NATURAL HISTORY

BY A. F. R. WOLLASTON

CHAPTER XVIII

AN EXCURSION TO NYENYAM AND LAPCHE KANG

By a liberal interpretation of the expression "Mount Everest" we considered it necessary to explore the surrounding country as far as a hundred miles or more from the mountain, East, North and South; in all directions, that is, excepting toward the forbidden territory of Nepal.

So it happened one day in July that Major Morshead and I, already nearly fifty miles from Everest, set out in a South-westerly direction, he anxious to add a few hundred square miles of new country to his map, and I intent on animals and plants. Our way lay across the Tingri Plain to Langkor, both names famous in the annals of Tibetan Buddhism. The following story was told us by an old monk in the monastery at Langkor:--

Many generations ago there was born in the Indian village of Pulahari a child named Tamba Sangay. When he grew into a youth he became restless and dissatisfied with his native place, so he went to visit the Lord Buddha and asked him what he should do. The Lord Buddha told him that he must take a stone and throw it far, and where the stone fell there he should spend his life. So Tamba Sangay took a rounded stone and threw it far, so that no one saw where it fell. Many months he sought in vain until he pa.s.sed over the Hills into Tibet, and there he came to a place where, although it was winter, was a large black s.p.a.ce bare of snow.

The people told him that the cattle walked round and round in that s.p.a.ce to keep it clear from snow, and in the middle of it was a rounded stone.

So Tamba Sangay knew that the stone was his, and there he made a cell and dwelt until he was taken on wings to Heaven. And the place is called Langkor, which means "the cattle go round," to this day. The people for many miles about had heard the stone as it came flying over the Hills from India; it made a whistling sound like _Ting_, so the country came to be called Tingri, the Hill of the Ting.

We visited the Langkor monastery and saw the casket in which the stone of Tamba Sangay is kept, only to be opened once a year by a high dignitary from Lhasa. Close by was a fair-sized river, the bridge over which had been carried away by a recent flood. The greater part of the population was busily engaged in repairing the bridge, to the accompaniment at frequent intervals of hideous blasts on a large conch-sh.e.l.l: this, we were told, was to keep the rain away and stop the floods. Rain fell heavily in spite of the noise, but the bridge was finished before nightfall.

On the following day we had a long pull of many miles up to the Thung La, a pa.s.s of 18,000 feet, from which we had hoped for fine views over the surrounding country. A driving storm of snow blotted out the views and covered the ground, so that nothing was to be seen but little clumps, a few inches high, of poppies of the most heavenly blue. Going down the steep track beyond the pa.s.s I was stopped by hearing the unfamiliar note of a bird, so it seemed: the cry was almost exactly that of a female peregrine when its eyrie has been disturbed, but coming from a labyrinth of fallen rocks it could not be. Tracking the note from one rock to another, I came suddenly within a few yards of a large marmot, which sat up and waved her tail at me; she called again and two half-grown young ones appeared close by; then all dived into a burrow.

These marmots are larger and far less timid of mankind than the marmots of the Alps.

A few miles below the pa.s.s the valley widened into an almost level bottom of half a mile or more, with steep bare limestone hills on either side. Here and there were small hamlets, where the inhabitants used the water of the river to irrigate their fields of barley and of blazing golden mustard, whose sweetness scented the valley in the sunshine. Like most of the b.u.t.ter, which is made in vast quant.i.ties in Southern Tibet, the mustard seed produces oil for monastery lamps. At one place we came across a spring, almost a fountain, bubbling out of the foothill, of clearest sparkling mineral water that would be the envy of Bath or of Marienbad; in a few yards it had become a racing stream a dozen feet in width.

Four days of leisurely walking down the valley brought us to the village of Nyenyam, where the whole population, a most unpleasant-looking crowd of four or five hundred people, came out to stare at us. A few only were Tibetans; the majority were obviously of Indian origin, calling themselves Nepalese, but without any of the distinctive features of that race. We had received some weeks earlier a cordial invitation from the Jongpens of Nyenyam to visit the place, and we were accordingly much disappointed to find that no person of authority came out to welcome us.

A Jongpen, it should be said, is an official appointed by the Lhasa authorities to administer a district and collect revenues: in a place of any importance, as at Nyenyam, there are often two, the idea being that one will keep an eye on the other and prevent him from over-enriching himself. We visited these worthies, whom we found dressed in priceless Chinese silk gowns and cultivating the extreme fashion of long nails on all their fingers, in strange contrast to the squalor and dilapidation of their dwelling, and were annoyed to find that they denied all knowledge of the invitation. The bearer of the message was produced and lied manfully in their cause; the name of Nyenyam was not, as it happened, mentioned in our pa.s.sport, and we were made to look somewhat foolish. Finally the Jongpens said (with their tongues in their cheeks and reminding us of a vulgar song) that they were very glad to see us, but they hoped that we would go. They then went out of their way to give us false information about the local pa.s.ses and made our prolonged stay in the place impossible by discouraging the traders from dealing with us.[15]

[15] In fairness it must be said that this was the only occasion on which we met with anything but help and civility from Tibetan officials.

Nyenyam, though more squalid and evil-smelling than any place in my experience, is of some importance as being the last Tibetan town before the frontier of Nepal is reached. It is well placed on a level terrace above the junction of the Po Chu with an almost equally big river flowing from the glaciers of the great mountain ma.s.s of Gosainthan.

Immediately below the town the river enters the stupendous gorge that cuts through the heart of the Himalaya to the more open country of Nepal, 8,000 feet below. To the West of Nyenyam rises a great range of mountains culminating in the beautiful peaks of Gosainthan, which we had hoped to visit, and somewhere to the East lay the mysterious sacred mountain of Lapche Kang. Our friends the Jongpens a.s.sured us that there was no direct route to Lapche, that we must go back the way by which we had come, and so on; but we were weary of their obstructions and made up our minds to find a way to the holy places.

So far our transport animals had been the yak, or the cross-bred ox-yak, a stronger beast; we were now going through country where only coolies could carry loads. We retraced our steps a few miles up the valley to a village ruled over by a friendly woman, the widow of the late headman.

True, she demanded for the coolies an exorbitant wage, which we cut down by about a half, but she pressed into our service every able-bodied person in the neighbourhood, young and old, men and women. They have a fair and simple way of apportioning the loads. All Tibetans, men and women alike, wear long rope-soled boots with woollen cloth tops extending toward the knee, where they are secured by garters, long strips of narrow woven cloth. When all the loads are ready, each person takes off one garter and gives it to the headman, who shuffles them well and in his turn hands them over to some neutral person who knows not the ownership of the garters. He lays one on the top of each load, and whose garter it is must carry the load without any further talk. It is amusing to watch the excitement in their faces as the garters are dealt out, and to hear the shrieks of delight of the lucky ones and the groans of the less fortunate. It makes one feel weak and ashamed to see a small girl of apparently no more than fourteen years shouldering a huge tent or an unwieldy box, until one remembers that they begin to carry almost as soon as they can walk and are accustomed to far heavier loads than ever they carry for us.

Our path led us up a steep side-valley from the Po Chu, ascending over a vast moraine to the foot of a small glacier about two miles in length.

Here I saw a rare sight: a Lammergeier (bearded vulture) came sailing down in wide circles and settled on the ice barely a hundred paces from us, where he began to peck at something--a dead hare perhaps, but it was impossible to see or to approach nearer over the creva.s.ses. The Lammergeier, vulture though it is, is one of the n.o.blest birds in flight that may be seen: hardly a day pa.s.ses in the high mountains without one or more swooping down to look at you, sometimes so near that you can see his beard and gleaming eye; but to see one on the ground is rare indeed.

The long-tailed aeroplane at a very great height resembles the Lammergeier more than any other bird.

We struggled up the glacier, inches deep in soft new snow, crossed creva.s.ses by means of rotten planks which gravely offended our mountaineering sense, and came through dense fog to our pa.s.s at its head. Here began the sacred mountain of Lapche Kang, and on the rocks beside the pa.s.s, and on many of the pinnacles high up above the pa.s.s as well, were cairns of stones supporting little reed-stemmed flags of prayers. Some of our party had brought up from below such little flags, which they planted where their fancy prompted. As we went down on the other side we came to countless little "chortens," miniature temples, and, where the ground was level for a s.p.a.ce, to long walls of stones, each one inscribed with the universal Buddhist prayer OM MANI PADME HUM.

Yaks are most satisfactory beasts of burden; if their pace is slow--it is seldom more than two miles an hour--they go with hardly a halt, cropping a tuft of gra.s.s here and there, until daylight fails. But the Tibetan coolie is of quite another nature; he (or she) starts off gaily enough in the morning, but very soon he is glad to stop for a gossip or to alter the trim of his load, and then it is time to drink tea, and again at every convenient halting-place more tea, not the liquid that we are accustomed to drink, but a curious mixture of powdered brick-tea, salt, soda and b.u.t.ter, of a better taste than one would suppose. So on this occasion it was long after noon when we had crossed the pa.s.s, and when the day began to fade in a drenching cloud of rain, the Tibetans found shelter in some caves, and persuaded us to camp. An uneven s.p.a.ce among rocks just held our tents; we dined off the fragrant smoke of green rhododendron and soaking juniper, and we slept (if at all) to the roar of boulders rolling in the torrent-bed a few feet from where we lay.

But it was well that we had not stumbled on in the dark. In the morning light we walked over gra.s.sy "alps" still yellow with sweet-scented primulas, and the steep sides of the narrowing valley below were bright with roses, pink and white spiraeas, yellow berberis and many other flowers. Soon it became evident that we were approaching a place of more than ordinary holiness; every stone had its prayer-flag, and the tops of trees, which began to appear here, were also decorated. Great boulders were defaced with the familiar words engraven on them in letters many feet in height. In a little while we came to a small wooden hut filled from floor to roof with thousands of little flags brought there by pilgrims; the posts and lintel of the door were smeared with dabs of b.u.t.ter, and the crevices of the walls were filled with little bunches of fresh-cut flowers. Outside was a rude altar made of stones from the river-bed, where a Lama was burning incense and chanting prayers.

[Ill.u.s.tration: TEMPLE AT LAPCHE KANG.]

We pa.s.sed through the village, a tiny hamlet of a dozen houses, and came to the celebrated temple of Lapche. A square stone wall, about 60 yards each way, on the inner side of which are sheds to shelter pilgrims, encloses a roughly paved courtyard where stands the temple, a plain square building of stone with a paG.o.da-like roof surmounted by a burnished copper ornament. There is nothing remarkable about the temple excepting the hundred and more prayer wheels set in the wall at a convenient height for the pilgrims to turn as they walk round the building. Inside are countless Buddhas, the usual smell of smoky b.u.t.ter-lamps, and an effigy of the saint. The whole place is dirty and dishevelled, in the supposed care of one old woman and a monk, and n.o.body would believe that this is one of the most famous places in the country and that every year hundreds of Buddhists from India and from all parts of Tibet make pilgrimage to it.

Mila Respa, poet and saint and (it is said) a Tibetan incarnation of Buddha, spent his earthly life in this mountain valley, living under rocks and in caves, where the faithful may see his footprints even now.

He seems to have been not lacking in a sense of humour. He was walking with a disciple on the mountain one day, when they found an old yak's horn lying in the path. Mila Respa told the disciple to pick it up and take it with him. The disciple refused, saying that it was useless, and pa.s.sed on without noticing that the saint himself had picked up the horn and put it under his cloak. Soon afterwards a mighty storm descended on them--whether or not it was caused by the saint is not known. He took the horn from under his cloak and crept inside it. "Now," said he, when he was safely sheltered from the rain, "you see that nothing in the world is useless."

We stayed for two days at Lapche Kang, picking flowers and enjoying the beauty of the place, in spite of the clouds which swept up from the South and filled the valley from early morning onwards. To a naturalist it was a tantalizing place; there were many unfamiliar birds that we had not seen in Tibet, but in such a sacred place I dared not offend the people by taking life, and I even had some qualms in catching b.u.t.terflies. One of the prettiest sights I saw was a wall-creeper, like a big crimson-winged moth, fluttering over the temple buildings in search for insects.

Having found Lapche Kang, where no European had before penetrated, and having placed it on the map, our next object was to go over the ranges Eastward to the Rongshar Valley, the head of which had been visited by members of the Expedition a few weeks earlier. This was accomplished in two long days of rather confused climbing over two pa.s.ses of about 17,000 feet, crossing sundry glaciers and stumbling over moraines, and nearly always in an impenetrable fog. Our views of mountains were none at all, but the beauty of the flowers at our feet was almost compensation for that. Among many stand out two in particular, both of them primulas. One was ivory-white, about the bigness of a cowslip, with wide open bells and the most delicate primrose scent: the other carried from four to six bells, each as big as a lady's thimble, of deep azure blue and lined inside with frosted silver.[16]

[16] Both of these are new species; the former has been described as _Primula Buryana_, the latter as _P. Wollastonii_.

As we went down the last steep slope into the Rongshar Valley, the clouds parted for a few moments, and across the valley and incredibly high above our heads appeared the summit of Gauri-Sankar,[17] one of the most beautiful of Himalayan peaks, blazing in the afternoon sun. It was a glorious vision, but it rather added to our regret for the views of peaks that we might have seen. The next morning at daybreak the whole mountain was clear from its foot in the Rongshar River (10,000 feet) up through woods of pine and birch, to rhododendrons and rocks, and so by a knife-edged ridge of ice to its glistening summit. It recalled to me the Bietsch-horn more than any other Alpine peak, a Bietsch-horn on the giant scale and seemingly impa.s.sable to man.

[17] Gauri-Sankar (23,440 ft.) was for many years confused with Mount Everest, which is still misnamed Gauri-Sankar in German maps.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GAURI-SANKAR.]

The valley of the Rongshar, like the Nyenyam and other valleys we had visited, though within the Tibetan border, is really more Nepalese in character. The climate is much damper than in Tibet, as one can see by the wisps of lichen on the trees and the greenness of the vegetation far up the mountain sides, especially at this season of monsoon, when the South wind blows dense clouds of drenching moisture through the gorges.

Like those valleys the Rongshar is sacred, which is inconvenient when the question of food supply is pressing. The people had cattle and flocks of goats; they would sell us an ox or a goat, but we must not kill it within the valley, or ill-luck would come to them. They were a friendly and good-tempered people, much given to religion. In many places we had seen prayer wheels worked by water, but here for the first time we saw one driven by the wind. Though it does not do much work at night, it probably steals a march on the water wheels in winter, when the streams are frozen.

We walked up the valley of Rongshar, which in July should be called the Valley of Roses; on all sides were bushes, trees almost, of the deep red single rose in bloom, and the air was filled with the scent of them.

After a journey of about 150 miles through unknown country we came to the village of Tazang, which had been visited by some of us before.

Thence over the Phuse La (the Pa.s.s of Small Rats) we came into real Tibet again, and so in a few days to the Eastern side of Mount Everest.

CHAPTER XIX

NATURAL HISTORY NOTES

To a naturalist Tibet offers considerable difficulties: it is true that in some places animals are so tame that they will almost eat out of your hand; for instance, in the Rongbuk Valley the burhel (wild sheep) come to the cells of the hermits for food, and in every village the ravens and rock-doves are as fearless as the sparrows in London. But against this tameness must be set the Buddhist religion, which forbids the people from taking life, so that, whereas in most countries the native children are the best friends of the naturalist, in Tibet we got no help from them whatever. Also, in order to avoid giving possible offence, we were careful to refrain from shooting in the neighbourhood of monasteries and villages, and that was a very severe drawback, as birds congregated princ.i.p.ally about the cultivated lands near villages.

Another difficulty we found was in catching small mammals, which showed the greatest reluctance to enter our traps, whatever the bait might be.

One species only, a vole (_Phaiomys leucurus_), was trapped; all the others were shot, and that involved a considerable expenditure of time in waiting motionless beside burrows. In spite of these disadvantages we made considerable collections of mammals and birds, and we brought back a large number of dried plants and seeds, many of which it is hoped will live in the gardens of this country.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LOWER KAMA-CHU.]

Crossing over the Jelep La from Sikkim into Tibet in the latter part of May we found the country at 12,000 feet and upwards at the height of spring. The open level s.p.a.ces were carpeted with a dark purple and yellow primula (_P. gammieana_), a delicate little yellow flower (_Lloydia tibetica_) and many saxifrages. The steep hillsides were ablaze with the flowers of the large rhododendrons (_R. thomsoni_, _R.

falconeri_, _R. aucklandi_) and the smaller _Rhododendron campylocarpum_, an almost infinite variety of colours.[18] A descent through woods of pines, oaks and walnuts brought us to the picturesque village of Richengong, in the Chumbi Valley, where we found house-martins nesting under the eaves of the houses. Following up the Ammo Chu, in its lower course between 9,000 and 12,000 feet, we found the valley gay with pink and white spiraeas and cotoneasters, red and white roses, yellow berberis, a fragrant white-flowered bog-myrtle, anemones and white clematis. Dippers, wagtails and the white-capped redstart were the commonest birds along the river-banks. From Yatung we made an excursion of a few miles up the Kambu Valley, and there found a very beautiful Enkianthus (_Enkianthus himalaicus_), a small tree about 15 feet high, with cl.u.s.ters of pink and white flowers; in the autumn the leaves turn to a deep copper red.

[18] We marked many of the best-flowering specimens with the intention of collecting their seeds on our return in the autumn.

Unfortunately when we came over the Jelep La in October it was in a heavy snowstorm which made collecting impossible.

At about 11,000 feet is a level terrace, the plain of Lingmatang, where the stream meanders for two or three miles through a lovely meadow covered in the spring with a tiny pink primula (_P. minutissima_): it looks a perfect trout stream, but what fish there are (_Schizopygopsis stoliczae_) are small and few in number.

Between 11,000 and 13,000 feet you ascend through mixed woods of pine, larch, birch and juniper with an undergrowth of rhododendrons and mountain ash. The larches here have a much less formal habit of growth than those of this country, and in the autumn they turn to a brilliant golden colour. The berries of the mountain ash, when ripe, are white and very conspicuous. At this alt.i.tude _Rhododendron cinnabarinum_ reaches its best growth, in bushes of from 8 to 10 feet in height, and the flowers have a very wide range of colour. In the woods hereabouts may often be heard and sometimes seen the blood pheasant, and here lives also--but we did not see it--the Tibetan stag.

At about 13,000 feet at the end of May you find a yellow primula covering the ground more thickly than cowslips in this country; the air is laden with the scent of it, and growing with it is a pretty little heath-like flower (_Ca.s.siope fastigiata_) with snow-white bells. Here and there is seen the large blue poppy (_Meconopsis_ sp.) and a white anemone with five or six flowers on one stem. Soon the trees get scantier and scantier, pines disappear altogether and then birches and willows and junipers, until only dwarf rhododendrons (_R. setosum_) are left, covering the hillsides like purple heather.