CHAPTER XIII
Another thing that strikes the traveller in Tibet is the sturdiness of Tibetan ponies,—long-haired, short, stumpy little brutes, which possess most marvellous endurance under circumstances which would kill most horses. They live on whatever grass they can find, which is not much—at best, short semi-dried blades which take a good deal of looking for before you can see them at all. Tibet ponies have all the qualities of a goat and antelope combined, and I have seen them, with a rider on their back, go up gradients where a human being would have great difficulty to go up on foot.
The dogs of Tibet are not quite so attractive, being either vicious to a degree or else stupid, lazy, and uninteresting. The common kind is not unlike our sheep-dog, except that the hair is longer, which in some cases gives them a slight appearance of collie dogs. They are generally ill-treated and [[136]]suffering, and they seem to have no affection for anybody. They possess plenty of intelligence, especially those trained by shepherds, and they are indeed a great help to their masters in driving the flock in the right direction and keeping the sheep together. These sheep-dogs are generally made to carry a broad leather collar with an immense brass bell.
Tibetan Dogs
Perhaps, talking of dogs’ affection, I might here give some account of a Tibetan dog—a friend of mine—that I met on my first expedition into Tibet, while I was being chased all over the country by the Tibetan army. One night, during a storm, we were attacked, and I heard a number of voices around my camp. I only had two men left, and we jumped up to defend ourselves. Stones were flung at us with slings—an art at which both Tibetan men and women excel. From their earliest childhood they keep in constant practice at flinging stones, and in daylight they can hit the mark with great accuracy. Shepherds use them constantly, and can pick out any sheep in a flock of hundreds. We kept close to the ground, rifle in hand, a few feet from our tent, to avoid being hit, as evidently they were aiming at it, it being of a lightish colour. They struck it several times. With them was a [[137]]dog barking furiously all the time. Dog and men seemed to be approaching—at least, by the sounds of their voices, for I could not see them. This seemed an appropriate time to fire a shot, which would undoubtedly, as usual, cause a stampede. It did. Only the dog remained, barking and yelping the whole night, but we were otherwise not troubled in any other way, although, of course, we kept watch until sunrise, when all we found were numerous fresh footmarks a few yards from our tent.
The dog ran about a good deal, barking and barking, until we prepared our breakfast, when he sat himself down upon his hindquarters and watched the proceedings with keen interest. He seemed very shy, and whenever we tried to get near him he bolted away with his tail between his legs, howling madly as if he had been hit by a stone. Dogs in Tibet are so accustomed to have stones flung at them at every possible opportunity that no doubt in his imagination he fancied he had been hit by a missile each time we raised our hand to caress him. Animals are not unlike people in that way.
At last, by offers of tinned meat and the use of the favourite Tibetan term of endearment, [[138]]“Chochu, chochu,” the dog became our friend. He seemed utterly astonished at being caressed, and rubbed himself affectionately against our legs. He took a particular fancy to Mansing, my faithful man who developed leprosy, and from that day the dog followed us everywhere. Mansing, who was suffering considerably, and who took no interest whatever in scientific observations, photography, surveying, etc., had at last a sympathising friend to whom he could confide his grievances. The two were inseparable, and whenever we stopped Mansing pathetically conversed with the dog, who seemed almost to understand all the coolie was telling him.
A Tibetan Camp of Black Tents
It was rather a puzzle to me why this dog followed us so long, for we had so little food that we could but seldom spare him any. He slept near us at night with his head on the lap of one of us, and during the march he showed quite sporting instincts by chasing antelopes and kiang (wild horse) when we encountered herds of hundreds of them. Curiously enough, when we entered a Tibetan encampment he always avoided being seen in our company. It seemed almost as if he realised that we were not welcome guests in the country, and feared the consequences. Possibly [[139]]he only temporarily left us to see what he could pick up in the way of food, but whenever we came across him in the encampment, he never would show signs of recognition, much less of affection, as was the case when he would rejoin us some miles beyond on the march, when he made ample efforts to reingratiate himself. He seemed almost to want to express: “Sorry I had to cut you in the encampment, but I really had to!”
At last the day came when we were captured, and underwent several kinds of tortures, as I have already described in In the Forbidden Land. The dog had vanished, and, to tell the truth, we did not give him much of a thought, as we were somewhat concerned about ourselves.
One day, when Mansing and I were stretched, or rather suspended, on a primitive kind of rack, and we were for some time left to ourselves—the soldiers and Lamas having retired some distance off into the huge tent of the Pombo, a high official—the dog sadly walked towards us, sniffing us, and rubbing himself against Mansing and me. He was particularly affectionate to Mansing, whose face he licked several times; then with a pathetic movement of his head as if to express his sorrow, he gave us a parting sad look, turned his back, [[140]]and walked slowly and sorrowfully away. That was his last mark of friendship and the last we saw of him.
Tibetan encampments have no great interest except for the peculiar shape of the black tents—a pattern of shelter most suitable for the climate of their country. The two sides of the tent are separate, and when the tent is put up it leaves an aperture all along its highest ridge. This is for various reasons. First, because the Tibetans light fires inside their tents, and an opening is necessary to let the smoke out; also as a means of ventilation, the cold air not penetrating so quickly as when it comes in at the sides, owing to the warmed atmosphere inside. The black tents are woven of a coarse and waterproof fabric of yak hair. Through the slit at the top generally protrude the props of the matchlocks bundled against one of the tent poles.
Every man in Tibet owns one of these weapons, and is considered a soldier in time of war.
Interior of a Tibetan Tent, showing Churn for mixing Tea with Butter
The inside of a large Tibetan tent is quaint enough when you have reached it by skipping over masses of dirt and refuse which surround its outside. Only, when you peep in, the odour is rather strong of the people, old and young, all since [[141]]birth innocent of washing, and the smell of badly-prepared skins, and stores of chura (cheese). Nor must I forget to mention the wall of yak-dung erected right round the tent inside to serve the double purpose of protection against the wind where the tent meets the ground, and of fuel, being gradually demolished to feed the double mud-stove erected in the centre of the tent. Mud alone is also occasionally used for the inside wall.
As you know, dung is practically the only fuel obtainable in the highest parts of Tibet, although occasionally a few low shrubs are to be found. The fuel is constantly collected and conveyed from one camp to the next, when changing in order to find more suitable grazing for the sheep and yaks.
The centre mud-stove is built according to the most practical notions to make it draw properly, and upon it can nearly always be seen one or two large raksangs, brass vessels in which brick-tea is being stewed and stirred with a long brass spoon. But the operation of tea-making is rather complicated in Tibet. After the leaves have been stewed long enough the liquid is poured into a dongbo, or cylindrical wooden churn, in which have been deposited several balls of butter with copious [[142]]sprinkling of salt. A piston which passes through the movable lid is then vigorously set in action, and when well stirred and steaming the mixture is served all round and avidly drunk in wooden bowls, one of which every one carries about the person. Tsamba, a kind of oatmeal, is frequently mixed with the tea in the bowls, where it is made into a paste with the fingers.
A Little Boy learning to Pray
No matter how much non-Tibetan folks may find merriment in the idea of tea being brewed with butter and salt, there is no doubt that for a climate like Tibet it is “the drink” par excellence. It warms, nourishes, and is easily digested. I very often indulged in the luxury myself, when I could obtain butter, only, my digestion working rather rapidly owing to the amount of roughing we daily endured, I left out the salt so that I should not digest the mixture too quickly.
The richer owners of tents generally have a sort of folding shrine, with one or more images of Buddha, which occupies the place of honour in the tent. Numerous brass bowls and ornaments are displayed in front of these images and also offerings of tsamba and butter. Wicks, burning in butter, are occasionally lighted around and upon the shrine. Decrepit old women seem to [[143]]spend most of their time revolving their prayer-wheels and muttering prayers in front of these altars, and when occasion arises thus teaching little children to do the same. The younger folk, too, are very religious, but not to the fanatical extent of the older ones.
It is quite amusing to see little mites—children are always quaint in every country—try to master the art of revolving the prayer-wheel. It must be revolved from left to right, to pray in the proper fashion,—not that if you revolved it the other way you would necessarily be swearing, only, according to the laws of Tibetan Buddhism, prayers spun in the wrong direction would have no effect and bring no benefit. In a similar way circumambulations, either round hills for pilgrimages, or round a tent, or round a sacred lake, must always follow a similar direction to the revolving of the prayer-wheel.
In Lhassa and many other sacred places fanatical pilgrims make these circumambulations, sometimes for miles and miles, and for days together, covering the entire distance lying flat upon their bodies, then placing the feet where the head was and stretching themselves full length. Inside temples a central enclosure is provided, round [[144]]which these circumambulations are performed, special devotions being offered before Buddha and many of the other gilt or high-coloured images which adorn the walls of the temple.
As can be seen by the coloured plate illustrating one of these scenes, from the ceiling of the temple hang hundreds of long strips, Katas, offered by pilgrims to the temple and becoming so many flying prayers when hung up—for mechanical praying in every way is prominent in Tibet. There is, after all, no reason why praying should not be made easy like everything else. Thus, instead of having to learn by heart long and varied prayers, all you have to do is to stuff the entire prayer-book (written on a roll in Tibet) into the prayer-wheel, and revolve it while repeating as fast as you can go these four words: “Om mani padme hum,”—words of Sanscrit origin and referring to the reincarnation of Buddha from a lotus flower, literally “O God, the gem emerging from the lotus flower.”
Interior of Tibetan Temple
Worshippers circumambulating the inner enclosure lying flat full length.
The temples of Tibet, except in Lhassa itself, are not beautiful in any way—in fact, they are generally very tawdry and dirty. The attention of the pilgrims is directed to a large box, or often a big bowl, where they may deposit whatever [[145]]offerings they can spare, and it must be said that their religious ideas are so strongly developed that they will dispose of a considerable portion of their money in this fashion.
Large monasteries, of red or yellow Lamas, are attached to these temples, where proselytes are also educated. These Lamas, whatever their colour, are very clever in many ways, and have a great hold over the entire country. They are, ninety per cent of them, unscrupulous scamps, depraved in every way, and given to every sort of vice. So are the women Lamas. They live and sponge on the credulity and ignorance of the crowds; and it is to maintain this ignorance, upon which their luxurious life depends, that foreign influence of every kind is strictly kept out of the country. Their abnormal powers have been grossly exaggerated. They practise, it is true, hypnotism, but that is all. They can perform no more marvellous feats than any one can do in England who is able to mesmerize. As for the Mahatmas, who, our spiritualistic friends tell us, live in Tibet, they are purely imaginary, and do not exist. The Tibetans have never heard of them nor about their doings.
Personally—and I am glad that the few men [[146]]who know Tibet from personal knowledge and not from political rivalry agree with me—I believe that the intrigues of the Lamas with Russia are absolute nonsense. Tibet, it must be remembered, was not forbidden to Englishmen only, but to everybody from every side, whether native or white, certain Nepalese and Chinamen, only, having the privilege of entering the country. It was a fight against Western ways in general which the Lamas were carrying on, quite successfully owing to the geographical position of their country, and the natural difficulties of reaching it, and not a fight against one race more than another. The accounts of the Lhassa Mission to the Czar were possibly the best diplomatic practical jokes which have been played upon this credulous country; and the mythical and much-feared Dorjeff is possibly—at least as far as power is concerned—nothing more than the creation of hysterical Anglo-Indian officials who, everybody knows, seem to see the treacherous hand of Russia in everything.
Tibetan Women weaving
Perhaps no other country but England would be so rash as to go and sink millions of pounds sterling good money on a country that is, for all practical purposes, absolutely useless and worthless. [[147]]This does not detract from its pictorial, nor from its geographical or ethnological interest; from these points it is most interesting indeed.
Agriculturally, as I have stated, nothing grows there; no very wealthy mines have so far been discovered, the only mines that are plentiful being of borax, which has not sufficient market value to pay for the expensive carriage from Tibet to the coast. Regarded as a climate for a sanatorium for our sick soldiers in India—for which Tibet is frequently recommended by Anglo-Indian papers—I believe that such an establishment would be a very quick way of disposing altogether of all the sick men sent there. And as for such gigantic schemes as the construction of railways, say from India to the upper waters of the Yangtze-Kiang, or to Pekin, the expense of taking a railway over the Himahlya range and keeping it in working order during the wintry months—nine out of twelve—would, I think, never be remunerative. In Tibet itself the construction of a railway would be comparatively easy, as great stretches of the country are almost flat. Stations of imported fuel would have to be provided for the entire distance across Tibet, and the engines would have to be constructed specially to suit the great altitude. [[148]]
For trade and commerce with the natives themselves, the population of the country is so small, so deplorably poor and so lacking in wants, and the country is so large that, personally, I do not see how any large commercial venture in such a country can turn out successful. It is very difficult to get money where there is none. Small native traders, of course, can make small profits and be satisfied. Besides, the intercourse between Tibet and the neighbouring countries, particularly those to the south, can only take place with comfort during three months of the summer when the high snow-passes are open.
So that, much as I would like to see Tibet open in a proper way to travellers, I cannot quite understand the necessity of the Government spending millions of money and butchering thousands of helpless and defenceless natives in a manner most repulsive to any man who is a man, and of which we can but be ashamed—and all this to obtain a valueless commercial treaty. It is true, the Tibetans had been very impudent in every way on our frontier, but for this we only have to blame ourselves and our incompetent officials. If, instead of giving way to their bluff, we had kept a firm hand, matters would have been different.
Tibetan Women cleaning Wool
[[149]]
Even in the case of my capture and torture on my first expedition into Tibet I never had a feeling of resentment towards the Tibetans for what they did to me. It was very exciting and interesting for me to endeavour to reach their sacred city, but I did so at my own risk and against their repeated warnings and threats, and I got nothing more for it in the end than I expected, in fact, bad as it was, considerably less. Highly amusing as it was to me to give them endless trouble, it was undoubtedly equally enjoyable to them to torture me, when once they succeeded in effecting my capture. Possibly, if I now have any feelings at all towards the Tibetans, it is a feeling of gratitude towards them for sparing my life in the end, which, by the way, they came within an ace of taking as they had promised to do.
As a punishment for what they did to me—because, after all, my men and I suffered a great deal more than the average man could stand—the Government of India practically ceded, as we have said, all the rights to Tibet of an immense district of British territory at the frontier. Can you blame the Tibetans for doing worse if they had a chance? [[150]]