During the night there were 32° of frost, and everything inside our tents was frozen solid in the morning; but the wind luckily died down, and the next day was a most beautiful one. We knew that there was a long march before us, so our transport was off by eight o'clock. At Tatsang we were already 16,000 feet, and we gradually climbed higher, spending most of the day between 17,000 and 18,000 feet. For several miles we rode across a snow-covered plain over which the tops of Pawhunri, Chomiomo, and Kanchenjhow appeared to the South. As we rose higher, the snow gradually deepened to 6 inches and made the going very heavy. We had to cross three spurs of Pawhunri by passes of over 17,500 feet. Here the snow had been blown by the wind into drifts over 2 feet deep. We had arranged to camp at a place called Lunghi, but on our arrival there found that the nomads, who ordinarily spent the summer there, had already left and were encamped some 4 miles further down the valley. In a side valley I found some of their tents where I was able to warm myself and get some hot milk before moving on down the valley, where we were told that preparations had been made to receive us. There was luckily a bright moon and we rode on down to the spot, where we found some Tibetan tents which had been pitched for us; their owners had, moreover, had the forethought to have great braziers of cow dung burning in these tents. The smell was not agreeable, but we sat and warmed ourselves, waiting for our transport, which did not arrive until eleven o'clock that night. It was a bitterly cold wait, as the wind got up and blew down the valley with 25° of frost behind it. We were very glad to see our transport and coolies when they arrived; they had really come along very well, as a march of 23 miles in soft snow and at a great height all the time is no light feat.
Breakfast the next morning was very comfortless, as the wind was still blowing with 28° of frost, and everything—boots and foodstuffs of all kinds—was frozen inside our tents. We looked forward with no little pleasure to finding ourselves inside once more and sitting in front of a fire out of the everlasting wind which makes Tibet so trying. The march was a fairly easy one of about 20 miles over gentle undulating country until we reached the West side of the Tang La; there was, however, a bitterly cold strong South wind which blew with great violence all day and penetrated through everything. Many of our coolies had much difficulty in coming along, as they were suffering from snow blindness and their feet were also very tender from the cold and the deep snow of the last few days. Chomolhari was a glorious sight all the way. We were gradually approaching it, and it seemed to rise directly from the plain in front of us. From its summit and from its ridges great streamers of snow were being blown off and the gale—apparently from the Northwest—still continued. Nearly every day since we left Kharta we saw along the higher peaks of the Himalayas the snow being blown off in great wisps, showing that a strong Northwesterly current of air sets in at great heights after the monsoon is over. After reaching Darjeeling we noticed the same thing; every day, from Kanchenjunga and Kabru, could be seen the same great wisps of wind-blown snow. That night at Phari we were once more in a bungalow and out of the wind, and able to spend a very comfortable and pleasant evening reading our letters and papers in front of a fire which, though still mostly yak dung, was in a fireplace. October 16 we spent resting at Phari. Our coolies were much exhausted by the three days' march from Khamba Dzong, in which we had covered 65 miles, most of the time at considerable heights and in deep snow. We had returned by the short way, which the people of Phari had told us in the spring was impassable, and over which they would not go, sending us instead around by the long way to Dochen, which took us six days instead of three.
Phari is a place unfortunately too near civilisation. The Tibetans there have lost their good manners, such as we had been accustomed to meet in the more distant and out-of-the-way parts of the country. Much trade passes through the town, and the people there are too well off. They had an idea that the Expedition was a kind of milch cow out of which money could be extracted to their hearts' content. Of this view we had to disabuse them, and in consequence found them all very tiresome. The transport turned up the following morning, but they refused to load up unless they were paid in full beforehand and at a most exorbitant rate. This I refused to do, telephoning at the same time to the trade agent at Yatung. I sent for the Jongpen, and both Jongpens turned up. I rather imagine that they were at the bottom of this trouble, for one of them owed the Expedition some money; he had also, when forwarding on stores to us, seized the opportunity to charge five times the ordinary rate, on the pretext that he had supplied some of his own mules. After long arguments I eventually induced them to accept part of the payment, the remainder to be paid at Yatung, whereupon the Jongpens gave orders for the animals to be loaded. It was not, however, until the afternoon that we were able to leave Phari and to start on our downward march to Yatung.
CHAPTER XI
BACK TO CIVILISATION
When we turned our backs on Phari and started to march down the Chumbi Valley, we had left the real Tibet behind us. I could not somehow look upon the Chumbi Valley as being a part of Tibet. Its characteristics, its houses, its people, its vegetation, are all so different from the greater part of Tibet. There are not the same cold winds that freeze the very marrow, nor are there the wide plains and the undulating hills with their extensive views.
In spite of all discomforts, there is a very great charm and fascination about travelling in Tibet. Is it partly because it is an unknown country, and the unknown is always fascinating, or is it rather because of the innate beauty of the country itself, with its landscapes so free from all restraint and a horizon often 150 to 200 miles distant? Never anywhere have I seen a country so full of colour as is Tibet. There is not enough vegetation to hide the rocks and the stones. The foreground as well as the distant view is wonderfully full of colour and variety. Contrasts are one of the charms of life, and probably in this lies the secret of the charm and attractiveness of Tibet. It is essentially a country of contrasts. The climate, above all, has contrasts of its own. The sun is burningly hot, but in the shade the cold may be intense. To such a pitch can the extremes of heat and cold arrive, that a man may suffer from sunstroke and frost-bite at one and the same time.
The Tibetans themselves are a strong, well-built and hardy race—Mongolian in type. The women usually put a mixture of grease and soot on their faces to protect them against the glare of the fresh snow or the biting winds, for even they, with their thick skins, do not seem to get used to the severity of the changes. How much more does the European suffer when he travels in Tibet and seems to need a fresh skin almost every day. The soot mixture does not add to the beauty of the women, though I came across some who were not bad looking. Many of the people are nomads, living in tents all the year round and moving about from camp to camp pasturing their herds of yaks and their flocks of sheep. It is curious that even in the winter-time they can find grazing places, but the secret lies in the fact that the slopes face the South in the regions where the wind blows strongest, so that the surface is usually bare. The snowfall in winter in most parts of Tibet is not heavy, and the climate being so dry, the snow is powdery, and the wind blows it along and forms great drifts in the hollows, leaving the exposed slopes usually clear. On these the herds, or flocks of sheep, obtain sufficient nourishment from such scattered patches of frozen grass or lichens as they are able to find. Of all the animals that the Tibetans have, the yak is the most useful. His long black hair, which reaches to the ground under his belly, is woven into tents or ropes. The milk, after they have drunk what they want, is turned into butter and cheese, of which they produce great quantities. When old, he is killed and his flesh is dried, providing meat for a long time. His hide supplies leather of every kind. It is always used untanned, for no tanning is ever done in Tibet and any tanned skins always come up from India. The yak dung is in many places the only fuel to be got and is most carefully picked up. To the present generation of young children the yak is probably familiar from that delightful rhyme in “The Bad Child's Book of Beasts”:—