Kachi and Dola, who knew Tibetan well, were now summoned to address the bandits for me; but these two Shokas were in such terror that they could hardly walk, much less speak. After a while, however, seeing how well I had these terrible people under control, they were able to translate.
"I want them to sell me some yaks and some ponies," I said. "I will pay handsomely for them."
"They say they cannot. The Tarjum will cut their heads off if he comes to know it. They will only sell one or two yaks."
"Very good. How much do they want?"
"Two hundred silver rupees. But," added Dola, "sir, do not give them more than forty. That is a great deal more than they are worth. A good yak costs from ten to sixteen rupees."
After some three or four hours' bargaining, during which time the bandits descended gradually from two hundred rupees to forty, and I rose from twenty to that figure, we at last agreed, amid the greatest excitement on both sides, that their two best yaks should be my property. Becoming quite friendly, they also sold me pack-saddles and sundry curiosities. They gave me tea and tsamba. The fiery woman had still a peculiar way of keeping her eyes fixed on my baggage. Her longing for my property seemed to increase when she saw me pay for the yaks and suspected that I must have a good deal of money. If she kept one eye on my goods, I kept both there. I took good care that my rifle was never out of my hand, and that no one ever came too near me from behind.
We counted the money down, some fifty rupees, including all purchases. Each coin was passed round and sounded by each of our sellers, and when the entire sum was handed over the coins were passed back and recounted, so that there should be no mistake. Time in Tibet is not money, and my readers must not be surprised when I tell them that counting, recounting, and sounding the small amount took two more hours. The two yaks were eventually handed over to us—one, a huge, long-haired black animal, restless and powerful; the other equally black, strong, and hairy, but somewhat gentler.
To catch them, separate them from the herd, pass ropes through their respective nostrils, and tie pack-saddles on their backs, were all operations we as novices had to master. It was hard work indeed, but we struggled until we succeeded.
When we parted, the brigands and I were good friends. The bandits behaved admirably. I came to the conclusion that, in Tibet, I would at any time rather deal with a bandit than with an official.
In a way I was sorry when my interview with the Jogpas came to an end, for, although they were undoubtedly brigands, they were certainly interesting. Their original and curious dress, their manner, their conversation, their unusual but eminently sensible mode of eating, and their jovial freedom of demeanor were really quite refreshing. Their dress was quite representative of Tibet. The men wore a great variety of coats and hats, probably due to the facility with which they obtained them. No two individuals were dressed alike, though certain leading features of dress were to be observed in each case. One man wore a gaudy coat trimmed with leopard skin. Another had a long, gray woollen robe like a dressing-gown, taken up by a waist-band. A third was garbed in a loose raiment of sheepskin, with the wool inside. Yet a fourth was arrayed in a dark-red tunic fastened by a belt of leather with silver ornamentations inlaid in wrought-iron. Suspended to the belt were a needle-case, tinder-pouch and steel, a bullet-pouch and bag, and a pretty dagger with a sheath of ebony, steel, and silver filigree. In their belts the Jogpas, in common with the majority of Tibetan men, wore a sword in front. Whether the coat was long or short, it was invariably loose and made to bulge at the waist, in order that it might contain a number of eating and drinking bowls (pu-kus), snuff-box, sundry bags of money, tsamba, and bricks of tea. It was owing to this custom that most Tibetan men, when seen at first, gave the impression of being very stout, whereas, as a matter of fact, they were somewhat lightly built. In the daytime the Tibetans left one arm and part of the chest bare, letting one sleeve hang. The reason for this practice was because in Tibet the days were hot and the nights cold, the drop in the thermometer at sunset in south-west Tibet being at times as much as 80°, and even 100°. As the Tibetans always slept in their clothes, the garments that protected their bodies from being frozen at night were found too heavy and warm in the hot sun, and, therefore, that simple expedient was adopted. When sitting down both arms were drawn from the sleeves, and the chest and back were left bare; but when standing, one arm, usually the left, was slipped in, to prevent the coat and its heavy contents falling off.