CHAPTER XLV
MORE LAKE VOYAGES
I wasawakened at six o’clock, having felt no cold in the night, for the minimum temperature was 40°. The morning was fine, only too warm; the pilgrims had gone away; we ate our breakfast, pushed the boat into the water, and rowed about 90 yards from the shore towards the north-north-east and north-north-west, describing a slight bend to camp No. 214. On our left hand was a row of pebble mounds, gradually rising to the top of the promontory which separates Manasarowar from Rakas-tal.
Soon the monastery Gossul-gompa was seen on its pebble terrace, nearly 130 feet high, like a swallow’s nest hanging over the lake. A group of lamas stood silently watching the boat; they had never in their lives seen such a contrivance on the holy lake. When we drew near they vanished like rats into their holes, and only an old man remained sitting by a balustrade. I asked him the name of the monastery, and he said Gossul-gompa. The next point shut out the convent. The shore lagoons continue, though the margin below the hills is only 30 to 60 feet broad. The clay in which the lagoons are embedded is impermeable to water, but the lake has only to rise a couple of feet to find an outlet over the sandbank behind into the Rakas-tal, or Langak-tso, on the west. And when the channel at the north-west corner is silted up, as it is now, the Manasarowar has a subterranean outlet to the neighbouring lake, and its water consequently remains perfectly fresh.
I now intended to camp a little to the north at somesuitable spot, and thence row the following day over the lake to our headquarters near Serolung-gompa. We took bearings of a cinnabar-red hill lying on the north side of a slightly indented bay of the western shore. A fresh southerly breeze was blowing, we hoisted the sail, and flew whizzing over the lake. The pilgrims watched our voyage with the greatest astonishment, and the monks of Gossul cautiously followed us on the hills, no doubt wondering how such sacrilege would end. The wild-geese swam with their young ones out into the lake, while other swimming birds took themselves off some 100 yards inland, perhaps taking the boat for a curious water-bird of unusual size.
We went ashore at the red promontory, and while fuel was being collected and the camp arranged, I reconnoitred the neighbourhood from the heights above the landing-place. On the inner side of the shallow bay I found a hollow with its bottom lower than the surface of the lake, and filled with salt water, and on the west side of this swamp lies the lowest dip in the isthmus separating the twin lakes. Up there runs the pilgrim road, worn down by hundreds of thousands of weary feet. Three armed horsemen rode along the way. They came up without dismounting, and evidently did not know what to make of me. They could easily have taken me prisoner now that I was separated from my men, but they did not think of it, and rode on. A furious storm swept over the lake, its surface was wildly agitated, and covered with white horses. The farther, eastern part was of a deep green colour, while on our western shore it was lighter. The water of the shore lagoons was dark purple from the reflexion of the dense clouds. Towards four o’clock the air became oppressively still, then the wind sprang up, and an equally violent north-west storm came down raging and roaring. The wild south-easterly waves were suppressed by it, and the undulations remained uncertain till the new wave system was established. There was rain in many places round the lake, but we felt only a few drops. About six o’clock the sky looked threatening, with pitch-dark clouds all around, and not a trace could be seen of the easternshore; we seemed to stand on the coast of the ocean. Soon after the wind veered round to the east-south-east, and then the surf beat all the evening against our beach. How fortunate that the weather had not been like this the evening before!
We sat two hours by the fire and talked. Its flames flickered and darted in all directions, so that they singed Shukkur Ali’s goat’s beard. The weather was still so threatening that we made a shelter of the boat, in which I lay down early to sleep. Before dozing off I listened to the roar of the waves, and thought I heard all kinds of mysterious sounds in the night, but it was only the cry of water-birds and the howling of the wind among the hills.
The men had orders to call me before sunrise, for we must hasten if we wished to reach camp No. 212 before darkness set in. It was scarcely light when I came out of my shelter. The last provisions were consumed by the morning fire, and then we put off about half-past four in dull, disagreeable weather. The strong west wind carried us rapidly away from the shore—indeed, it was really too strong for our sail and mast, but it took us on and doubled our pace. We had been sheltered under the hills, but when we were a few minutes from the beach the lake became uncomfortably rough. But it was of little consequence, for we sailed with the waves and took in no water.
The men, too, were more alive than on the first nocturnal voyage. They had evidently made up their minds to reach their destination before night, and they rowed like galley-slaves with the whip hanging over them; they seemed to run a race with the west wind, and try to get away before the waves rose too madly. The water hissed and foamed round the boat, and bubbled in the wake as when butter is browned in a pan, and beneath us the lake boiled up. It was a fine voyage as we rocked, spinning rapidly over the holy waves.
Shukkur Ali’s refrain to the strokes of the oars is now “Ya paté, parvardigar Rabel, alehmin” or “Illallah,” while Rehim Ali responds to the cry of his comrade with “Haap”—thepjerked out quickly and loudly like an explosion—and with the refrain “Illallah,” or “Svalallah.” The Arabic words are, as usual in Ladak, much corrupted, but they lighten the work, and after Shukkur Ali had yelled them out thirty-five times in a minute for nine hours as loudly as his vocal cords would let him, he was dreadfully hoarse in the evening.
Then the soundings were 131, 171, 171, 177, 177, 185, 187, and 177. Out beyond the abrasion terrace and its rather steep escarpment, the lake bottom is practically level. Hanging cloud fringes show that rain is pouring down in torrents on most sides, but we escape it. My excellent boatmen row twice as fast as on the first night, but it is impossible to induce them to row in time. If I loose the rudder a moment, my boat falls off to the north or south instead of making east, where camp No. 212 lies. If it is dark before we reach the shore, our men are to light a pile of wood to guide us.
The day draws to an end, the wind sweeps away the clouds, and they seem to gather round the mountains, which form a grand wreath around this pearl of lakes. The wind dies quite away, the sun scorches my weather-beaten face, and it is trying to the eyes when the sparkling gold of the sunbeams falls straight upon them. Their blinding light makes it difficult to distinguish our goal, but I hold the compass in my hand. The waves sink and become more languid, and the sea is again smooth as glass. Now we move more slowly, for the wind no longer pushes behind, but the men are unwearied; their boat-song dies away over the water, awaking no echo. The hills of the eastern shore show no perceptible difference in size between one sounding-point and the next. I sit dreaming, the rhythmical song and the splashing of the oars exercising a soporific effect. I seem to hear the tramp of a horse which bears a rider in silver harness over the granite mountains of the Trans-Himalaya through an unknown land, and in the dream I perceive that the features of the rider are my own. Then I am sad, for the dream is false. I have certainly crossed the Trans-Himalaya by three passes, but the most important part ofthe exploration has not been accomplished. That I have done my utmost in dealing both with the Tibetans and the Chinese to gain access to the country north of the Tsangpo is no consolation to me. If one can storm the opposing bulwark of Nature, one should be able to overcome the obstinacy of man. Up yonder in the north, behind Kailas, the Trans-Himalaya extends its granite ramparts, and I must go there though it cost me my life. I must go there, if I clothe myself in the rags of a mendicant lama and beg my way from one black tent to another.
But we are still on the holy lake; it is a day of rest and a summer’s day. I feel the skin of my face cracked by the burning of the sun. The hours crawl so slowly over the lake; patience, patience. The clouds display wonderful tone-effects; white and grey, sharply defined, they lie in different stages before the mountains, and behind them dark blue and purple curtains seem to hang down. We might be gliding over the bright floor of a temple hall, its walls richly decorated with flags and standards, which hang down from golden hooks on the ceiling of the sky, and touch the dust of earth with their fringes. The genii of Siva’s paradise seem to hover round us. Now Shukkur Ali has taken to a new cry: “Ya aferin adétt,” to which he adds “Ya, Allah,” as he lifts his oar, and Rehim Ali chimes in with “Shupp.” The depth still remains about 180 feet. To the south-east curious clouds are reflected in the lake, and a mist seems to be creeping over the water. All the tones are so light, airy, and grey that the landscape, which surrounds us like a ring where the water ends, seems hardly real. The twin summits of Pundi on the north-east are dark and solemn, and equally dark and solemn is the mirror of the lake. Silver beads drop from the oars and glitter like diamonds in the sun. I could live and die on this heavenly lake without ever growing weary of the wonderful spectacle always presenting fresh surprises.
Meanwhile a light south-easterly breeze disturbs again all the reflexions. The valleys Pachen and Pachung open their doors wider and wider, and allow us to see deeper into the recesses of the mountain. We recognize the hillsabove camp No. 212, but the tents are not visible. But we see a white spot on the northern shore which we take for a gompa. The depth is somewhat over 197 feet; “Ya bismillah hum!” is Shukkur Ali’s exclamation. At the sixteenth point the depth has again decreased, the south-easterly breeze has ceased, and the lake is again a sheet of glass. Now the tents can be seen as tiny specks, and we hope to complete this line also without a storm. A long, low, smooth swell of closely following waves, like the wake of a distant steamer, comes to meet us. How has it been produced, since the lake is quite peaceful? Perhaps by a slight convulsion of the earth’s crust, which has disturbed the shore. The undulations on this round lake are very peculiar. At point No. 20 the depth is only 128 feet, and now we have not far to go.
Crack! Shukkur Ali’s oar broke off in the middle with a bang, and the boat drew rapidly away from the blade end, which had to be picked up. The good man was so dumbfoundered and bewildered that he stammered, “That does not matter,” and went on rowing with the shaft in the air. Now, when the tents were so near, he had developed too much strength. “It is well that the old man does not burst himself,” I thought. We tied the parts together with a piece of string. There was a stir on the shore when we landed. The waiting men showed by word and gesture how glad they were to have us back again after giving way to all kinds of dismal forebodings about our sad fate. Just as they caught sight of the boat out on the lake, Robert was about to send out patrols up and down the shore. All was well in the camp, except that the Tibetans were troubled because their provisions were at an end. I gave them money to buytsambaat the monastery. In the evening I discussed with Robert a plan of rowing southwards to investigate the lake bit by bit. We bought a plank and two staves in Serolung, and on the first leisure day Shukkur Ali cut out with an axe two excellent oars, after a pattern I had cut for him from the lid of a cigarette box.
On the next day, the anniversary of my arrival in Leh, a new month began. Every time I write in mydiary “the first,” I wonder what the new month holds in its lap—new discoveries or new disappointments? But I hope always, and believe that all will come right at last. Rabsang and Tundup Sonam rowed, and Robert steered along the three-feet line about 55 yards from the land, while I sat in the bow, compass in hand, and drew a map of the shore-line, the hills and valleys, and all the details that are characteristic of a lake. Charles A. Sherring states in his book on western Tibet that Mr. Drummond, Commissioner of Bareilly, sailed in 1855 in a boat on Manasarowar, but no result has come to my knowledge; on the contrary, I find that the very latest map of the lake needs a thorough correction. Soundings had never been taken before, and the object of my boating expeditions was to collect material for a detailed isobathic map. When we left behind us the basin of the Brahmaputra at the pass Tamlung, I had already suspected that Manasarowar was a member of the hydrographic system of the Sutlej, and I wished to try if I could not make a contribution towards the solution of this problem. I knew that my investigations could only be inadequate, but they yielded a number of facts hitherto unknown. Among these are the systematic sounding of the bed, by means of which conclusions may be drawn as to the origin and formation of the lake. I soon convinced myself that the lake depression had been excavated by old glaciers from the southern mountains, as I at first conjectured, and was not dammed up by moraine walls across the broad valley. But want of space forbids me to enter fully into a discussion of this interesting question.
We glide in a flat curve to the south-west, and have to increase our distance from the shore that we may not run aground on the sandy bottom. The water at this season of the year has a fairly constant temperature of about 50°. Then we approach the mouth of the Tage-tsangpo. For about two-thirds of a mile the river flows parallel to the shore of the lake, being separated from it by an embankment 13 feet high, which has been cast up by the waves and the pressure of the ice. Here we encamped among driftsand and bushes, and measured the Tage-tsangpo.Its breadth was 56.8 feet, its maximum depth 3.4 feet, and its discharge 397.6 cubic feet a second, or 106 cubic feet more than where we last gauged it above the Na-marden affluent. I have already related how we first came in contact with this river at the pass Tam-lung-la; its source stream, the Gang-lung-chu or “water of the ice valley,” comes from the Gang-lung mountain in the south, and so there is a glacier or “ice valley” in this mountain which is the origin of the Tage-tsangpo. It is seen from the Tam-lung-la, and is the glacier which I venture to call the Sutlej’s genetic source or the real original source. We shall return to this attractive problem.
From every camp on the lake Robert rowed out with two men at right angles to the beach, sounding the depth every five minutes. By means of these radiating lines we discovered the saucer-shaped form of the lake, for, as I have already remarked, the lake bottom is on the whole very even. Now, from camp No. 215, Robert rowed out to a depth of 121 feet.
On August 2 we continued our boating excursion, while the caravan marched along the shore. All went excellently well, we heard not a word of any officials in pursuit of us, and the Tibetans placed yaks and mules at our disposal with the greatest willingness. A couple of showers fell, loud thunder rolled in Gurla Mandatta, and a violent south-westerly breeze forced us to come to a halt and wait at a place on the shore where the brook from the Nima-pendi valley debouches, forming a delta within a broken mole. Fish are plentiful in the brook, but here also the Tibetans asked us not to catch them, and we respected their wishes—only stupid and uncouth men wound the religious feelings of others. By this brook the lake receives a tribute of 49.4 cubic feet per second, while the Richung-chu entering farther to the west-south-west contributes 63.6 cubic feet.
We passed Yanggo-gompa under sail at a rather short distance, and steered straight for Tugu-gompa, picturesquely situated on a strand terrace. Here begin the long lagoons and mud embankment we had seen from the western beach, and we were carried comfortably ashore and greetedpolitely by a band of Hindus consisting of pilgrims and traders. A number of Tibetan shepherds from the north were staying here, where a not unimportant wool market is held every summer. A group of monks stood on the roof. Our camp was pitched close to the foot of the monastery, on the shore road, and had a fine view over the lake and Kailas behind it. At the southern wall of the convent is a yard enclosed by a stone wall, where 500 sheep were packed like herrings in a barrel, to be shorn in turn by Hindus and Botias who come from Almora and the border country in the south. The nomads receive eight annas (8d.) for every sheep, good interest on their live capital. The wool from 500 sheep is said to amount to 16 yak-loads (Illust. 249).
We paid at once a visit to the monastery, where the thirteen monks and their abbot, Tabga Rinchen, received us with the greatest kindness and politeness, showed us everything, and explained to us the various temple halls. They had heard of my voyages on the lake, and had now seen with their own eyes my boat sailing before a favourable wind, and they expressed their sincere conviction that I must possess occult powers to defy with impunity the god of the holy lake. But they understood that this was owing to my friendship with the Tashi Lama, who had given me his holy blessing. The monastery Tugu-gompa is a dependency of Shibeling-gompa in Purang, and most of the monks come from there to spend three years on the lake. They own herds in Chang-tang, trade, and seem to be in good circumstances; at any rate, they help the poor pilgrims who have nothing to eat on their wanderings round Tso-mavang. They receive gifts from well-to-do pilgrims. The temple halls are picturesque, handsome and in very good order. You enter from an upper balcony into an outer hall with wall paintings, among which is a picture of Tso-mavang with the fish-god, Madö Gemo, rising from the waves (Illust. 250). He has seven water-snakes in his hair, and the lower part of his body is like a green dolphin. The lake is as deep as it is broad, and concentric rings encircle the rising god. The abbot said that the fish-godcomes up to greet the god of Tso-mavang, Hlabsen Dorche Barva, who gallops in a cloud of grey fiery tongues and smoke on a pink horse, and is armed with spear, bow and quiver. In the background stands Kang-rinpoche, the holy mountain. The whole picture is wanting in perspective and proportion, but it is curious and interesting, and the Lamaist artist has done his best to idealize the holy lake by his drawing and colouring. I made a copy of this work of art, which has some relationship with our old country paintings.
From the entrance hall a small door gives access to the holiest shrine in all Tugu-gompa, namely, the hall of the lake god. He is represented only as a mask, surrounded bykadakhs, and seems to peep out from between curtains. A couple of flames burn before him and the usual bowls are placed on a stool table. No man but the monks themselves may enter this little alcove, but I obtained permission to sit on the threshold and draw a sketch of it (Illust. 251). I regarded this unknown Hlabsen Dorche Barva almost with reverence, for he ruled over my beloved lake and had been so gracious to me.
But the finest sight of all was the view from the monastery roof. The highest parts of Gurla Mandatta, here called Mama-nani or Mamo-nani, were concealed by the lower flanks, for we were too near to it, but the surface of the lake stretched out northwards to an immense distance. A lama, who had served at several different times in the convent, asserted that the lake rose 24 to 28 inches in rainy summers, and declared that eighteen years before the water had reached to the foot of the red façade of the monastery. This seemed improbable, for the distance between the lake and the monastery was 323 feet, and the foot of the convent façade (the right corner looking from the strand) lay 20.67 feet above the level of the lake. I quote these figures to enable a future explorer to determine whether the lake has risen or fallen since August 2, 1907.
I passed the next days in the monastery, sketched the lamas at their various temple services, and fell in love with this pleasant, handsome Tugu-gompa. Punso Lama,a young monk, was my particular friend, and showed me everything with the inexhaustible knowledge of a trained museum attendant. Three officials of the Devashung had established themselves in the entrance hall in the company of the four ghostly kings, and mattresses, bundles, tables, swords and guns lay or stood in profane disorder at the entrance to the dwelling of the high gods (Illusts. 252, 253, 257).
Meanwhile Robert rowed out from the southern shore, and sounded the depths down to the contour of 207 feet. On August 5, we paid a visit to Yanggo-gompa, which contains ten monks and a nun. They told me that they came from the Hor country in the north of central Tibet, and therefore call themselves Horpa, but also Dokpa; the Changpa are the nomads of Chang-tang. The abbot is from Sekiya-gompa. In the monastery’sgunkang, a dark subterranean crypt, hang masks,kadakhs, drums, spears and guns. I asked for what purpose the monks wanted the firearms, as one of their fundamental dogmas forbids them to extinguish the light of life, and they answered that with these guns many wild yaks had been killed, whose flesh had been used for human food, and that therefore the guns had been installed in a place of honour in the monastery. Yamba Tsering, a monk twenty-two years old, sat with his head against a wooden pillar, and gazed in silence at the dim light which fell into the crypt through an impluvium; he looked like a dreamer, a searcher after hidden truth (Illust. 256). Beside him sat the wrinkled nun. Both found their way into my sketch-book (Illusts. 258, 259). The foot of the monastery façade lies exactly 14¾ feet above the level of the lake, and the river Richen-chu, entering the lake behind the convent, discharges 62.15 cubic feet of water.
Yanggo-gompa was the third of the eight monasteries of the holy lake which I had visited, and I wished to see them all without exception. And I also wished to gauge all the streams falling into the lake. It fluctuates from day to day, according as there is rain or sunshine, but only by exact measurements could I arrive at the volume which is poured into the clear basin of Tso-mavang during a day of summer.
CHAPTER XLVI
A STORMY VOYAGE OVER THE HOLY LAKE
OnAugust 6 we stayed at Tugu-gompa, one of the most interesting monasteries I have seen in Tibet. I was engaged all day long, with Robert and Rabsang to assist me, in measuring with a tape the dimensions of the three storeys, and drawing plans of them. The third, however, is little more than a roof balcony. I have no space to give the results here. As we were on the roof, eight monks were sitting in the inner court counting their receipts, which were duly entered in a cash-book. Their rupees andtengaslay in heaps on a short-legged table. I gave a handful of rupees, throwing them among the piles, and disturbing the calculations of the monks. However, they were very thankful for this unexpected contribution, which seemed to fall from heaven.
About thirty Hindu pilgrims set up their shabby tents near us. In the evening they lighted a fire on a flat metal dish, which was pushed out on to the water, and shone like a beacon fire by the bank. This floating pyre was meant as a homage to the lake.
On August 7 I was awakened early when the sun was pouring fresh gold over the blue lake, and a lama on the convent roof was blowing long-drawn heavy notes from his shell horn over the surface. I hastened to the shore where the boat lay ready with its usual equipment, Shukkur Ali and Tundup Sonam put the sounding-line in order and stowed our baggage. The Hindus lined the bank like the wild-geese, left their clothing on land, and waded, with only a cloth round their loins, to bathe inthe holy beatifying water of the lake. It must be very refreshing to people from the close jungles of India to wash in such a cool morning in water at only a few degrees above freezing-point. Most of them, however, go in no farther than up to their knees. There they squat down, or scoop up the water in their joined hands, and throw it over them. They make symbolical signs, fill their mouth with water and send it out in a stream, hold their hands flat against their faces and look at the rising sun, and perform all kinds of absurd, complicated manipulations, which I remember seeing at the ghâts of Benares. They are sunburnt, thin and miserable, and they are too thinly clad—I did not see a single sheepskin—and they complain of the severity of the climate, catch chills, and come to my tent for medicine. Some stood about an hour in the water before they returned to the beach to put on their clothing, and then they sat in groups talking. But they return to the valleys of India convinced that they have performed an action well-pleasing to the gods, and they take with them small metal-bottles filled with holy water from Manasarowar to give to their relations. They believe that one of the ways of salvation runs past Manasarowar. They are always hopeful, and that is a fine thing for poor pilgrims on the face of the earth.
They stared with astonishment at our boat, which was driven out from the shore by powerful strokes, perhaps with envious eyes, for many asked me afterwards to let them go with me, that they might for the rest of their lives look back to the time when they floated on the sacred waves. The lake lay smooth and still, but at the first sounding-station (115 feet), the lake god shook himself, a north-westerly breeze sprang up, and the waves splashed and danced briskly against our bow, for our third line of soundings was carried north, 27° W., towards camp No. 214. We sounded 174, 207, 226, 236, 236, 246, and 253 feet, while the waves increased, and the boat rode well but with diminished speed. Gurla Mandatta was almost clear, but Kailas was buried in clouds. The wind fell and the sun glowed, and everything foretold a fineday. At the ninth point the depth was less, 246 feet; we had passed the line of soundings made in the night and its great depths. Afterwards the depths were 223, 197, 187, 194, and 200 feet.
The north-westerly breeze began to blow again, and at mid-day clouds gathered in the north. A heavy bluish-grey layer of clouds sank down slowly on the mountain flanks, and from its under side rain fringes hung down, greyish-purple on a compact dark background. All the mountains and the whole strand disappeared, and the masses of cloud seemed as though they would fall on the lake. We passed the fifteenth station, which showed a depth of 200 feet, and kept a steady course towards the red promontory. The rowers put forth all their strength when I had pointed out to them that we were drawing near to the shelter of the bank, and that the waves were becoming smaller the farther we advanced. We had left Gossul-gompa a good distance to the left; I could not see the monastery myself, but the men saw it as a small white speck in the distance.
Just before one o’clock yellow swirls of dust and sand appeared near the landspit which we were making for. They became denser and larger, and looked yellow and dismal on the dark purple background of gathering clouds. It was not the first time I had seen such storm warnings.
“We are in for a storm,” I said quietly.
“God is with us,” replied Shukkur Ali quite as calmly.
“Row on and we shall get in before the waves are high.”
“If we turn straight to the shore, it will be nearer,” suggested Shukkur Ali.
“No, we will not alter the course, we will make straight for our goal, and we shall soon be in the shelter of the hills on the shore; there are only three soundings to be taken, and they can be left for another time.”
The wind fell again, and it began to rain in a few large drops, which on reaching the surface of the water remained an instant as separate round beads, as though they were covered with a film of oil. Then followed an extremely heavy shower of hail which lashed the water as it streameddown, enveloped us in semi-darkness, caused the lake to leap up in millions of tiny fountains, and in two minutes made the inside of the boat white. Nothing was visible but ourselves and the boat, only water and hail, which scourged the lake like rods and produced a hissing gurgle. Now and then the clouds were lighted up by quivering lightning, and the thunder growled heavily and threateningly in the north. Then the men turned round, but could see nothing in the mist; they were uneasy and we all felt that there was danger ahead.
The hail was followed by pelting rain, a downpour of such furious impetuosity that I could not imagine any more tremendous. It fell in such quantities and with such force that we were bowed down by it. I had on three shirts and a leather vest, but after a short time I felt that the water was streaming down my bare skin, which had this advantage that all the future douches that awaited us could make no further impression. I had my fur coat on my knees with the skin side up, and in all its hollows the water collected in small pools. A quantity of water fell into the boat and washed about with the stroke of the oars. The shore was not visible, and I steered by the compass.
“Row on, we have not much farther to go.”
At length the rain became finer, but at four minutes after one o’clock, we heard a deafening roar in the north-east, a sound such as only a storm of the greatest violence can produce. Hail and rain were nothing to it; now that the heavy sheets of water were withdrawn the storm had a free course and swept suddenly and furiously over the lake. Why had we not started an hour earlier, instead of watching the religious ablutions of the Hindus? No, the god of Tso-mavang was angry and would teach us once for all not to treat so lightly the lake which splashes his dolphin’s tail with its green water. How we envied the monks in Gossul-gompa, and our men down in the south under the peaceful walls of the Tugu monastery! What would they say, what would they do, if we were drowned like cats in this raging lake?
For a minute we struggled frantically to keep ourcourse in spite of the waves which swept upon us from the right. They swelled up with astonishing rapidity, and every wave which dashed against the taut canvas of the boat and dissolved into spray, made a cracking sound as though the little vessel were about to burst. The next was still larger; I warded it off with my Indian helmet, and Tundup Sonam received a cold buffet which disconcerted him for a moment. After the third, which threw its foaming crest over the gunwale, the water stood 4 inches deep in the boat, the little nutshell with the weight of three men lay far too deep in the water, and the water we had shipped gurgled, lapped, and splashed hither and thither with the roll of the boat.
Now I perceived that the attempt to hold our course was hopeless. We must fall off with the wind and waves. We had Gossul-gompa to the south, 50° W., and the storm was from the north-east; we could find refuge in the monastery, if we could get so far. The difficulty was to turn at right angles without capsizing. Twice I failed, and we shipped more water, but the third time I succeeded, and now, if we had any care for our lives we must prevent the boat from veering up into the wind; the storm came a little from the right. Tundup Sonam, who rowed the starboard oar in the bow, had all the work, while Shukkur Ali had only to dip in his oar occasionally at my command, but though outwardly calm he was too excited and eager, and when my voice could not be heard amid the howling of the storm, I put my hand on his knuckles to make him leave the oar alone.
Now began a voyage such as I had never experienced in all my journeys in Tibet. The storm increased to a hurricane, and under its pressure the waves became as high as the billows of the Baltic in stormy weather; a steamer would have rolled in such a sea, and we in the little canvas boat had to negotiate the unexpected cross rolls following one another. Lashed, hunted, and persecuted by the raging force of the wind, we swept over the lake. Every new wave that lifted us up seemed bigger than the last. Some had sharp smooth crests, as though moulded out of mountain crystal, and reflectedthe dark clouds in the north. It seemed as though a bottomless, watery grave yawned in front of us which might at any moment swallow up our boat. Others came rolling up foam-capped, hissing and thundering behind us, and we shuddered at the thought that they might fill the boat in an instant and send it to the bottom, but it rose bravely over the crests. The view was open on all sides, the sun was visible in the south, Gurla Mandatta was clear and sharp, to the south, 50° W., even the terrace on which Gossul-gompa stands could be seen, and it was black and threatening only in the north. During the second when the boat was balanced quivering on the crest of the wave, we might fancy ourselves transplanted to a lofty pass in Chang-tang with a world of mountain ranges all round us, while the foam of the waves had an illusive resemblance to the fields of eternal snow.
But this wave also passes on and the boat sinks into a hollow, we fall into a water grotto, the nearest waves conceal the view, the walls of the grotto are of the purest malachite behind us and like emerald in front. Now we are lifted up again—“At it, Tundup Sonam, or the huge foaming crest will thrust us down!”—he puts forth all his strength and the wave passes us. It is irregular and reminds us of the pyramidal summit of Kubi-gangri; two such crests tower up in front of us, and their edges are shattered into spray by the wind. They are as transparent as glass, and through one of them the image of Gurla Mandatta’s bright white snowfields is refracted as in a magnifying glass. We have a watery portal in front of us and the tips of the waves are gilded with the faint reflexion of the sun in the south.
We struggle bravely and I sit on the bottom of the boat pushing the rudder with all my strength to keep the boat in the right direction, while the spray, lashed by the wind, spurts over us as from a fire-hose. Frequently a broken crest slips over the gunwale, but we have not a hand free to bale out the water. We see the boat filling slowly—shall we reach the bank before it sinks? The mast and sail lie with two reserve oars tied fast across the middle of the boat. If we could set a sail theboat would be easier to handle, but it is not to be thought of now, when we can hardly keep our balance sitting down and stiffening ourselves with our feet, with the heavy blows and the unexpected positions the boat assumes according to the form of the waves, their slopes, curves and curls. And, besides, in such a storm the mast would break like glass.
We had turned at right angles to our line of soundings for now we thought only of saving our lives, if that were possible—to reach the land before the boat sank. Then, in the most critical moment, when an irregular wave threatened the boat, I called on Tundup Sonam to put forth all his strength, and he did it too well, so that the oar broke with a crack. Now all hung by a hair, we could not manage the boat and it must inevitably capsize and be swamped under this foaming crest. But Tundup Sonam realized the danger, and with a quick grasp tore loose a reserve oar, while Shukkur Ali backed with the leeward oar; after another douche we trimmed the boat again.
The longer the storm lasts and the larger the expanse of lake left behind us in the north-east, the higher rise the waves; we are swept forwards, we rock up and down on the lumpy lake, and fresh cold douches are constantly poured over us from the crests as they split into spray like plumes of feathers. How small and helpless we feel in the presence of these roused infuriated forces of Nature, how imposing and awful, and yet how grand and splendid is this spectacle! The two men had never in their lives seen anything to equal it. I sit with my back to the pursuing billows, but the men have them before their faces, and I know when large waves are approaching by their muttered “Ya Allah!” Tundup is as pale as he can be with a sun-tanned skin; Shukkur Ali seems composed, but he does not sing to-day as he dips in his oar. Tundup afterwards confided to me that he was quite convinced that we should perish.
It is impossible to keep my eye-glasses dry and clear, and I have not for a long time had a dry thread on me. Shukkur Ali turns round and says that the monastery is insight, but it is too far for my eyes. “Look at the wave yonder,” I call out. “Is it not beautiful?” He smiles and murmurs his “Ya Allah.” Its crest breaks close to us like a waterfall, and, air being forced into the water, it rises again in bubbling foam and the lake seems to boil and seethe. Hitherto there has been drizzling rain, but now the air is clear. The lake assumes a different hue, the waves are dark and bright, close to us black as ink, but lighter towards their tips, and the horizon of the lake is often seen through the next wave as through a sheet of ice.
Thus we are driven on, and the time seems endless. For five quarters of an hour we have striven with the freaks of the lake god, and every minute has seemed to us an hour. At last the monastery Gossul appears and grows larger, the details becoming distinguishable, and I see the white façade with its upper border of red, its windows and roof streamers, and some monks behind a balustrade with their eyes fixed on the boat. And below the cloister terrace there is wild foaming surf. How we are to land I cannot imagine; I have experienced such adventures before, but never anything as furious as to-day. We envy the monks up above with firm ground under their feet, and should like to be beside them. The log has been out all the time, and now I draw it in with a quick pull and call out to the men to be ready to jump overboard when I give the sign. I place the note-book and the map I have sketched to-day, all dripping with water, into the front of my leather vest, that at any rate I may not lose the figures I have obtained.
We have only a few minutes more. With the help of Shukkur Ali I manage to get out of my heavy soaked boots, and have scarcely done so when the boat is pitched violently into the breakers on the shore. Here the water is as brown as oatmeal, and the undertow sucks out the boat again. Now Tundup Sonam wishes to jump out of the boat but I advise him to try first with the oar if he can reach the bottom; he feels no ground and has to wait patiently. The boat receives a blow from behind and threatens to capsize; the oarsmen work as if they werepossessed to fight against the undertow, and before I am aware Tundup has jumped out, and, up to his breast in water, draws the boat shorewards with all his might. Now we two follow his example, and with our united strength succeed at last in drawing the boat up the beach before the raging surf can dash it to pieces. One more hard pull and we have drawn it up over the mud embankment into the lagoon, which the waves cannot reach.
Now we had had enough, and we threw ourselves down on the sand, quite tired out. The fearful excitement and tension of body and mind during an hour and a half was followed by stupor and weariness; we had nothing to say to one another, and I gave no orders for the night. We were shipwrecked men, and had every reason to be pleased and thankful that we had firm ground under our feet again, and had escaped safely from the green graves which had yawned below us, threatening to engulf us if we had not been on the alert in critical moments.
We had only dozed a few minutes when two monks and three young novices came gently over the sand and approached us cautiously, as if they were not quite certain whether we were alive or dead. When we got up they greeted us kindly, and inquired how we were and whether we needed help. They were deeply interested, and told us how they had seen from their balcony the boat tossing on the waves, and had been convinced that it must founder in the unusually violent storm that had swept over the lake. They had been frightened to death, and said that it was fearful to see the boat sink in the trough of the waves, and every moment they expected that it would not appear again. On landing we were immediately below them, and the sight was too terrible. Were we hurt at all, and would we come up into the monastery and spend the night in their warm rooms? But I thanked them for their kind offers and preferred to sleep as usual in the open air. If they could get us fuel and food we should be much obliged.
They bowed and disappeared in their maze of staircases, and presently came back with sacks full of dung,brushwood, and billets, and soon a grand fire was burning on the terrace. They kindled it themselves, for our matches and tinder were quite useless. Then they went off to fetch some eatables, for the contents of our packet of provisions were turned into paste by the water.
Meanwhile we made ourselves comfortable on the narrow strip of ground below the monastery. Two large caves opened into the terrace, their vaults black with smoke, for pilgrims and herdsmen spend the night in them. They would have sheltered us from the wind, but they were so dirty that we preferred to pitch our camp at the edge of the bank. It was wet with rain, but we scraped out dry sand with our hands. The boat was taken to pieces and emptied—it was half full of water—and then it was set up by the fire as a screen.
When the fire had burned up and was glowing hot, we stripped ourselves stark naked, wrung out one garment after another, and crouched by the fire to dry our under-clothing and ourselves. Each had to look after himself, for we were all in the same plight. I spread out my things as near as possible to the fire and hung them over the oars and life-buoys to expose them to the wind and heat. Meanwhile I dried my woollen vest bit by bit, turned it inside out, held it to the fire on this side and that, out and inside, and when it was quite dry put it on again. Then came the turn of my unmentionables, then of my stockings, and so on. Nothing could be done with the leather waistcoat and the fur coat; they would not be dry by night, but what did it matter? It was at any rate better here than in the crystal halls of the lake king.
It is still broad daylight, but the storm rages, Gurla Mandatta and all the country to the south has disappeared, for the gale is passing off in that direction. There is fine close rain again. Falcons scream in the holes of the pebbly slopes—dangerous neighbours for the bluish-grey pigeons cooing on the rocks.
The monks came down again with sweet and sour milk andtsamba, tea we had ourselves, and the simple dinner tasted delicious. Then we sat a couple of hours by the fire while the storm continued. I dried my diaryand entered the notes which form the contents of this chapter. Between whiles Shukkur Ali entertained me with stories of his adventures during his travels in the service of Younghusband and Wellby. Now that he had escaped death by the skin of his teeth, the past returned more vividly to his memory, and when once he was started on his reminiscences he could not be stopped, good old Shukkur Ali. I listened with one ear and wrote with the other—I had almost said—not to appear uninterested; and, after all, the chief thing to Shukkur Ali was that he could prattle.
At last the northern sky becomes clear, and all the mountains are white with snow; before only Kailas and its next neighbours were distinguished by white caps, but now all is white. We are certainly past the early days of August, but is it possible that autumn is already beginning? The summer has been so short that we have hardly had time to get accustomed to it.
Another night falls on the earth. Impenetrable darkness surrounds us, and only in the zenith a few stars sparkle. The swell still roars against the strand, but Tso-mavang is gently falling asleep. Above us towers the monastery on its steep wall like a fortress, and the monks have retired to rest. The falcons are heard no more, and the pigeons have sought their nests.