While the men are away, the women look after the yaks and sheep, and when the hunter returns at sunset he sees the former chewing the cud in front of the tent, while the latter are shut up in a pen-fold of stone. The yaks remain at night near the tents, and hence the dung, the only fuel of the nomads, has not to be carried far. When it is dark, all gather round the fire on which the tea-kettle boils. Then they talk of the monotonous incidents of their life, of the day’s bag, the condition of their herds, and the work of next day. One mends his soles with sinew and an awl, another dresses a yak hide with his hands, and a third cuts straps from the skin of a wild ass. Their life seems void and uneventful, but they have no wants—they know nothing better. They have a severe struggle for life in this unproductive corner of the world, which is called the Chang-tang, or the north plain, where it has been their fate to be born. Amidst poverty and danger they live victorious in God’s free Nature; the awful storms are their brothers, the lordship of the valleys they share with the wild beasts of the desert, and at night the everlasting stars twinkle over their black tents. If they were given comfortable huts down south in the shade of walnut trees, they would always be longing for the grand solitude of the mountains, for the icy cold, the drifting snow, and the moonlight of the peaceful winter nights in Tibet.
Then Death comes one day and looks in through the tent door; in vain is the constant prayer “Om mani padme hum” repeated; vain are all attempts to conjure or propitiate the evil powers that are inimical to the children of men. Bent, wrinkled, and grey the old hunter finishes his course, and is borne on strong shoulders to some shallow cleft near the mountain crest, and there abandoned to the wolves and birds of prey. When his grandchildren are grown up, they do not know whither he has been taken; in life he had no abiding dwelling-place, and after death he has no grave. And no one asks where the bones of the dead are bleaching, for the place is haunted by evil spirits.
November 14. Calm! In the night there were again 49 degrees of frost, but it was fairly warm riding southwards towards the sun. The two horses of the Tibetans had stampeded. But if this were a trick contrived to give them an excuse for making off themselves, it did not succeed this time; for I sent off one of them with two of my men to look for the horses, while the other had to accompany me and tell me the names of the places we passed. We did not know our men yet, and therefore did not dare to let them out of our sight, or they might have despatched mounted messengers to give information to the authorities in Gertse. Then we should have been ordered to halt sooner than it suited us. Now we could feel easy, at least till we came to the next tent. But the horses were recovered, and the old man stumped after us leading them by the bridle. Then we rode together between the hills and over small passes. Here, too, gold occurred in two places. Men come every summer, dig up the sand, throw it into the air, and collect the grains of gold on a cloth spread out on the ground. If the output is abundant, the number of gold-diggers is doubled the following summer.
In camp No. 61, also, the Tibetans showed no desire to desert us; they were friendly and attentive, helped us in unloading and setting up the tents, collected fuel, and undertook to be answerable for the horses. They seemed not to have the slightest suspicion that the country was forbidden to us, and not an echo of any especial orders had reached them from the south. I could not learn how matters stood. The plan of my journey had been alluded to in the Indian press, and there was nothing to prevent tidings being carried to Lhasa through Darjiling or Pekin; and I knew also from experience how soon an order against a European is handed on among the nomads. I had counted on hurrying on, like a thief in the night, as soon as possible after the English mission to Lhasa, and appearing on the scene before the Tibetans had quite made up their mind about the political state of affairs. But perhaps I was wrong, perhaps stricter regulations than ever had been passed.
The western shadows move over the plain; only in the east are the hills deep crimson, in the west they show a pitch-black outline. Another night spreads out its dark-blue pinions, and rises up to the zenith, driving before it an expiring reflexion of the setting sun. When the stars begin to shine we are out of doors examining the animals, which rejoice at being more lightly loaded on the march. At seven o’clock I am massaged and go to bed. At nine o’clock Robert comes with the hypsometer, and we talk for an hour. Then the light is allowed to burn till it flickers out. I lie a long time awake, watching the shadows come and go, as the wind shakes the canvas. I gaze at them till they turn into monsters and wild yaks, dancing mockingly round my prison. Now it is striking midnight in the towns of Siberia and India which lie on our meridian, and at length comes the deliverer sleep and drives away the shadow-pictures: they melt away and vanish on the horizon, which recedes more and more into the distance, no longer bounded by the thin web of the tent. Now a low murmur seems to call to mind forests, meadows, and small rocky islands. I dream that a strong hand leads me to a parting in the ways. It points to a road, and a voice tells me that this will lead me to a land of peace, hospitality, and summer, while the other leads to dangers and privations among dark lofty mountains. When Tsering brought the brazier in the morning, I was glad that I had in my dream chosen the latter road without hesitation.
We penetrated further and further into this mysterious Tibet. During the next day’s march we passed a succession of deserted fireplaces, and in some places saw rows of stone cairns to entice the antelopes into snares. Then we ascended a valley, in which a small strip of ice gradually expanded into a cake, filling all the space between the firm slabs of greenstone. The Seoyinna came in sight—a dark mountain to the south, which would remain visible for a couple of days longer.
Our Tibetans are already as intimate with us all as though we had been friends from childhood, and say that they have never met with such decent people. The elder is called Puntsuk, the younger Tsering Dava. We sit for hours together at Muhamed Isa’s fire and talk pleasantly, and I take notes as they describe to me in detail all the routes in Tibet they are acquainted with. Tsering Dava has accomplished the pilgrimage to Tso-rinpoche, or the holy lake Manasarowar, which I long to reach, and which has been the subject of my dreams for many a day. The two men were to accompany us only three days more; they had left their yaks and sheep to the care of their wives and children, and wolves were extraordinarily numerous; otherwise they would have travelled any distance with us. They had arrived from Gertse nineteen days before, and intended to stay six months; forty or fifty parties come every year from Gertse to this country.
They told us that the Tokpas, or gold-diggers, when they go up to the goldfields for two or three months, take as provisions meal and meat, which are carried by their sheep and yaks. When the provisions are consumed they return home, passing the salt lakes, where they load their animals with salt, which they barter in inhabited districts for barley. Thus they make a twofold profit on their journey, and can live the rest of the year on their gains.
In the evening a dead horse, emaciated and wretched, lay on the ice in our valley. I had procured him for 70 rupees from a dealer in Leh, who in December 1901 had bought my last nine camels. Next morning a mule died just as unexpectedly. He looked brisk and sound, and allowed himself to be loaded as usual, but had not gone a hundred paces when he fell dead. The two small Tibetan horses, which travel with us, take a great interest in their fellows; but they do not seem quite sure that the animals, so thin and wretched, are really horses. At this day’s camp, No. 63, we saw them run up to their masters for two large pieces of frozen antelope flesh, which they eagerly ate out of their hands like bread. They are just as fond of yak or sheep’s flesh, and the Tibetans say that this diet makes them tough and hardy. We cannot help liking these small shaggy ponies, which live to no small extent on the offal of game, are at home in the mountains, and bear rarefied air with the greatest ease; their lungs are as well adapted to it as those of the wild asses. The cold does not trouble them in the least: they remain out all through the night without a covering of any sort, and even a temperature of −22.7°, which we had on the night of November 17, does not affect them. Though they are not shod, they run deftly and securely up and down the slopes, and the men on their backs look bigger than their horses. We notice with great amusement how heartily they greet each other at every camp. Puntsuk, who shows Muhamed Isa the way, rides a small bay pony, which is already grazing when we appear. As soon as the pony catches sight of his grey comrade with Tsering Dava he neighs with delight, cocks his ears, and runs up to him; and the grey one exhibits just as much satisfaction. This is very different from the conduct of our dogs, which fight wildly as soon as they see each other.
Now we passed the Seoyinna mountain; one flank was dotted over by numerous wild yaks engaged in feeding, and Tundup Sonam shot two. My men took the best joints with them, the rest of the meat our guides would fetch on their way home. They were evidently much impressed by Tundup Sonam’s skill, but Dava Tsering declared that he had shot more than three hundred yaks in his lifetime, which was probably no exaggeration, seeing that these men live on the products of the chase.