CHAPTER VI
TO THE EDGE OF THE TIBETAN TABLELAND
We had another day’s rest in Pobrang; there we found the last good pasture land on the way to Tibet; it was, moreover, important that men and horses should gradually become accustomed to the increasing elevation. I had also received my letters from Sweden and India, and was a long time occupied with my letters and answers; the post-carrier was to return to Leh on the next day. But it was arranged that a mail-runner should be sent after us from there. From Pobrang he was to have a companion, for the country is infested with wolves. After the road came to an end the track of the caravan could easily be traced, and it was agreed that we should pile up small heaps of stones at doubtful points for the guidance of the letter-carriers. However, we never heard anything of them, and I do not know how they prospered. Pobrang, then, was the last point where I was in contact with the outer world.
Here we bought thirty sheep for fresh meat; we thought we should not want more, as the chase would yield us some supply, and some of my men were clever sportsmen.
At Muhamed Isa’s suggestion, Sonam Tsering’s pay was raised to 20 rupees, and he was appointed caravan-bashi of the mules. Old Guffaru was leader of the horse caravan, and Tsering, the short name we gave to Muhamed Isa’s brother, had the management of the small caravan which transported my daily necessaries, Robert’s tent, and the cooking outfit.
The jamadar, Rahman Khan, who had been my leader in 1902, and had come with us from Lamayuru, was discharged and well paid, and also the two chaprassis, Razul and Ishe. Old Hiraman insisted on keeping us company for another day’s journey, while the Numberdar of Pobrang and the Kotidar of Tankse were to remain with us, as already mentioned, up to the plateau. Thus our party was gradually lessened; last of all the hired horses and their ten attendants would leave us.
I consulted every evening with Muhamed Isa; Robert, too, was generally present, for he was the first of all my servants, conducted the business of the caravan, and kept accounts of the expenditure. We now resolved that some of the hired yaks should carry the boat, and that the last of the coolies should turn back. Then we took stock of our provisions: the maize and barley must last for 68 days; the meal for our thirty men would hold out for 80 days, and with economy for three months; the rice would not be all consumed for four or five months. But, however carefully calculations and estimates may be made, it is a risky, adventurous undertaking to cross the whole of Tibet, and the calculations seldom turn out correct. One may be sure of losing animals wholesale; matters may, too, come to a crisis, when the loads become too heavy for the surviving animals, and part of the baggage must be sacrificed. It may also happen that the provender diminishes more quickly than the animals, and then the latter must put up with smaller feeds, and at last find what nourishment they can on the ground.
My chief anxiety now was to maintain the caravan until we might meet the first nomads to the north of Bogtsang-tsangpo; had we good fortune so far, we should manage to get on by some means or other. I now drew up a provisional plan of campaign, the chief point being that it was based, not on time and distances, but on pasturage and water. The length of a day’s march was, then, fixed by the occurrence of these indispensable resources, and even a march of one hour in the day was enough when it led to tolerable pasture. Where, however, the land was quite barren we might travel any distance we liked. No one had any suspicion of my actual plans; I meant to reveal all only when the last men and their horses had left us. If I let anything transpire now, my plan would be made known in Ladak, and would reach the ears of my opponents. Then, as so often before, a merciless “Thus far and no farther” would have sounded in my ears even at Bogtsang-tsangpo.
On August 24 we left Pobrang, the last village, and rode up the valley. Fine tame yaks were sunning themselves on small grassy patches. To the left stretches out the Ldata valley, with good pasture lands in its lower part. Seen from a flat hilly rise with a couple of stone cairns, the country to the east assumes more of a Tibetan character, with low, rounded forms, and small, slightly marked open valleys and dried-up river beds. Everything seems dreary and barren; small hard yapkak plants are alone visible. The ascent is extremely slow, but the path is still easily perceptible in the tiring gravel or sand. Not a drop of water is to be seen. The weather is quite Tibetan: burning hot when the atmosphere is calm and clear; raw and cold when the sun is overcast, and the wind envelops horse and rider in sand.
At Lunkar we encamped near some deserted stone huts. A couple of hundred yards from us were grazing a pair of kulans or kiangs, as the wild asses are called in Tibet and Ladak. Nine fires lighted up the darkness, and snow hissed among the firebrands, continuing to fall, so the night watchman reported, till early morning.