The making of a mountaineer

by George Ingle Finch

The climbing party consisted of Mr. G. H. Leigh-Mallory, Major H. Morshead, Major E. F. Norton, who was also artist and naturalist, Mr. T. H. Somervell, also artist and medical officer, and myself, also in charge of the oxygen equipment and responsible for its use on the mountain. We had, in addition, four Ghurka non-commissioned officers, a Tibetan interpreter by name Karma Paul, and about fifty Nepalese porters and camp cooks.

The party assembled in Darjeeling, and two detachments moved off towards the end of March to a rendezvous at Phari Dzong, the first considerable village on the line of march through Tibet proper. The third detachment, consisting of Crawford and myself, had to remain behind in Darjeeling to await the arrival of the belated oxygen cylinders. It was not until April 2, a week later, that the apparatus turned up, and we were able to proceed on our way.

Our route lay through the independent state of Sikkim, at first a country of sub-tropical, or even tropical climate and luxuriant jungle vegetation. Cool, shady, woodland streams and pools provided welcome interludes in the hot and often dusty journeys. From the day we left Darjeeling, I took photographs of scenes and happenings and did my developing at the end of each day’s march. As I had to keep within a definite baggage allowance, my photographic outfit was of the simplest. It comprised a quarter-plate, roll-film camera fitted with a Zeiss Tessar lens, a vest-pocket Kodak, two Kodak daylight developing tanks with the requisite developer and fixing powders, and spools, sufficient for fifteen hundred exposures, sealed in air-tight tins. Simple though the equipment was, it meant my having to do without certain luxuries; but I have always considered the sacrifice well worth the while, as the photographic results obtained were, on the whole, pleasing.

Already on the third march out from Darjeeling, an ominous rattling was heard coming from the boxes containing the oxygen cylinders. At the first opportunity, the mules were off-loaded and the boxes opened, a rather lengthy proceeding as we had no tools save our pocket-knives. An examination of the contents showed that, even in this short space of time, the rubbing of the cylinders against each other had caused an appreciable amount of wear and tear—a state of affairs that called for immediate remedy. Otherwise, sooner or later, a cylinder would have been weakened to such an extent as to be able no longer to withstand the pressure of the gas it contained; and the resulting explosion, apart from the possibility of its leading to loss of, or injury to, personnel, would have completely discredited oxygen which was already by no means universally favoured by the members of the expedition. Fortunately, we were able to purchase a large supply of string and cloth which we wrapped round the cylinders. These were then repacked in their boxes in such a manner that metal could not come into contact with metal.

On April 8, in a snowstorm, we crossed the Jelep la, the lofty pass on the boundary between Sikkim and Tibet, and that evening arrived at the dâk bungalow at Yatung at the entrance to the Chumbi Valley, where we passed our first night in Tibet. At the bungalow, we met the late Sir Henry Hayden and his guide, César Cosson (who lost their lives on the Finsteraarhorn in the Bernese Oberland in August, 1923). Like ourselves, they were bound for the interior. Crawford and I continued our journey on the following day, anxious to push on and try to catch up the main body of the expedition; and, on arriving at Phari Dzong on the 10th, we learned that they were only three marches ahead. After three more days of hard marching across those vast, arid Tibetan plains, through intense cold and in the teeth of a wind that whipped up clouds of dust and sand into our faces, we rejoined our companions at Kampa Dzong. On the first night out from Phari we camped in the open. On the second, the nuns of the Buddhist convent of Ta-tsang afforded us hospitality. Crawford and I passed the night in the roofless temple chamber. Some of the nuns spread out my sleeping-bag on the altar, and there I slept, awakened occasionally by the cold. A brilliant moon shone down and lit up my weird abode. The dessicated remains of a magnificent billy-goat hanging above the altar grinned down at me, and prayer wheels surrounded me on every side. Next day, the 13th, we were in camp at Kampa Dzong. In view of our somewhat travel-stained appearance, the General decided to postpone the departure of the expedition until the 15th, and so afford us a much-needed rest. Since leaving Darjeeling, we had been marching hard without a single off-day.

From Kampa Dzong onwards, the yak replaced the mule as our transport animal, owing to the difficulty of providing suitable fodder for the latter. What the camel is to the desert, the yak is to Tibet—an animal indispensable for human life in the country. The yak’s chief form of nourishment is a very coarse grass, which grows in the marshy bottoms of the valleys fed by the streams that flow down from the northern slopes of the Himalayas. He relishes and thrives on this fodder which apparently no other animal can palate. In appearance, the yak is a hefty, beefy animal, somewhat resembling the Indian buffalo; but he has a coat of long, shaggy wool to protect him against the cold and wind. The Tibetans, who are forbidden by their religion to take the life of wild animals, are permitted to slaughter domestic animals for food. Thus the yak, in addition to being the national beast of burden, supplies the inhabitants of the country with milk, butter, cheese, meat, leather, wool and, last but not least, provides them, in the almost complete absence of trees, with their staple fuel, dried yak dung.

The pace of the mules was about four miles an hour, but that of the yak is a most moderate one of less than two. To hustle a yak serves no useful purpose; he simply gets annoyed, and proceeds to throw off his load preparatory to running amok; and anything a yak does is very thoroughly done. The proper way to drive yaks seems to be to let them open out into extended order, line abreast, with the drivers walking behind. While on the march, it is up to the drivers to whistle soft, lullaby airs. If for lack of moisture on the lips or for lack of breath, the whistling should cease for any length of time, the yak objects and there is usually trouble. When treated in conformity with his wishes, however, the yak proves a most reliable transport animal, capable of carrying heavy loads for as much as ten to twelve hours on end at his normal, steady pace, irrespective of the nature or difficulty of the ground. When he comes to a river, he does not wait to be off-loaded, but plunges in without hesitation and wades across as if in his element.

Owing to the difficulty of obtaining a sufficient supply of yaks for such a large caravan as ours, some of our baggage was carried by donkeys. These little animals were extraordinarily game and tough, but on one occasion, when our way lay across an extensive area of quicksands, the nature of the ground had them thoroughly beat. With their tiny hooves, the poor little donkeys would, at almost every step, sink deeply into the quagmire; sometimes so deeply that little more than nostrils, eyes, ears and tail remained above the slime. In such cases the customary procedure was as follows: first of all, the loads were removed, after which three drivers stationed themselves at all three corners of the donkey, one at each ear and the third at the tail. Then it was simply a case of heave-ho! until the animal emerged with a noise resembling that of the withdrawing of a cork from a bottle.

From the European point of view the Tibetans have one great failing which might well, considering the rigorous climatic conditions, be deemed both excusable and incurable. If one ever wishes to talk with a Tibetan, it is advisable to stand on his windward side. A noble Tibetan informed me with great pride that he had had two baths, one on the day of his birth and the other on the day of his wedding. Having neglected to take the elementary precaution, I found it somewhat hard to credit his statement. In this matter of physical cleanliness, the Tibetan priests are even worse offenders than the laity; doubtless because they do not marry. As two-fifths of the able-bodied population of the country follow a religious calling, it will be readily understood that the odour of sanctity is all-pervading. Only once did I see a Tibetan having a bath. It was at Shekar Dzong, on the return journey from Mount Everest. The day was bright and sunny and all but windless. Disporting himself in the waters of a pool, quite close to the village, was a Tibetan boy, stark naked. An interested crowd of his fellow-countrymen looked on. On closer investigation it transpired that the boy was the village idiot and, therefore, hardly responsible for his actions. I would, in fairness, add that during our sojourn in Tibet our own ablutions, when judged by western standards, were by no means too thorough. We usually limited ourselves to washing the head and the arms as far as the elbows. The tooth brush was, of course, plied regularly by all and sundry, and it was this operation and that of shaving that afforded most amusement to the Tibetan onlookers who invariably supervised our morning toilet.

Apart from their one rather penetrating drawback, the Tibetans are a most likeable people. Their love for and pride in their country, harsh though it is, is great and sincere. They are cheerful and good-humoured, keen and willing workers, honourable in carrying out their bargains and scrupulously honest. During our travels in Tibet, though we did not bother to keep close guard over all our stores and belongings, we never lost so much as a single ration biscuit through theft. They are most kind to their children. Unlike so many Europeans, they do not make the mistake of talking down to them; but, from the time their children can speak, they are treated with much the same deference as is shown to grown-ups. The priests form the ruling class in the country and are also the educated class, the monasteries and similar priestly institutions being the seats of learning. The religion of Tibet is Buddhism.