. In a gully, close to the bank, a conical avalanche still lay thawing, and up above small waterfalls appeared on the slopes like streaks of bright white paint. When we came nearer we could perceive the movement, and the cascades that resolved themselves into the finest spray.

The state of the road from Baltal over the Zoji-la Pass was very different now from what it was in the year 1902. Then the whole country was covered with snow, and we slided almost the whole way down over glaciated slopes. Now some five hundred workmen were engaged in mending the road up to the pass. Their industry was indicated by thundering blasts, and now and then great blocks of stone fell down uncomfortably near to us.

Now our heavily-laden caravan had to cross the pass. Slowly and carefully we march up over hard and dirty but smooth avalanche cones, in which a small winding path has been worn out by the traffic. Water trickles and drops in the porous mass, and here and there small rivulets issue from openings in the snow. After a stretch of good road comes a steep slope along a wall of rock--a regular staircase, with steps of timber laid across the way. It was a hard task for laden animals to struggle up. Now and then one of them slipped, and a mule narrowly escaped falling over--a fall from the steep acclivity into the deep trough of the roaring Sind would have been almost certain destruction, not a trace of the unfortunate beast would have been found again. From our lofty station the river looked like a thread. After some sacks of maize had fallen overboard, each of the animals was led by two men.

The train advanced slowly up. Piercing cries were constantly heard when one of the animals was almost lost. But at last we got over the difficulties, and travelled over firm snow and level ground. The thawed water from a huge cone of snow on the south side flowed partly to the Sind, partly to the Dras. The latter increased with astonishing quickness to a considerable river, and our small and slippery path followed its bank. A treacherous bridge crossed a wild tributary, with agitated waters of a muddy grey colour. One of the mules broke through it, and it was only at the last moment that his load could be saved. Then the bridge was mended with flat stones for the benefit of future passengers.

The Dras is an imposing river; its waters pour over numerous blocks that have fallen into its bed, and produce a dull grinding sound. And this mighty river is but one of the thousand tributaries of the Indus.

We reached Matayun in drizzling rain, and had scarcely set up our camp when the caravan-men came to loggerheads. We here overtook a hired contingent of 30 horses with forage. Their drivers had received orders to travel as quickly as possible to Leh; but now it appeared that they had remained stationary for several days, and wanted to be paid extra in consequence. The authorities in Srinagar had done their best to make my journey to Leh easy, but there is no order in Kashmir. In Robert I had an excellent assistant; he did everything to appease the refractory men. I now saw myself that stringent measures must be resorted to, and I waited impatiently for a suitable occasion for interference. About three-fourths of the Poonch men reported themselves ill; they wished to ride, and that was the whole cause of their illness. The mules, when not wanted, were to go unloaded, in order to economize their strength, and on that account we had hired horses in Srinagar. Some men had been kicked by our hot-tempered mules, and now came for treatment.

Then we go on to Dras and Karbu. On the heights above the Dras we pass the famous stone figures of Buddha, and then we descend a narrow picturesque valley to Karbu. The river constantly increases in volume, and presents a grand spectacle; small affluents fall between the rocks like silver ribands, and spread out over the dejection fans. The pink blossoms of the hawthorn wave gracefully in the wind, which cools us during the hot hours of the day. Fine dark juniper bushes, tall as cypresses, adorn the right bank.

In front of the station-house in Karbu an elderly man in a white turban came up to me. "Good day, Abdullah," I said to him, for I immediately recognized the honest fellow who had helped me up over the snowfields of the Zoji-la on the former occasion.

"Salaam, Sahib," he answered, sobbing, fell on his knees and embraced my foot in the stirrup, after the Oriental custom.

"Will you go on a long journey with me?" I asked.

"Yes, I will follow you to the end of the world, if the Commissioner Sahib in Leh will allow me."

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