The thermometer fell to −11° in the night, but the day was fine. The wind blew as usual, but the sun came out and we thought of spring again. Three shepherds were taking some hundreds of sheep to the west, which had been driven off from their pasturage by the recent snow and were looking for uncovered land. We were only a day’s journey from the Tong-tso (14,800 feet), they said, and the Tong-tso was the point from which we were to start southwards to traverse unknown country. If I succeeded in crossing it only by a single route, all the troubles of the past winter would not have been in vain. The shepherds’ information was correct, for the next day we bivouacked on the western shore of the Tong-tso, which we found exactly at the place where the immortal pundit, Nain Sing, inserted it on his map. To the south-east towered the huge massive Sha-kangsham, along the northern foot of which I had ridden in 1901.
Now we had to find a convenient pass over the mountain which barred our way to the south. A gap was seen to the south-east, and we directed our steps towards it. On our right, two tents stood at the foot of a hill, and Abdul Kerim was sent to them while we encamped in a deep narrow ravine, at the bottom of which we found a large quantity of wind-driven kiang dung and dry tufts of grass. On his return, our good leader reported that he was rudely received by two men, named Nakchu Tundup and Nakchu Hlundup, who came from the district Nakchu, three days’ journey distant to the south, and had a wife in common. They first asked how many we were and how many guns we had, just as though they wished to know whether they and their neighbours might venture to attack us. They then said that they had seen a man riding at the head of our party, while all the rest, Abdul Kerim included, went on foot, and that it was not hard to guess that the mounted man was a European. When Abdul Kerim replied that no Europeans travel in winter, for they are too much afraid of the cold, and that we were only wool-buyers from Ladak, the Tibetans shook their heads and answered that they had never heard of Ladakis travelling in this country in winter. But, nevertheless, Abdul succeeded in gaining their confidence, and when he had paid double the market price for two yaks and six sheep, the Tibetans forgot their suspicions, all for the sake of filthy lucre. The purchase was to be completed the following morning. Then the new animals were fetched, and their carrying power was a welcome assistance to our animals. Fortunately, the nomads had in general the greatest respect for our tents. It was important for us to make liberal bargains with men who at first had been hostile to us. On the other hand, they often abstained from betraying us, even if they had suspicions, for if it were known that they had been well paid, the nearest chief would confiscate their receipts and would also punish the unfortunate men who had dared to traffic with suspected individuals.
During the day’s march I rode in front as usual, with my two companions on foot. A tent lay concealed behind a cliff, and we did not notice it until we were some way past it, and then it was too late to dismount. Two fellows were outside and looked after us, and if they compared notes with their neighbours they would have good cause for suspicion. At our camp that day we had a visit from an old man and two young people, who had their tent near and came to see what kind of men we were. They said that they were very poor, and begged for some coppers. We were on the border of the district Bongba-changma, which contains 300 tents, and, like the whole province of Bongba, is subject to the governor Karma Puntso, whose tent stood at a distance of six days’ journey to the south. He was a man of twenty-five years of age, lived in a large tent, and had been in office only a year, since his father died. It was assuring to know that he could have no experience of Europeans and their crafty ways. After the strangers had received a couple of tengas from Abdul Kerim, they went home again in the rays of the evening sun, delighted to find that we were not robbers.
Then the temperature fell to −16°; the winter was remarkably trying, but the day, March 18, was still fine, and I travelled all the way on foot, driving the sheep while we were passing several tents. Among them was that of our old man of the day before, and he proved to be a man of property, who sold us various much-needed articles of food. On the way Tubges shot seven partridges, whereupon two Tibetans came forward and protested, saying that only Europeans shot partridges. Abdul Kerim assured them that he preferred partridges to mutton. Again there was talk of Karma Puntso. Perhaps it would be better to choose another way. No; then the governor would be still more suspicious. We encamped on the northern side of a small pass, where we had no troublesome neighbours.
March 19. Breakfast, a delicate partridge and a cup of tea, was just over when it was announced that three Tibetans were coming up to our tents. But they stopped at a respectful distance, and Abdul Kerim went up to them. My tent was opened in this direction, but was closed again just in time. The Tibetans’ errand was to ask if we had any medicine suitable for a man who had a pain in the foot. In reality, their object was to spy upon us when we set out, for they stayed all the time and looked about. After my hands and face had been coloured black, I stole by the secret passage into Abdul Kerim’s tent, while Kutus and Gulam crawled by the same way into mine to pack up. Then I went with Lobsang and Kutus, and drove the sheep up the track leading to the pass (16,135 feet). We had not gone far when Abdul Kerim came riding on my horse and made frantic gestures to us to stop. A Tibetan horseman, followed by a big dog, would meet us in a few moments on the path. We therefore took a roundabout way among hillocks, while the caravan encountered the Tibetan. In this way we escaped the danger. Soon came Kunchuk and Sedik, leading the dog with a rope on either side—a savage brute, which barked till he foamed at the mouth, and tried to bite those who were taking him away from his master. He was of the species called takkar, and Takkar was his name. He reminded me of a St. Bernard; he was coal black, with a white patch on the chest and neck, and was as savage as a wolf. They had bought him for 2 rupees.
Moreover, Abdul Kerim had also bought the rider’s horse for 86 rupees, and he came jogging cheerfully after us as we rode down from the summit of the pass to a longitudinal valley abounding in tents and herds of sheep and yaks, and at two spots were seen mounted men, who looked uncomfortably like a levy. The new horse was eleven years old, the owner said, and if he passed well over his fifteenth year, he would live to thirty—but we did not want him so long. He was a new member of our troop and excited general interest, and Takkar became quieter when he saw an old friend and comrade in misfortune.
At the camp we had to be careful, for nomads dwelt near and shepherds wandered with their flocks on the slopes around. To prevent Takkar from running away he was tied by the neck to a tent pole, an operation by no means easy. He was tied fast with ropes, his legs were fettered, and a felt mat was thrown over him, on which four men sat while the others made him fast to the pole. Immediately he was let loose he rushed at those nearest him, but was held back by the pole. It was a sin to drag him from home against his will; he was another Uncle Tom who suffered for our sake, but I hoped that we should soon understand each other. To console him in his captivity he was given the blood and entrails of the slaughtered sheep.
We crossed another small pass (19,537 feet) on the 20th, and the insignificant lake Shar-tso, where a fine spring bubbles up out of the ground by the shore. From a couple of tents to the west we bought tea, butter, and tsamba sufficient for several days, and heard again about Karma Puntso. This time it was said that he lived three days to the west, and we hoped to slip past without any disturbance. The country about camp 359 is called Luma-shar, and we stayed on the northern bank of the large river Kangsham-tsangpo, which comes from the northern flank of Sha-kangsham, the huge massive which I left to the south of my route in 1901, and which showed us a magnificent view of its western side. The mountain lay about a couple of days’ journey to the south-east.
The next day we were to cross the river, an exceedingly unpleasant business; for though there had been 32 degrees of frost in the night the ice, except close to the bank, would not bear. Abdul made an attempt with his horse, but the animal came down on his nose in the middle of the river. Then Lobsang took off his boots and went across the river barefooted, and came back again to help in conducting our pack animals gently and firmly across. To get the sheep over was the worst difficulty; they had to be pushed and pulled by the horns, one at a time. Almost all the men of the caravan got a refreshing bath in the stream (Illust. 363).