Читать книгу Seven Years in Tibet - Heinrich Harrer - Страница 10

Once more over the frontier—A better reception—Gartok, the seat of a Viceroy—Another strenuous journey—A red monastery with golden roofs; Tradün—Kopp leaves for Nepal.

MY plan was to seize the first opportunity to slip over the frontier again into Tibet. We were all of us convinced that the minor officials we had hitherto encountered were simply not competent to decide about our case. This time we had to approach some higher authority. To find what we wanted we should have to go to Gartok, the capital of Western Tibet, which was the seat of the governor of the region.

So we marched down the great, much used trade road a few miles till we came to the first Indian village. This was Namgya. Here we could stay without arousing suspicion as we had come from Tibet and not from the plains of India. We passed ourselves off as American soldiers, bought fresh supplies and slept in the public resthouse. Then we separated. Aufschnaiter and Treipel went down the trade-road which flanked the Sutlej, while Kopp and I drove our donkey into a valley which ran in a northerly direction towards a pass which led over into Tibet. As we knew from our maps, we had first to go through the Spiti valley, which was inhabited. I was very glad that Kopp had attached himself to me as he was a clever, practical and cheerful companion, and his vein of Berlin wit never petered out.

For two days we tramped upwards on the bank of the Spiti river; then we followed one of the nearby valleys which would clearly bring us over the Himalayas. This region was not well marked on our map, and we learned from the natives that we had already passed the frontier when we crossed a certain bridge known as Sangsam. During all this part of our journey we had on the right of us Riwo Phargyul, a beautifully shaped peak more than 22,000 feet high on the crest of the Himalayas. We had reached Tibet at one of the few places where Tibetan territory extends into the Himalaya range. Of course we now began to be anxious and to wonder how far we should get this time. Luckily no one knew us here and no unkind official had warned the people against us. When questioned we said we were pilgrims bound for the holy mountain of Kailas.

The first Tibetan village we reached was called Kyurik. It consisted of two houses. The next, Dotso, was considerably larger. Here we ran into a number of monks—more than a hundred of them—in quest of poplar trunks which they were going to carry over the pass to Trashigang and there use for one of the monastery buildings. This monastery is the largest in the province of Tsurubyin and the abbot is at the same time the highest secular officer. We began to fear that our journey might come to a premature end when we met this dignitary. However, when he questioned us we said we were the advance party of a large European force that had obtained official permission to enter Tibet from the central government at Lhasa. He appeared to believe us and, much relieved, we continued our journey. We had a gruelling climb to the top of a pass called by the Tibetans Büd-Büd La. This pass must be over 18,000 feet high. The air was unpleasantly rarefied and the ice-tongues of a neighbouring glacier were to be seen below our route.

On the way we met a few Bhutias, who also wanted to go into the interior. They were nice friendly people and they invited us to share their fire and drink a cup of rancid butter-tea with them. As we had pitched our camp near them, they brought us in the evening a tasty dish of nettle spinach.

The region through which we were travelling was completely unpopulated and during the next eight days of our march we met only one small caravan. I have a vivid recollection of one person whom I encountered on this stretch of road. This was a young nomad, muffled in a long sheepskin coat and wearing a pigtail, as all Tibetan men do who are not monks. He led us to his black tent made of yak’s hair where his wife was waiting for him. She was a merry creature, always laughing. Inside the tent we found a treasure that made our mouths water—a haunch of venison. Our host gladly sold us a portion of the meat for an absurdly low price. He begged us to say nothing about his hunting or he would get into trouble. Taking of life, whether human or animal, is contrary to the tenets of Buddhism and consequently hunting is forbidden. Tibet is governed on a feudal system, whereby men, beasts and land belong to the Dalai Lama, whose orders have the force of law.

I found I was able to make myself understood by these pleasant companions, and the feeling that my knowledge of the language was improving gave me great pleasure. We arranged to go hunting together the next day, and meanwhile made ourselves at home in the tent of the young couple. The nomad and his wife were the first cheerful and friendly Tibetans we had met, and I shall not forget them. The highlight of our host’s hospitality consisted in producing a wooden bottle of barley beer. It was a cloudy milky liquid which bore no resemblance to what we call beer, but it had the same effect.

Next morning the three of us went hunting. Our young friend had an antediluvian muzzle-loader and in a breast-pocket carried leaden bullets, gunpowder and a quick-match. When we saw the first flock of wild sheep he managed laboriously to light the quick-match by using a flint. We were anxious to know how this museum-piece of a gun would function. There was a report like thunder and by the time I had got clear of the smoke, there was no sign of a sheep to be seen. Then we saw the flock galloping away in the distance; before they vanished over the rocky ridge some of them turned round to eye us with a mocking glance. We could only laugh at our own discomfiture, but in order not to return with empty hands we picked wild onions which grow everywhere on the hillsides, and which go so well with venison.

Our friend’s wife was apparently used to her husband’s bad luck in the hunting-field. When she saw us returning without any game she received us with screams of laughter and her sliteyes almost disappeared in her merriment. She had carefully prepared a meal from the game her husband had killed a few days before and now got down enthusiastically to cooking it. We watched the operation and were somewhat astonished when she slipped off the upper half of her great fur mantle, round the waist of which she wore a bright coloured belt, without a trace of shyness. The heavy fur had hindered her movements, so she stripped to the waist and carried on happily. Later on we often encountered similar examples of natural simplicity. It was with real regret that we parted from this friendly couple, when fully rested and with our bellies full of good fresh meat we set out on our way. As we travelled we often saw the black forms of wild yaks grazing far away on the mountain-side. The sight of them prompted our donkey to make a bid for independence: he dashed through a widish stream and before we could reach him had shaken our packs off his back. We followed him cursing and swearing and eventually caught him. Then, as we were busy drying our things on the further side of the water, two figures suddenly came into view. We recognised the first at once from his regular, slow, mountaineer’s stride—it was Peter Aufschnaiter, with a hired bearer. It may be thought that such a meeting in such a place sounds far-fetched; but is it only by certain valleys and passes that one comes over the mountain ranges, and we and Peter had chosen the most well-trodden route.

After warm greetings Aufschnaiter began to tell us what had happened to him in the interval. On June 17th he had parted from Treipel, whom he left riding into India on a horse, meaning to pass himself off as an Englishman. He had bought the horse with the last of his money. Aufschnaiter himself had been ill, but when he had recovered had followed us. He had on the way heard some of the latest war news to which, though we were living in another world, we listened greedily.

At first Aufschnaiter did not want to go with us to Gartok as he believed that we would be turned out of the country again. He thought it would be wiser to press straight on into Central Tibet and join up with the nomads there. Finally we all went on together and Aufschnaiter and I were not to part company again for years. We knew that if everything went smoothly we needed about five days to get to Gartok. We had to cross another high pass, the Bongrü La. Camping these days was no pleasure. It was very cold at night at 17,000 feet!

Small incidents provided variety. Once it was the spectacle of a fight between wild asses. The combatants were two stallions, probably fighting for the lordship over the mares in the herd. Chunks of turf flew, and the earth shook under their hooves. The duellists were so absorbed in their struggle that they did not notice us onlookers. Meanwhile the mares, greedy for sensation, danced around and the arena was often hidden in a thick cloud of dust.

After crossing the two passes we had the Himalayas behind us once more; and I was glad to be away from them, as we were at last reaching warmer regions. Coming down into the Indus valley we met a column of yaks bearing wool to India. We were struck by the size and strength of these beasts. Their drivers, too, were well-set-up youths, who despite the fierce cold were naked to the waist. Both men and women wore their fur-coats inside out with the fur against their bare bodies. They keep their arms out of the sleeves, so as not to hamper their freedom of movement. The drivers start the yaks off by slinging stones at them and keep them on the track by the same method. They seemed in no way interested in us foreigners and we pursued our way unmolested.

We marched for five successive days along the upper waters of the Indus before we arrived at Gartok. The scenery was unforgettable. It was the colours which enchanted the eye and I have seldom seen all the hues of a painter’s palette so harmoniously blended. Alongside the clear waters of the Indus were light yellow fields of borax, with the green shoots of springtime springing up near them (for spring in these regions does not come until June). In the background were the gleaming snow-peaks.

The first village on the far side of the Himalayas is Trashigang, consisting of just a few houses grouped round a fortress-like monastery surrounded by a moat. Here we again found an ill-disposed population, but they showed no astonishment at seeing us and gave us no real trouble. This time we had arrived just in the season in which Indian traders stream into the country to buy up the wool. We had no difficulty in obtaining provisions from these people. Aufschnaiter tried in vain to turn his gold bracelet into cash. Had he done so, he would have been able to afford to push on directly into Inner Tibet without touching Gartok. During the whole of our march we were repeatedly stopped by prosperous-looking mounted Tibetans, who asked us what we had to sell. As we had no servants and were driving a pack-donkey, they could not imagine that we were anything but traders. We became convinced that every Tibetan, whether poor or rich, is a born trader and exchange and barter his greatest passion.

From our reading we knew that Gartok was the capital of Western Tibet, and the seat of the Viceroy; our geography books had told us that it was the highest town in the world. When, however, we finally set eyes on this famous place we could hardly help laughing. The first thing we saw were a few nomads’ tents scattered about the immense plain, then we caught sight of a few mud-brick huts. That was Gartok. Except for a few stray dogs, there was no sign of life.

We pitched our little tent on the bank of the Gartang-Chu, a tributary of the Indus. At last a few curious individuals came up and we learned from them that neither of the two high officials was in the town and only the “Second Viceroy’s” agent could receive us. We decided to submit our petition to this personage at once. Going into his office we had to bend low, for there was no door, only a hole in front of which hung a greasy curtain. We came into a dimly-lit room with paper gummed over the windows. When our eyes had grown accustomed to the twilight we discerned a man who looked intelligent and distinguished sitting like a Buddha on the floor before us. From his left ear dangled an ear-ring at least six inches long as a sign of his rank. There was also a woman present, who turned out to be the wife of the absent official. Behind us pressed a crowd of children and servants who wished to see these peculiar foreigners from close at hand.

We were very politely requested to sit down and were immediately offered dried meat, cheese, butter and tea. The atmosphere was cordial and warmed our hearts, and conversation flowed fairly freely with the aid of an English-Tibetan dictionary and supplementary gestures. Our hopes rose quickly, but we abstained from revealing all our preoccupations at this first interview. We said that we were fugitive Germans and begged for the hospitality of neutral Tibet.

Next day I brought the agent some medicines as a present. He was much pleased and asked me how to use them, whereupon I wrote out directions. At this point we ventured to ask him if he would not grant us a travel-permit. He did not directly refuse, but bade us await the coming of his chief who was on a pilgrimage to Mount Kailas, but was expected to return in a few days.

In the interval we made good friends with the agent. I gave him a burning-glass, an object of which one can make good use in Tibet. The customary return gift was not long in coming. One afternoon some bearers carried a present of butter, meat and flour to our tents. And not long after came the agent himself, accompanied by a retinue of servants, to return our visit. When he saw how primitively we were lodged in our tents, he could not get over his astonishment that Europeans led such simple lives.

However, as the time came near for the return of his chief, his friendliness began to flag and he withdrew himself almost entirely from our society. Responsibility began to oppress him. Indeed he went so far as to refuse to sell us provisions; luckily, however, there were Indian traders here, ready to help us out for good money.

One morning we heard the sound of bells in the distance as a huge mule-drawn caravan approached the village. Soldiers rode ahead followed by a swarm of male and female servants and after them members of the Tibetan nobility, also mounted, whom we now saw for the first time. The senior of the two Viceroys, whom they call Garpöns in Tibet, was arriving. He and his wife wore splendid silk robes and carried pistols in their girdles. The whole village assembled to see the spectacle. Immediately after arriving the Garpön moved in solemn procession into the monastery to give thanks to the gods for his safe return from the pilgrimage.

Aufschnaiter composed a short letter begging for our audience. As no answer came we set out in the late afternoon to visit the Garpön. His house was not essentially different from that of his agent, but inside it was cleaner and of better quality. The Garpön, a high official, is invested for the duration of his mission with the fourth rank in the hierarchy of the nobles. He is in charge of five districts which are administered by nobles of the fifth, sixth and seventh rank. During his period of office the Garpön wears a golden amulet in his piled-up hair, but he may only wear this ornament while on duty in Gartok. In Lhasa he is reduced to the fifth rank. All the nobles in Tibet are ranked in seven classes to the first of which only the Dalai Lama belongs. All secular officials wear their hair piled up on their heads: monks are shaven and the ordinary people wear pigtails.

At last we came into the presence of this potentate. We explained our case to him in all its details and he listened to us with friendly patience. Often he could not refrain from smiling at our defective Tibetan, while his retainers laughed out loud. This merriment added a spice to the conversation and created a friendly atmosphere. The Garpön promised to consider our case carefully and to talk it over with the representative of his colleague. At the end of the audience we were hospitably entertained and received tea made in the European fashion. Afterwards the Garpön sent presents to our tents and we began to hope for a happy issue.

Our next audience was rather more formal but still cordial. It was a regular official meeting. The Garpön sat on a sort of throne and near him on a lower seat was the agent of his colleague. On a low table lay a file of letters written on Tibetan paper. The Garpön informed us that he could only give us passes and transport for the province of Ngari. We would in no circumstances be allowed to enter the inner provinces of Tibet. We quickly took counsel together and suggested that he should give us a travel permit to the frontier of Nepal. After some hesitation he promised to communicate our request to the Government in Lhasa, but he explained to us that the answer might not arrive for some months. We were not anxious to wait all that time in Gartok. We had not given up the idea of pushing on to the east and were anxious to continue our journey at all costs. As Nepal was a neutral country situated in the direction which we wished to go, we felt that we could be satisfied with the result of the negotiations.

The Garpön then kindly asked us to remain for a few days longer as his guests, as pack-animals and a guide had to be found. After three days our travel pass was delivered to us. It stipulated that our route should pass through the following places—Ngakhyu, Sersok, Möntse, Barkha, Tokchen, Lhölung, Shamtsang, Truksum and Gyabnak. It was also laid down that we had the right to requisition two yaks. A very important clause required the inhabitants to sell us provisions at the local prices, and to give us free fuel and servants for the evenings.

We were very glad to have obtained so much in the way of facilities. The Garpön invited us to a farewell dinner in the course of which I managed to sell him my watch. Afterwards he made us give him our word of honour not to go to Lhasa from his territory.

At last, on July 13th, we bade farewell to Gartok and started on our way. Our little caravan, now of decent proportions, consisted of our two yaks with their driver and my small donkey, which was now in good shape and carried no more than a teakettle. Then came our guide, a young Tibetan named Norbu, on horseback, while we three Europeans modestly brought up the rear on foot.

Now again we were for weeks on the way. During the whole of the next month we passed no inhabited place of any size—only nomad camps and isolated tasam houses. These are caravanserais in which one can change the yaks and find a lodging.

In one of these tasams I succeeded in exchanging my donkey for a yak. I was very proud of this bargain, which greatly multiplied my assets, but my satisfaction was short-lived—the beast turned out so refractory that I would have been glad to be rid of him. I was actually able to exchange him later for a younger, smaller animal. This creature also gave trouble and it was only after having his nose pierced and fitted with a ring of juniper wood tied to a rope that I was able to keep him on the road. We called him Armin.

The country through which we had been travelling for days had an original beauty. The wide plains were diversified by stretches of hilly country with low passes. We often had to wade through swift-running ice-cold burns. While in Gartok, we had had occasional showers of hail, but now the weather was mainly fine and warm. By this time we all had thick beards, which helped to protect us against the sun. It was long since we had seen a glacier, but as we were approaching the tasam at Barkha, a chain of glaciers gleaming in the sunshine came into view. The landscape was dominated by the 25,000-foot peak of Gurla Mandhata; less striking, but far more famous, was the sacred Mount Kailas, 3,000 feet lower, which stands in majestic isolation apart from the Himalaya range. When we first caught sight of it our Tibetans prostrated themselves and prayed. For Buddhists and Hindus this mountain is the home of their gods and the dearest wish of all the pious is to visit it as pilgrims once in their lives. The faithful often travel thousands of miles to reach it and spend years on the pilgrimage. During their journey they live on alms and hope that their reward will be a higher incarnation in a future life. Pilgrims’ roads converge here from all points of the compass. At the places from which the first sight of the mountain can be obtained are set up heaps of stones, grown through the centuries to giant proportions, expressing the childlike piety of the pilgrims, each of whom, following ancient observance, adds fresh stones to the heaps. We too would have liked to travel round the mountain as the pilgrims do, but the unfriendly master of the caravanserai at Barkha prevented us by threatening to stop our future transport facilities unless we continued on our way.

For two whole days we had the glaciers to look at. We mountaineers were more strongly attracted to the majestic Gurla Mandhata, mirrored in the waters of Lake Manasarovar, than by the Sacred Mountain. We pitched our tents on the shore of the lake and feasted our eyes on the indescribably beautiful picture of this tremendous mountain, which seemed to grow out of the lake. This is certainly one of the loveliest spots on earth. The lake is held to be sacred and round it one finds many small monasteries in which the pilgrims lodge and perform their devotions. Many pilgrims creep round the lake on their hands and knees and carry home jars of the holy water. Every pilgrim bathes in its icy cold water. We did likewise, though not from piety. Here I nearly came to grief. After swimming out some little way from the shore I got into a boggy place from which I only extricated myself with a tremendous effort. My comrades had not noticed my desperate struggle to get clear of the mud.

As we were, at this time of year, a little in advance of the pilgrimage, most of the people we met were traders. We saw also many suspicious-looking people, for this region is notorious as the Eldorado of robbers, who find it hard to resist the temptation to attack the traders frequenting the markets. The biggest market in the region is that of Gyanyima. Here hundreds of tents form a huge camp given over to buying and selling. The tents of the Indians are made out of cheap cotton material, while those of the Tibetans are woven from yak’s hair and are so heavy that it takes one or even two yaks to carry them.

We wandered for some hours in an easterly direction along the lake and felt as if we were on a seaside walk. Our pleasure in the beauty was disturbed only by the midges which we did not get rid of till we were clear of the lake.

Proceeding towards Tokchen we met an important-looking caravan. It was the new district governor of Tsaparang on the way to his post from Lhasa. We halted by the roadside and our guide, with whom we had never got on really friendly terms, made a deep, stiff obeisance and put out his tongue in greeting—a perfect picture of submissiveness. He explained our presence: weapons which had threatened us were put away and we were handed dried fruit and nuts.

In our persons there was no longer any sign of European superiority to be seen. We lived like nomads; for the past three months we had been sleeping mainly in the open air, and our standards of comfort were lower than those of the native population. We camped and cooked and made our fires in the open, whatever the weather, while the nomads could find shelter and warmth in their heavy tents. But if we looked as if we had come down in the world, our wits were not blunted and our minds were continually occupied. Very few Europeans had been in these regions and we knew that everything we observed might have a value later on. We still thought then that we should be returning to civilisation within a measurable time. Common dangers and struggles had linked us in a close bond of companionship; each knew the others’ virtues and failings, and so we were able to help one another in times of depression.

On we went over low-lying passes till we came to the source of the Brahmaputra, which the Tibetans call the Tsangpo. This region is not only of religious significance to Asiatic pilgrims; it is also highly interesting geographically for it contains the sources of the Indus, the Sutlej, the Karnali and the Brahmaputra. For the Tibetans, who are accustomed to give a symbolical religious sense to all designations, the names of these rivers are associated with the sacred animals—the lion, the elephant, the peacock and the horse.

For the next fortnight we followed the Tsangpo. Fed by numerous streams from the nearby Himalayas this river grows larger all the time, and the bigger it gets the more tranquil is its stream. Now the weather was continually changing. Within minutes one was alternately freezing or roasting in the sunshine. Hailstorms, rain and sunshine followed each other in quick succession—one morning we awoke to find our tent buried in snow, which in a few hours melted in the hot sunshine. Our European clothes were unsuited to these continual changes of temperature and we envied the Tibetans their practical sheep-skin cloaks, belted at the waist and with long wide sleeves to take the place of gloves.

Despite these inconveniences we made good progress, stopping whenever we came to a roadhouse. From time to time we had a view of the Himalayas which surpass in natural beauty anything I have ever seen. We met fewer and fewer nomads and the only living creatures we saw on the right bank of the Brahmaputra were gazelles and onagers. We were now approaching Gyabnak, the last name on the list of places mentioned on our travel permit. Further than this the authority of our friend in Gartok did not extend. The decision as to what to do next was taken out of our hands, for on the third day of our stay at Gyabnak a messenger arrived in breathless haste from Tradün and summoned us to go at once to that place. Two high officials wanted to see us. We had no regrets about leaving Gyabnak, which was so small that it hardly deserved to be called a place. It consisted of a single house belonging to a monastic official of the province of Bongpa. The nearest nomad tent was over an hour’s march away. We started at once and spent the night in a lonely place inhabited only by wild asses.

I shall always remember the next day for one of the most beautiful experiences I have ever had. As we marched forward we caught sight, after a while, of the gleaming golden towers of a monastery in the far distance. Above them, shining superbly in the morning sun, were tremendous walls of ice, and we gradually realised that we were looking at the giant trio Dhaulagiri, Annapurna and Manaslu. As Tradün and the filigree towers of its monastery lay at the far end of the plain we had many hours in which to enjoy the view of these mighty mountains. Not even the necessity of wading through the icy waters of the Tsachu damped our exuberance.

It was evening when we marched into Tradün. In the last rays of the setting sun the red monastery with its golden roof looked like a fairy palace on the hillside. The houses of the inhabitants, the usual mud-brick dwellings, were built behind the hill to shelter them from the wind. We found the whole population assembled and waiting for us in silence. We were at once taken into a house which had been made ready for us. Hardly had we unloaded our baggage when several servants arrived and invited us most courteously to come to their masters. We followed them full of expectation to the house of the two high officials.

We walked through a whispering crowd of servants into a good-sized room where in the highest seats sat a smiling, well-fed monk and by him, at the same level, his secular colleague. A little lower down were seated an abbot, the monastery official from Gyabnak and a merchant from Nepal. The merchant spoke a few words of English and acted as interpreter. They had prepared a bench with cushions so that we did not have to sit cross-legged on the floor like the Tibetans. Tea and cake were pressed upon us and questioning politely postponed. At last we were asked to show our travel permit. This was passed round and carefully studied by all present. There was a period of oppressive silence. The two officials slowly came out with their misgivings. Could we really be Germans? It was simply incredible that we should be escaped prisoners of war and much more probable that we were British or Russians. They made us fetch our baggage which was unpacked and spread out on the floor of the courtyard and then carefully examined. Their chief worry was the idea that we might have weapons or a transmitting set, and it was difficult to pursuade them that we had neither. The only things among our possessions to arouse suspicion were a Tibetan grammar and a history book.

It was stated in our travel permit that we wanted to go to Nepal. The idea seemed to please our questioners and they promised to help us in every way. They said we could start on the following morning and by crossing the Korela pass would be in Nepal in two days. This did not altogether suit us. We wished, at all costs, to remain in Tibet and were determined not to give up the idea without a struggle. We begged for right of asylum, hammered on the theme of Tibetan neutrality and compared the situation of Tibet with that of Switzerland. The officials stubbornly, if courteously, insisted on the conditions laid down in our travel document. However, during the months of our sojourn in Tibet, we had become better acquainted with the mentality of Asiatics and knew that to give way early was against the rules. The remainder of our discussion passed off in perfect calm. We all drank endless cups of tea and our hosts informed us modestly that they were there on a tax-raising journey and that in Lhasa they were not such exalted persons as they seemed to be in Tradün. They were travelling with twenty servants and a great number of pack-animals, so that one got the impression that they were, at the least, ministers.

Before taking our leave we stated clearly that we wished to remain in Tradün a few days longer. Next day a servant brought an invitation to luncheon from the Pönpos—as all high personages are called in Tibet. We had a wonderful meal of Chinese noodles and I think we must have appeared to be starving, to judge from the masses of food they piled on our plates. We were greatly impressed by the skill with which the Tibetans handled their chopsticks and our astonishment was great to see them picking up individual grains of rice with them. Mutual wonder helped to create a friendly atmosphere and there was much hearty laughter. At the end of the meal beer was served and added to the cheerfulness of the gathering. I noticed that the monks did not drink it.

Gradually the talk veered towards our problems and we heard that the authorities had decided to send a letter to the Central Government in Lhasa, communicating our request for permission to stay in Tibet. We were told to compose a petition in the English language which the two officials desired to forward with their letter. This we did on the spot and our petition was in our presence affixed to the official letter which had already been prepared. This was sealed with due ceremony and handed to a courier, who immediately started for Lhasa.

We could scarcely realise the fact of our friendly reception and that we should be allowed to stay in Tradün until an answer arrived from Lhasa. Our experience of junior officials had not been satisfactory, so we asked for written confirmation of the verbal consent to our residence in Tradün. This we obtained. At length we returned to our quarters happy that things had gone so well. We had hardly arrived when the door was opened and a regular procession of heavily laden servants trooped in. They brought us sacks of flour, rice and tsampa as well as four slaughtered sheep. We did not know from whom the gifts had come until the headman, who had accompanied the servants, explained to us that the two high officials had sent them. When we tried to thank him, the headman modestly disclaimed all credit, and no one seemed willing to admit the generous action. As we parted the easygoing Tibetan said something which was to serve me in good stead. The haste of Europeans has no place in Tibet. We must learn patience if we wished to arrive at the goal.

As we three sat alone in our house looking at all the gifts, we could hardly believe in our change of luck. Our request for permission to reside in Tibet was on its way to Lhasa, and we had now enough supplies to last us for months. For shelter we had a thick roof instead of a flimsy tent, and a woman servant—alas, neither young nor beautiful—to light the fire and fetch water. We regretted that we possessed nothing of worth which we might have sent to the Pönpo in token of our gratitude. We had nothing but a little medicine to offer him, but we hoped for an occasion to express our thanks in due form. As in Gartok, we had here had occasion to encounter the courtesy of the nobles of Lhasa, in praise of which I had read so much in Sir Charles Bell’s books.

As we were to stay for months here, we made plans for passing the time. We must without fail make expeditions in the Annapurna and Dhaulagiri regions and in the plains to the north. But, a little later, the abbot, whose assistance the headman had tried to enlist on our behalf, came to see us. He told us that our stay in Tradün had only been approved on the condition that we must never go further away from the town than one day’s march. We could go on excursions wherever we liked, provided we were back before night. If we did not comply with these instructions he would have to report to Lhasa and that would no doubt prejudice our whole case.

The village consisted of about twenty houses dominated by the hill on which the monastery stood. It housed only seven monks. The village houses were narrow and crowded together, but, nevertheless, every house had its own courtyard, in which wares were stored. All the inhabitants of the village were in some way connected with trade or transport; the real nomads lived scattered over the plain. We had occasion to attend several religious festivals, the most impressive of which was the harvest thanksgiving. We were now on a friendly footing with all the inhabitants and used to doctor them, being particularly successful in our treatment of wounds and colics.

The monotony of life in Tradün was varied now and again by the visits of high functionaries, and I have a vivid recollection of the arrival of the second Garpön on his way to Gartok.

Long before there was any sign of his convoy soldiers arrived to announce his coming. Then came his cook, who at once began to prepare his food, and it was only next day that the Garpön himself arrived with his caravan and retinue of thirty servants. The whole population, including ourselves, crowded to see him come in. The great man and his family rode on splendid mules, and the elders of the village each conducted a member of the family, holding his animal’s bridle, to the quarters prepared for them. We were less impressed by the Garpön than by his daughter. She was the first soignée young woman we had seen since 1939 and we found her very pretty. Her clothes were of pure silk and her nails lacquered red. Perhaps she had slightly overdone the rouge, powder and lipstick, but she exhaled freshness and cleanliness. We asked her if she was the prettiest girl in Lhasa but she modestly said no, and declared that there were many far prettier girls in the capital. We were very sorry to lose her charming company when the party moved on the next day.

We had a new guest in Tradün soon after—a state official from Nepal who came to see us but posed as a pilgrim. We felt that he wished to persuade us to go to Nepal against our wishes. He said we should be well received in Katmandu, the capital, and find occupation there. Our journey would be organised by the administration and 300 rupees had already been allocated for our expenses. That all sounded very attractive—perhaps too attractive—for we knew how great was British influence in Asia. We did not take his advice.

After three months we began to lose patience and to get on each other’s nerves. Kopp kept on saying that he would gladly accept the invitation to go to Nepal. Aufschnaiter as usual went his own way. He bought four sheep as pack-animals and wanted to go to Changthang. It is true that this was contrary to our original decision to await the letter from Lhasa, but we greatly doubted getting a favourable answer.

Aufschnaiter, losing patience, marched out one afternoon with his loaded sheep and pitched his camp a few miles away from Tradün. We helped him to carry his things there and intended to visit him the next day. Kopp also began to pack and the local authorities promised to give him transport. They were very pleased that he had decided to go to Nepal, but they disapproved of Aufschnaiter’s behaviour. From that day onwards guards slept in front of our door. But next day, to our surprise, Aufschnaiter came back to us with his baggage. His sheep had been attacked by wolves, which had eaten two of them. This compelled him to return and so we three spent one more evening together.

On the following morning Kopp bade us farewell. The whole population collected to see him off. So now, out of the seven of us who had broken out of the internment camp, five of whom had made for Tibet, only Aufschnaiter and I remained. We were the only mountaineers in the group and consequently physically and mentally best fitted for the lonely and strenuous life in this bleak land.

It was now late November and the caravan routes were no longer much frequented. The monastic official sent us some sheep and twelve loads of yak’s dung for fuel—and we needed it, for the temperature was already twelve degrees below zero Centigrade.