So far my route had lain principally on the sunny side of the mountains and the snow, at the most, had not been more than five or six inches deep; but from now onward I had to proceed along the reverse side, covered over with an abundance of the crystal layers, the unguessable thickness of which furnished me with a constant source of anxiety. In some places my feet sank fourteen or fifteen inches in the snow, and in others they did not go down more than seven or eight inches. This wading in the snow was more fatiguing than I had imagined at first, and the staff again rendered me great service; once or twice I found it a difficult job to extricate myself, when my foot, after stamping through the layers of snow, wedged itself tightly between two large pieces of hard stone. This sort of trudging lasted for nearly three miles down a gradual descent, at the end of which I emerged on a snowless beach of loose pebbles and stones of different sizes. By that time my Tibetan boots had become so far worn out, that at places my feet came into direct contact with the hard gravel, which tore the skin and caused blood to flow, leaving the crimson marks of my footsteps behind. During the descent I felt little of my luggage, but now it began to tell on me, as the foot-hold under me consisted of loose round pebbles, when it was not sharp angular slabs of broken rock. Five miles onward, I came upon a pair of ponds formed of melting snow, and respectively about five miles and two and a half miles in circumference. Both the ponds were thick with immense flocks of wild ducks of different sizes, brownish or reddish in color, or spotted black on a white ground. Otherwise the waters of the ponds were as clear as could be, and the scenery around was picturesque in the extreme, so much so that, though with lacerated feet and stark-stiff about my waist with rheumatic pains, I almost forgot all that discomfort as I stood gazing around. The prestige of the ponds, if they had any, was of little matter to me then, but, as I happened to chance upon them all by myself, I was destined to introduce them to the world; and I christened the larger pond, which was rectangular in shape, ‘Ekai,’ after my own name, and the smaller, which described nearly a perfect circle, ‘Jinkow,’ a name which I sometimes use for myself. A little conceit you may call it if you like, but it was only for memory’s sake that I did these things; and when a little way down I came upon a gourd-shaped pond, about a mile and a quarter in circumference, I gave it the name of ‘Hisago Ike’—calabash pond. Still holding to my north-westerly direction, after having gone some distance I saw, to the north-west of a snow-clad mountain that rose far in front of me, two or three tents pitched on the ground. The sight aroused in me a sense of intense curiosity mingled with anxiety. Suppose I went to them; what would their occupants think of a stranger, suddenly emerging upon them from pathless wilds? Once their suspicion was roused, I might in vain hope to allay it; what was I to do then? I espied a declivity below me, which extended north-west in a gradual descent, far out of sight of the tents, and I saw that unless I took it, I should either come on those tents or have my progress barred by a succession of high mountains. With nothing else to help me to arrive at a decision, I then entered on what is termed ‘Danjikwan sanmai’ in Japanese-Buḍḍhist terminology, a meditative process of making up one’s mind, when neither logic nor accurate knowledge is present to draw upon for arriving at a conclusion. The process is, in short, one of abnegating self and then forming a judgment, a method which borders on divination, or an assertion of instinctive powers. The result was that I decided to take the route that lay toward the tents, and by nightfall I came within hailing distance of them, when a pack of five or six ferocious-looking dogs caught sight of me and began barking furiously. They were formidable animals with long shaggy fur and very cruel looks. I had before then been told that when attacked by dogs of this kind I must not strike them, but that I should only ward them off, quietly waving a stick in front of their muzzles, and on this occasion I religiously followed that instruction, and found to my entire satisfaction that the dogs did not try to snap at me. Proceeding thus, and coming outside one of the tents, I called out to its occupants.
TO A TENT OF NOMAD TIBETANS.
[CHAPTER XIII.]
A kind old Dame.
My call was responded to by an old woman who, coming out of the tent and finding a tattered and tired wayfarer, said more to herself than to me: “Why, it is a pilgrim, poor, poor.” Seeing no reason to suppose that I appeared an object of suspicion to her, I ventured to inform her that I was from the direction of Lhasa, bound for Kang Rinpoche, Mount Kailāsa, and besought her to give me a night’s lodging in her tent, as it was unbearably cold to sleep in the open air. My request was cheerfully complied with and, inside the tent, the old dame expressed her curiosity to know how I happened to be there, as the locality was not one generally visited by pilgrims. She easily believed my explanation to the effect that I had lost my way while heading for the abode of Gelong Rinpoche, and then gave me a cup of tea out of a kettle that stood boiling over the fire; accepting it with thanks, I declined the baked flour offered immediately after. I may observe here that the tea offered me was not brewed in the same way as we take it in Japan, but it was more of the nature of a soup, the ingredients of which were powdered tea-leaves, butter and salt, forbiddingly offensive in smell, until one gets accustomed to it, when it is found to constitute a very agreeable beverage. The Tibetan custom is to serve a guest with a cup of this kind of tea first, and then to regale him with some baked flour. I excused myself for declining the hospitality of my kind hostess by informing her that I adhered strictly to the Buḍḍhist rule of fasting hours, which piece of information produced a very favorable impression on her as to my personality, as she seemed to respect me all the more for it. Then, leading in the conversation that followed, she told me that Gelong Rinpoche’s abode was at a day’s distance, and that this Lama was the holiest of all the priests to be found throughout the whole Jangthang (Jangthang, as I explained, literally means ‘northern plain,’ but in Tibet itself the appellation is applied to its western steppes). Continuing, the old hostess said that a visit to the holy man always resulted in great spiritual benefit, and urged me by all means to call on him. There was a river, she said, in my way, the waters of which were too cold to be forded, and she offered me the use of one of her yaks. Her son was away just then, but she expected him back in the evening, and he could accompany me in the morning, as she wanted him too to pay a visit to the holy man. All this was very acceptable to me, but one thing that troubled me was the sorry condition to which my boots had become reduced; and I asked the dame if I could not mend them. Mending in this case meant, as I was told, patching the worn-out places with yak’s hide, which required, however, two days’ soaking in water before it became soft enough to be sewn. My hostess said that they—she and her son—were to stay only one more day in that particular spot where I had chanced upon them, and suggested that I might make a stay of two or three days at Gelong Rinpoche’s, so as to give myself the time to do some mending. She offered that I should, on the morrow, put on her son’s spare pair of boots and proceed to the holy Lama’s in them, saying that I might give them back to her son after reaching my destination. In the night, just as I was going to sleep, the son turned up, and more conversation ensued amongst us, chiefly concerning the saintly man, of whom the mother and the son knew no end of wonderful things, altogether superhuman in character.
Early the next morning, by order of the good old dame, the son busied himself in getting a yak ready for me. The yak is a bovine somewhat larger than our bull, though a little lower in height. Its hide is covered all over very thickly with long shaggy hair, and its tail terminates in a bushy tuft. The female yak is called bri in Tibetan. Its face looks very much like that of common cattle, but it has a pair of piercing eyes, which give you a rather uncomfortable feeling when turned full on you, while its horns are dangerously pointed and threateningly shaped. A better acquaintance, however, shows the animal to be a quiet and tractable one, even much more so than our cattle. I may yet have occasion to tell what an invaluable beast of burden the yak is for the Tibetan. My hostess’ son brought out three yaks, one for me to ride, another for himself, and the third to carry his presents, consisting of dried milk, butter and other things, to the holy man. As for the good old dame, she proved to be the very essence of kindness, and on my parting from her she loaded me with large quantities of baked wheat-flour, dried milk, and butter, besides a farewell cup of tea, a treatment which is considered great hospitality in Jangthang.
So equipped, we started on our trip in quest of the holy man of the plain. After a ride of about two and a half miles, involving ascent and descent of equal length towards the north-west, we were overtaken by a hail-storm, and had to make a halt of two hours until it had blown over. During the halt, we took down our luggage from the backs of the yaks, so that it might not get wet, and I utilised that interval quite profitably to myself by pumping the young man for information regarding the routes and geography of the regions I was to go through before I could reach my final destination. Resuming our ride, we soon came to a river which was sixty yards wide, and easy to ford for men riding on yaks, as we were. Crossing two more rivers of the like width, and making an ascent of a little over six miles, we came in sight of a large white cliff, which, as my companion informed me, was the dwelling place of Gelong Rinpoche. Continuing the ascent and approaching nearer, I found out that what had appeared like a huge and solid piece of rock was really a hollow cliff forming a large cave, and that there was another concave cliff in front of it, which was not white but greyish in color, and was inhabited by one of Gelong Rinpoche’s disciples, as I came to discover afterwards. It was about three o’clock in the afternoon that we arrived at the entrance of the front cave, where my companion asked if he could see Gelong Rinpoche, though he knew that he was considerably behind the regular hour, setting forth the hail incident as an excuse for his delay. The answer he received was absolutely in the negative; so he took down the presents and entrusted them to the disciple, to be sent up to Gelong Rinpoche as from Pasang (his mother’s name), saying that he could not wait till the next day to see the Lama, as he was going to strike his tent and move away there and then.