On the same day a large white-and-blue tent was set up by our camp, but it was not till June 4 that the occupants, the Govas of Tradum and Nyuku, paid me a visit. They had heard of our long stay, and wished to find out the state of affairs for themselves. The Nyuku Gova began the conversation:
“Saka and Tradum are put down on your passport, but not Nyuku. Should you, nevertheless, go thither, I will allow you to stay one night, but not longer, for it is stated in the passport that you must travel straight to Tradum.”
“My dear friend,” I replied, “when once I am in your place we shall become such good friends that you will ask me to stay a whole month to consolidate our friendship. Should you afterwards visit me in India, your visit will be the more agreeable the longer it lasts.”
He nodded with a roguish smile, and no doubt considered me a wag, but added that he must obey the orders he had received from the Devashung.
“When I am in correspondence with the Mandarins in Lhasa, and am waiting for their answer, the Devashung has no right to interfere.”
“Very well, then it will be best for you to remain here and not come to Tradum or Nyuku; provisions are still scarcer there.”
Afterwards Pemba Tsering came again, bringing two sacks of barley and a sheep. He had become much more compliant since he had talked with the other officials, and promised he would try to procure what we needed. We had still two poor horses and a mule from Shigatse, and he was to have one of the animals as a reward. After some consideration he chose the mule. The two horses we sold for a mere trifle to a stranger.
Now we longed to get away from this miserable Saka-dzong and its sad associations. Out in God’s open, glorious Nature the winds blow away sorrow. We daily calculated, Robert and I, how long it would be before Tundup Sonam and Tashi returned. If the answer were sent by the so-called Chinese flying post, it might arrive any moment. But the days passed and there was no news. One day some horsemen rode past our camp on the way to the west, and reported that they had seen my two messengers in Kung Gushuk’s garden in Shigatse, but they knew nothing of their further intentions. “Patience,” whispered the west wind again. In the maze of difficulties in which we became ever more involved, my hopes rested on the answer of the Chinamen. I had told the officials here that I would set off at once if they would allow us to take a more northern route to Nyuku, but, as they would not hear of it, we remained where we were.
When I looked out of my tent my eyes were attracted to the dark grave on its hill. It seemed as if the grave held us fast, though we longed to get away from it. All was dreary and dismal; we missed Muhamed Isa, and his absence caused a great blank. But life goes on as usual. When the sun rises, the women of the village stroll about collecting dung into baskets, while the men drive the yaks and horse to pasture. They sing and whistle, children scream and dogs bark. Blue smoke rises from the chimneys of the village or from the black tents standing within walls among the houses. From the roof of the Saka-gompa with a statue of Padma Sambhava the single lama of the monastery blows his conch. Ravens and bluish-grey pigeons pick up all kinds of morsels among the tents, and the wolves which have come down in the night retire again to the mountains. Riders and caravans pass eastwards to a better land, where poplars, willows, and fruit trees are clothed in their finest summer dress. But we are prisoners in this desolate country, with Muhamed Isa’s grave as a focus.
I soon perceived what a depressing effect the loss of the big powerful caravan leader had on my men: they became home-sick. They talked of the warmth of their own firesides, and they took to crocheting and knotting shoes for their children and acquaintances. They gathered round the evening fire and talked of the pleasant life in the villages of Ladak. Robert remarked how dreary and disagreeable Tibet was, and how warm and delightful it was in India; he was pining for his mother and his young wife. I should like to know whether any one was more eager to be off than myself, who had so much before me which must be accomplished. Yes, I saw only too plainly that I could not achieve all I was striving for with my present caravan; it was worn out and used up, which was really not to be wondered at after all it had gone through. My fate was driving me back to Ladak. But I must endeavour to make the most of my chances on the way. And then? All was dark to me. But I knew that I would never give in, and would not leave Tibet till I had done all that lay in my power to conquer the unknown land on the north of the upper Brahmaputra.