Our first march led across the wide Tingri Plain, past the hot spring village of Tsamda, to the hamlet of Dokcho, at the Southern extremity of the Sutso Plain. This plain is covered with the ruins of numerous villages and watch-towers, the haunt of countless rock-pigeons. They are all of loftier and more substantial construction than the miserable hovels which form the scattered hamlets of to-day—indicating, apparently, the former presence of a large and warlike population. It is impossible even to hazard a guess at the age of these ruins, which may have preserved their present state for generations in the comparatively arid climate of Tibet. Many of the towers are 60 feet or more in height; roofs and floors have all disappeared, but the massive mud walls in many instances still bear the marks of the wooden shuttering used in their erection. This method of construction is unknown, I believe, in Tibet at the present day.
The next day's march, skirting the Western edge of the plain, brought us to the village of Phuri, where the river flows in a flat-bottomed, cultivated valley, between bare brown hills. On the 28th we camped at Menkhap-to, the highest village in the valley. The headman, a sort of local “warden of the marches,” refused to see me and shut himself up in his house, guarding his door with three huge mastiffs who effectively frustrated the efforts of my messengers to establish communications. Evidently he feared the subsequent results to himself of harbouring strangers. The remaining villagers were quite friendly, however, and supplied all my requirements. One man, the owner of a gun, surprised me by a request for 12-bore cartridges just after I had greatly shocked his neighbour's Buddhist susceptibilities by killing a butterfly for my collection! Much snow is reported to fall at Menkhap-to, which is deserted during the winter months, when the inhabitants descend to Menkhap-me (“lower Menkhap”) and the Sutso Plain.
Above Menkhap-to the road leaves the main valley and proceeds Westwards over a spur known as the Lungchen La (17,700 feet). This spur commands an extensive view across the wide, uninhabited Pekhu Plain, with its three lakes, as far as the snowy range running North-west from the summit of Gosainthan. On a fine day, the whole panorama can be sketched in from a couple of fixings on either side of the pass; unfortunately, at the time of our arrival bad weather had set in, and the whole snow-range was hidden in cloud. I had therefore to leave Gujjar Singh camped near the summit of the pass to await a fine day for the completion of his surveys, and myself returned at the end of the month to Tingri, where I rejoined Mr. Wollaston, who had been detained at headquarters by an outbreak of enteric fever amongst the Expedition servants.
Wild game is plentiful in the Upper Bhong Valley. I shot numerous hares, some ramchakor and a bar-headed goose during the trip; while Gujjar Singh caught a young, week-old burhel lamb on the summit of the Lungchen Pass, which, however, died after three weeks in captivity. Gazelle are common on the Sutso Plain.
By the end of June, Lalbir Singh had finished the inking of his previous surveys, and was ready for fresh work. Accordingly, after spending a couple of days in examining his board, and checking the spelling of his village names with the aid of the local Tibetan officials, I despatched him on a lengthy programme of work in Pharuk and Kharta. It was three months before I saw him again.
About this time a messenger arrived from the Dzongpen of Nyenyam, inviting us to visit his district, which lay four marches to the Southwest, in the valley of the Po Chu or Bhotia Kosi R. Although Nyenyam was not one of the districts specifically mentioned in our passport, Wollaston and I decided, with the concurrence of Colonel Bury, to avail ourselves of the opportunity of visiting this little-known area.
Leaving Tingri on July 13, with the interpreter Gyalzen Kazi and Surveyor Gujjar Singh, who had now returned after completing his work on the Lungchen Pass, we camped that evening at Langkor, a small village at the Western edge of the Tingri Plain. A cantilever bridge which spans the Gya Chu opposite the village had been carried away by floods shortly before our arrival, and the whole population of the hamlet, male and female, were busily engaged in its reconstruction, working in relays to the accompaniment of prolonged and vigorous blasts on a “conch” which a monk was diligently blowing in order—as it was explained to us—to avert further rainfall until the bridge should be completed. His efforts were rewarded with tolerable success, as the rain held off all day in spite of the threatening storm-clouds which loomed up from the South-west.
The most interesting feature of Langkor is an ancient temple, an appanage of the great Drophung monastery of Lhasa. This building, which is said to be over 1,000 years old, contains a sacred stone alleged to have been hurled across the Himalayan Range from India, and to have pitched in the Tingri Plains. The name Tingri is said to be derived from the noise (“ting”) made by the falling stone. The stone is carefully preserved inside a wooden box, which is opened with much ceremony on the first day of the Tibetan new year. The temple, which is managed by a committee of fifteen civilian monks (nyakchang), also contains a library of 4,400 books, and an image of the Indian saint Tamba Sanye which is popularly believed to have grown by itself from the ground in situ.
Crossing the Tang La (17,980 feet) in a driving snowstorm, a long march of 22 miles brought us next day to the bleak village of Tulung, in the upper valley of the Po Chu. As we descended the Western side of the pass the snow-clouds gradually dispersed, disclosing glimpses of the magnificent twin summits of Gosainthan (26,290 feet), 30 miles to the West. Several of our coolies succumbed to mountain sickness on the pass, with the result that my bedding and the kitchen box only reached camp at 9 p.m.
On July 15 our road lay for 8 miles along the flat valley of the Po Chu; the river then turns sharply Southwards, passing for 3 miles through a gorge of granite and schist. Bushes of wild currant, gooseberry, berberis and dog-rose here begin to appear, and around the village of Targyeling, where we camped, were smiling fields of mustard and buckwheat, in addition to the usual Tibetan crops of barley and dwarf pea. After a month spent in the bleak Tibetan uplands, it was a relief to pitch our tents in a homely green field, alongside a rippling brook lined with familiar ranunculus, cow parsley, forget-me-not, and a singularly beautiful pale mauve cranesbill, and to feast our eyes on the glorious purple of the wild thyme which clothed the hillsides in great patches of colour.