Baber pointed out that the upper Yangtse, from its junction with the Yalung to about P'ing-shan (above the mouth of the Min), is "never called locally by any other name than Kin-[Chin-] Ho, or 'Gold River.'" M. Cordier, in quoting this passage in his sumptuous edition of Marco Polo's travels,[211] says that he imagines Baber to have made a slight mistake in saying that this part of the great river is named a ho, and that the word actually used is probably kiang. As both words mean "river" the point is of small importance, but as a matter of fact Baber is perfectly right. Not only is the Yangtse from the mouth of the Min to the mouth of the Yalung called the Kin [Chin] Ho, as Baber said, but it seems obvious that the natives regard the Yalung as the main upper stream of the same river, just as they regard the Min as the main upper stream of the Yangtse hundreds of miles lower down.[212] Baber was no doubt unaware that the Yalung was known as the Kin Ho, or he would have seen why it is that its junction with what we know as the Yangtse effects a change in the name of the latter.
RIGHT BANK OF YALUNG
In official publications, however, the local names are disregarded. In such works the Yangtse is given one name from its entrance into Ssuch'uan down to Hsü-chou-fu, where it comes to an untimely end by entering the Min:[213] and that one name is the Chin Sha Chiang.[214] As regards its Tibetan course, the Chinese geographical authorities attempt after their usual cumbrous fashion to give the sounds of the various Tibetan names—they write of the Mu-lu-ssŭ-wu-su for instance—but they recognise it as the same river. In explanation of the local idea that the Yalung is the principal stream it may be mentioned that at the point of junction the Yalung has the appearance of being larger than the Yangtse.[215]
We did not proceed far on our journey during the day on which we accomplished the feat of crossing the Yalung. We clambered up the steep slope to a height of about 1,500 feet and remained for the night in the poor hamlet of Dju Mu. We were still well within sight of Pa-U-Rong, having travelled only about 12 li. A change of language or dialect perplexed my servant as soon as we had crossed the river, and though it is rash to generalise from the appearance of the inhabitants of a few isolated villages, there seemed to be racial changes as well. The Tibetan-Man-tzŭ population of the kingdom of Chala seems to give place to a race-group which might be described as Tibetan-Mo-so. The men are shorter than those of the eastern watershed of the Yalung, the women plainer and stouter and of heavier build. There is no great change in the dress of the men, but the women—perhaps recognising their deficiency of personal attractiveness—show an exaggerated fondness for jewellery and trinkets, which make a ceaseless jingle as they walk.
CHARMS AND AMULETS
Many of the people—men as well as women—wear large earrings consisting of plain circles of silver, from which, in the case of girls, are suspended long strings of coloured beads. On both sides of the Yalung—but not far from its banks on either side—the women also wear curious silver plates or plaques which are fastened to their hair. Unmarried girls wear one and married women two of these ornaments. Some of the plaques—which vary in size from about 5 inches to more than a foot in diameter—are adorned with dainty filigree work, which would do credit to the silversmiths of any country, but the majority are simple and of rude workmanship, such as the specimen which with difficulty I succeeded in purchasing.[216] In the middle of each plaque is a silver tube containing some red substance that from a distance looks like dark coral. These little plates are regarded as ornaments, but they are also charms to ward off a certain dread disease. From a description of the ailment it would appear to be something like bubonic plague. I saw no cases of it, but I was told that it devastates the valley of the Yalung every autumn, and kills every one who does not wear a charm. It is curious to note that nearly all the great trough-like river-valleys of south-western China have acquired a similar reputation of extreme unhealthiness. The Red River of Tongking and Yunnan is so much dreaded by the Chinese on account of its deadly fevers that nothing will induce them to spend a night on its banks.[217] The Salwen, the valley of which forms a yawning chasm from north to south of the Yunnan plateau, has an even worse reputation, as is well known to all who have travelled from Talifu to Bhamo.[218] Charms against disease are worn by the men of the Yalung valley as well as by the women, but they do not take the same form. The men and boys carry a small charm-box (ga-u[219]) hung round their necks like a locket by a string or chain, and in the box they place little amulets[220] which they have received from the lamas. The efficacy of the charms is supposed to be impaired if they are removed from the person or put into the hands of a stranger, so it is not often that one has an opportunity of close examination.
YAK AND BUFFALO
The next day (28th April) we travelled a very short distance—about 6 miles. The path wound round the edge of a defile and up the mountain side west and south-west through a pine forest. We halted at a place called Tê Ben, a single house belonging to a headman, situated near the edge of a bluff that commanded a fine view of the Yalung valley, now far below us. Difficulties about transport prevented our making a longer stage. Next day, these difficulties having been overcome, our path led us over innumerable undulations, in the course of which we gradually ascended another 2,000 feet. At the hamlet of Pa Sung, which we reached during the morning, there were no animals to be hired, and our baggage was carried for the rest of the day's march by three women and a yak. One of my Chinese escort—not in love with his mountaineering experiences—was much perturbed at the discovery that he was expected to walk, and made himself so disagreeable to the villagers that they had to bribe him to calmness by making him a present of a live fowl. He accepted the fowl, and made one of the village damsels carry it for him. This incident was not discovered by me until our arrival at our destination that night, when I punished my soldier for the impropriety of his conduct by paying for the fowl and eating it myself. The yak caused us some trouble by losing itself in the forest while we were having our midday tsamba. It was finally discovered by its driver—a very little boy—and brought back by him triumphantly at the end of a rope. The incident pleasantly recalled to my memory the only poem in the English language, so far as I am aware, which sings the exclusive praises of the yak, an animal which, however useful to man, is indeed hardly of the kind that would naturally inspire a poet to a lyrical outburst.[221] Tibetan and Man-tzŭ children seem to be able to manage the clumsy beast with the same ease and dexterity as are shown by Chinese children in controlling the cumbrous movements of the water-buffalo; and the European who may prod a yak without the least effect in accelerating its motion, and whose mere proximity often rouses the water-buffalo to dangerous fury, can have nothing but jealous admiration for the Oriental child whose lightest touch reduces one or the other to complete docility.
From the hamlet of Pa Sung we dropped down to a deep ravine at the bottom of which is a sparkling mountain stream spanned by a rustic bridge. The ravine was full of wild-flowers—pink, red, purple and white in a setting of rich green. I noticed also that ivy—not so common a sight in the Far East as in England—clambered in great profusion round the trunks of trees and over a small obo; and some exquisite ferns, including maiden-hair, covered the steep banks of the stream and fringed our path. After climbing up the further side of the ravine our path again wound up and along the mountain-side, and brought us finally to the hamlet of Ten Ba K'a, where we lodged in the local chiefs house. Our host was a fine-looking man, whose long black hair hanging down on each side of his face gave him an appearance of ferocity that was belied by the gentleness of his manners. I was accommodated in the family chapel—a large room on the first floor. Close by was a small lamasery. The village is situated at the head of a small valley which runs north-east and south-west, and from it we had a magnificent view of the snowy mountains we had left behind us on the other side of the Yalung. The valley itself—when one looks down upon it from above—is of very peculiar formation, being split up by a series of clearly-defined ridges. I could see nothing to indicate that they were glacier moraines. Next morning we climbed one of the ridges that lies immediately behind the village, and from its summit we descended into a thickly-wooded ravine, bounded on the left by lofty and picturesque cliffs. After descending a thousand feet or more we emerged from the ravine into a small partially-cultivated valley containing a village. After leaving this village, where we took our midday rest, we began a long and rather wearisome up-hill climb past a plantation of birches and through a thin forest. From the top of the pass we made a gradual descent through similar country, and struck into the valley of a large stream—the Dja Ch'u—issuing, apparently, from some high snowy peaks visible in the distance.[222] This river accompanied us from this point practically all the way to Muli. Our path led us hundreds of feet above the river's left bank, and brought us to our night's lodging in a solitary house. Other scattered houses were visible some distance off, and I was told that they all bear the collective name of Hu Dra. Our hostess brought me as a present the best Tibetan cheese I had tasted.