CHAPTER XVII
Perhaps some of the experiences we had on our trip across country may interest the reader. Instead of returning by Tinker we proceeded in a north-westerly direction, employing an old man—a most peculiar fellow, so wrinkled that he seemed almost mummified—who said he knew the way across the intricate ranges. When we had nearly reached the summit of the range, we came in for a very bad storm, a regular blizzard, and it delayed us for some hours. My guide, as is usual with guides, lost his head, and, what was worse, also his way. We could not remain where we were, and we could not see where we were going.
I took matters into my own hands, and, by compass, tried to find my way to where I supposed the place was; but we experienced great difficulty in getting along, owing to the snow being driven with great force into our faces and obscuring the [[186]]view a few yards away from us. I found the pass right enough, the blizzard abating for a few moments, and we sank in soft snow up to our knees, which made marching very heavy. We descended a few hundred feet and found ourselves in a sort of gully, which necessitated making another ascent to a higher and more difficult pass before we could descend into the valley where the sources of the Ganges are to be found.
A Weird Old Man of N.W. Nepal
Night was coming on fast, my men were in a pitiable condition from fatigue and cold, and the wind blew the ground-snow—frozen into grains like sand—in regular whirlwinds round us, which pretty well blinded us. I was ahead of my party with two men, struggling up the steep incline, when some of those in the rear shouted that three of my men had remained behind and were missing. They were no longer answering the signals we constantly made in order not to lose one another. This necessitated a long delay and a search being made for them. One of the pictures in this book shows us shouting to them in order to find their whereabouts, but we shouted ourselves hoarse and got no answer. I detailed two of my best men to go back to find them, and provided them with extra blankets, as they would very likely spend [[187]]the night up there and not catch us up till the next day. I also left the mummified guide with them.
We went on and eventually got over the higher and more difficult pass before it got too dark, the wind blowing so hard that we had at times great difficulty in proceeding against it. The descent was most dangerous, the snow was treacherous, and when we got lower down we got among a lot of loose boulders and dangerous sheets of ice, which gave us no end of trouble. We were benighted, and it got so dark that we did not see where we were putting our feet, which, half-frozen as they were, constantly got jammed and knocked and bruised. Some of the rounder boulders frequently rolled under us as we trod on them, and caused us very nasty falls. At each step we unavoidably started a regular landslip of rocks and débris, rolling down the steep mountain side, the fracas of which, with the howling of the wind, made quite a diabolical noise.
The lower we got, the warmer it became, and, of course, the snow lessened and eventually disappeared. We travelled for a long distance along the bed of a river, and, farther on, upon what seemed the ancient bed of a lake, an immense, flat stretch of gravel. [[188]]
Having got among some big boulders, which necessitated a lot of fatiguing work on all fours, one of my men, in trying to help me to get down a big rock, slipped, and dragged me with him, a jump of some 15 feet. As I fell on my back, I was considerably shaken, while my man injured his arm rather badly.
A little later, having reached the camping ground of Dongan, we halted and pitched our tents at four o’clock in the morning. It was not till late in the day that the missing men and those sent to their relief arrived in a pitiable condition. They had been compelled to abandon two loads. One man was badly frost-bitten, another taken with such violent cramps and pains in his inside that I had grave fears for his recovery. He had to be carried, which involved a terrible tax on my other men, who were all much worn and footsore.
Our march the previous day had been over twenty-two miles. Dongan was only 14,100 feet above sea-level, and we felt comparatively comfortable and warm. We had three high peaks to 80°, 100°, 125° b.m., and to the north-west was the Lippu Lekh, 16,780 feet.
Over a Pass in a Coming Storm
I revisited the source of the Ganges, a pretty [[189]]little spot where a limpid spring gurgles out from under a big boulder, and forms a crystal-like pool adorned with chokdens. This water is deliciously cool, and very nearly caused the death of three of my Hindoo men. They drank copiously while soaked in perspiration, and washed themselves prior to eating their food. They were seized with a colic accompanied by high fever, and they groaned in their contortions upon the ground. We applied massage freely and violent rubbing, which, with an additional quick cure of my own, is very successful on such occasions; and eventually—after some hours—they were able to continue, although still suffering.
Partly owing to the strain being over, partly owing to the intense sufferings of the previous day, and the excessive eating to celebrate the temporary end of our troubles, three more men were taken very ill on our way up the Kuti valley, and I had to send them down into Garbyang.
I was now again in Bias, a portion of the country practically ceded that year by the British Government to Tibet. In fact, Tibetan emissaries had been in all the villages—Gungi, Nabi, Ronkan, and Kuti—imposing upon the natives in every way, claiming taxes and proclaiming Tibetan sovereignty. [[190]]
At Kuti, where I arrived, as usual, in the middle of the night, owing to the long marches we did daily, I had the surprise and pleasure of meeting Nattalì again, one of the strongest-willed, noblest-minded, pluckiest, and sweetest little ladies I have ever met. She was a Kutial Shoka, and as pretty as they make them. Her grace of manner, her inconceivable thoughtfulness and absolute purity of thought were enough to put to shame many a woman of more civilised countries.
Being a lady of wealth, for a Shoka—for her husband was one of the big traders of the district—she owned the finest house in Kuti. She would not hear of our remaining under canvas, and insisted on evacuating the house to let us occupy it. Not only that, but the poor thing sat up half the night to prepare sweets and all sorts of luxuries for our benefit, and I had a great struggle the next day—even the sweetest woman can be obstinate—to make her accept a sufficient remuneration for her trouble.
Calling Two Followers lost in the Storm
Both Tibetan emissaries and men from the British Political Agent were hiding in the village in order to attempt wrecking my expedition and stirring the natives up against me; in fact, the people were most turbulent in the morning, and I [[191]]thought we should come in for a good fight. We had to knock about some of the villagers, who seemed morose and inclined to give trouble, and at one moment it looked as if a general battle might result. Stones were thrown at us, and we thought we had better disperse the crowd before it got too formidable. While my men pounded away on some of the more excited folks and drove them back, Nattalì stood by me and gave her rebellious countrymen such sonorous cracks on the head with a heavy stick—heavens! was she not quick with her hands!—that I had to sit down on a stone, in convulsions of laughter. Then she even persuaded a number of Kutials to enter my employ and accompany me. Others who refused to come she called cowards, spat upon them, and again gave them a taste of the stick. I liked her very much for that.
A relative of hers, whom she particularly warned to be faithful to me, proved himself one of the most hard-working and devoted followers I have ever had.
I well remember her, the day we left. She, with a great many villagers, came to accompany us to the boundary of their village, a high point from which an extensive view is obtained of the upper [[192]]course of the Kuti River along which we were to travel. Having bade us a melancholy good-bye—for she had a presentiment that we should have great trouble before us—she sat herself upon a rock, resting her placid little face upon her hands, and she remained watching us until we were out of sight. Every now and then we waved our hands at her, and her little arm waved a parting salute against the bright line of the sky. That was the last we saw of Nattalì.
By a most remarkable coincidence, as I sat down in my London rooms to jot down these words for publication—now five years later,—as I was writing the word “Nattalì” upon the paper a letter from India was handed to me. On opening it, it contained the sad news that Nattalì was dead.
Tibetan Goat
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