CHAPTER I.
JOURNEY FROM DARJILING TO TASHILHUNPO.
November 7, 1881.—On the night of my departure from Darjiling,[1] the moon was shining brightly, though some dark clouds presaged a slight fall of rain. Our eyes often turned with anxiety towards the mountain-tops on the eastern outskirts of Nepal, to see if snow was falling on them; and the fear of death in the snows and the hope of overcoming the obstacles of nature alternated within me as I left my home in Darjiling, soon to bid a long farewell to my native land, with but faint hope that I would ever see it again.
I rode on silently, and, to my great relief, unnoticed by any one, save one or two Bhutias on their way towards Darjiling, and in the stillness of the night we could hear the songs of the workwomen of Takvar and the music of their pipes and drums. Coming to the river, which was rather broad at this season of the year, I met lama Ugyen-gyatso, who was waiting to help me across. Three or four bamboos loosely laid over the main stream enabled us to cross, though with some difficulty, and with the help of an intelligent Bhutia attendant I was able to push on over the narrow slippery path till half-past one, when I reached Gok, now a deserted village, where, in place of the dozen shops and pretty Buddhist shrine which formerly marked the place, I found but a cow-shed where a Nepali was snoring fast asleep. It was here that the up-country grain-sellers used to come to buy large quantities of Indian corn and cardamom seed to resell in the Darjiling bazar. [[2]]
Spreading our rugs in the long grass near the cow-shed, we tried to rest for a while; but what with the unevenness of the ground, insects creeping over me, the prickly points of brambles and weeds penetrating the thin rug on which I lay, and a shower of rain which wetted us through, we could get no sleep, so we started again at four in the morning. The path, hardly a foot broad, was choked with weeds and long grass. Lighting my lantern, I followed Phurchung, my shot-gun tied across the top of the load he carried, and with many a slip and tumble we reached the valley of the Rummam at daybreak.
November 8.—The Rummam, one of the principal feeders of the Great Rungit, rises in the Singli mountains, and forms the boundary between British territory and independent Sikkim on the north-west, all the country to the right (south) of it belonging to the former Government. We found it a raging torrent, and only spanned by a light footbridge of bamboo poles resting on a huge boulder in the middle of the stream, and held down by rocks. The Lepchas and Limbus catch fish, sometimes of considerable size, in the cold season in the pools in the river-bed, which the former sell in the Darjiling bazar. Sal trees were abundant, and on the hill-slopes we saw cardamom and cotton now ready to be picked. On the larger patches of cultivation, guards were stationed in bamboo watch-houses to scare away the monkeys and bears with bamboo clappers. I was told that a large species of monkeys, besides the small variety of which we saw a few, are found in this valley, and that they are a terror to the peasants and to solitary female travellers.[2] To kill these the Lepchas use dogbane and other poisonous roots, which they mix with cooked edible roots or rice.
On nearing the bridge, we fell in with some twenty men carrying oranges to Darjiling, but I was fortunately able to pass by unnoticed. After a short rest, during which I had some breakfast, and changed my Indian dress for a Tibetan one, we resumed our journey uphill, leaving the Mitogang road on our right. Antelope and wild goat abound hereabout, but the villagers shoot but little: they are so poor [[3]]that they have hardly a dozen matchlocks among them all. Nepalese settlers are numerous here, and I noticed some Brahmans and Chetris who live chiefly by selling milk and butter. We passed several paddy fields made on terraces along the hillsides, where ploughs drawn by bullocks were used; but the Bhutias neither terrace the hillsides nor do they use ploughs, but keep to their time-honoured implements, hoes and clubs (in) of oak, by which they get but scanty returns. The Limbus[3] till the ground for three consecutive years, and then leave it fallow for three, when the weeds are cut and burnt, and it is again put under cultivation.
After ascending several hills by steep paths, we came to the top of a ridge marked by a mendong and a chorten,[4] and from whence a picturesque view of the valley of Dhuramdien, dotted with numerous houses, and of the surrounding country is obtained. This spot is called Mani-dara by the Pahirias, and Chorten-gang by the Bhutias, both names meaning “the ridge of the sacred stupa.” Here we halted by the side of a rill, and purchased two bottles of murwa beer[5] and vegetables from some Limbus.
November 9.—Our way led along an easy path by Limbu houses with sheepfolds and pigsties in front of them, and around which a few goats and cows were also seen. The Limbu fowls, by the way, are not so large as those of the Bhutias. As I journeyed on we talked of some of the Limbu[6] customs, the most remarkable of which is that [[4]]of beating drums on every trivial occasion. Every Limbu family, be it poor or rich, possesses, as a rule, three or four tambourine-shaped drums, which they beat on going out of or returning to their villages. The wife or children beat them in honour of the husband when he goes out, and the latter when he leaves the house.
Crossing the range we entered a richer country, as was evidenced by the vegetation and the abundance of trees. We saw long canes growing luxuriantly, and there was quite a large grove of plantation trees, showing the warm climate the country enjoys.