Journey to Lhasa and Central Tibet

by Sarat Chandra Das

A short way down the other side of the pass we came to a little hut made of loose stones, where we rested and partook of some [[130]]refreshments. In conversation with the Lhacham, I mentioned the superiority of sedan chairs (shing-chyam) over saddle-horses, especially for women when travelling. But she held that it was degrading men to make them serve as beasts of burden, and that if it should be tried in Tibet the people would certainly resent it as an indignity. “There are only the two Great Lamas, the Amban and the Regent, who are allowed to use sedan chairs in Tibet,” she went on to say; “no other persons, however great they may be, can make use of them.”

About six miles down the valley we came to the hamlet of Ring-la, where the Kharnang-phu chu turns north to empty into the Yamdo-yum-tso. At this village the Nangartse plain begins, and the monastery of Samding becomes faintly visible.

The road now became good, and the ponies quickened their pace, and by 5 o’clock we came in view of the town of Nangartse.

The houses of the fishermen and common people (misser) are perched on the hillside overlooking the prefect’s house (djong), and the broad blue expanse of Lake Palti’s waters spreads out beyond. The party stopped, and the Lhacham changed her garments for finer ones, and put on her jewelled headdress (patug). On arriving at the gate of the house where we were to stop, there was a raised platform covered with soft blankets; here the Lhacham alighted, while her sons and the rest of the party got down near by.

The brother and nephew of the host were laid up with small-pox (lhan-dum), and in a corner of the house some lamas were reading the holy books to bring about their speedy recovery.[18] In the courtyard lay another man lately arrived from Lhasa, and suffering from the same disease, and near him were two lamas chanting mantras to the discordant accompaniment of a bell and a damaru (hand drum).

I passed a miserable night, with a raging fever and violent cough racking my whole frame. My two companions sat beside me and did what they could, but concluded that it was impossible in my present state for me to keep up with the Lhacham’s party all the way to Lhasa.

The next morning I was no better, the fits of coughing were more violent. The sons of the Lhacham and her attendants came to see me, and expressed their sorrow at having to leave me. The host said that the best thing for me to do was to go to the Samding [[131]]monastery, where there were two skilful physicians who had recently successfully treated a case similar to mine. Hearing this, one of the Lhacham’s maids suggested that her mistress might give me a letter of introduction to the lady abbess of this convent, the Dorje Phagmo, with whom she was related and on the most friendly terms; the only danger was that she might not allow me to enter her convent, as, on account of the epidemic of small-pox, she had closed it to pilgrims.

I followed the advice of those around me, and the Lhacham kindly wrote to the Dorje Phagmo to take care of me and look to my wants; and after taking an affectionate farewell, and telling me to come straight to her house at Lhasa as soon as I recovered, she recommended me to the people of the house and rode off.

After taking a little breakfast, I made up my mind to go at once to the Samding gomba, which I learnt could be reached in two hours’ ride.

My companions wrapped me in woollens and blankets, and with a turban round my head they set me on my horse. About two miles from town we came to the river (the same we had followed since crossing the Kharo la), and found it teeming with a small variety of fish. After crossing several rivulets we came to the foot of the hill, on the top of which stands Samding lamasery.[19] A flight of stone steps led up to the monastery, and I looked at the long steep ascent with dismay, for I did not see how I would ever be able to climb it in my present condition. Taking a rest at every turn in the steps, I managed finally to reach the top, some 300 feet above the plain. We had not, however, arrived at the convent; a narrow pathway led up to the gateway, near which were chained two fierce watch-dogs (do khyi), who barked furiously and strained at their chains as we passed. The Yamdo dogs, I had heard, were famous throughout Tibet for their size and fierceness, and these certainly justified the reputation given them.