MY JOURNEY TO LHASA.
The Personal Story of the only 
White Woman Who Succeeded 
in Entering the Forbidden City.
BY 
ALEXANDRA DAVID NEEL.

(This made as audiobook for personal use from text found online, and may be scanning mistakes here, 
which creates a partially incomprehensible translation. Pdf can be found online of this book for following the reading here if desired.)

INTRODUCTION.


My travels in remote parts of Asia, including my fifth 
expedition, a journey to Tibet, of which I give a short 
account in the present book, were undertaken as the result of 
certain peculiar circumstances, and a brief resume of these 
may not be uninteresting to the reader. « 

Ever since I was five years old, a tiny precocious child of 
Paris, I wished to move out of the narrow limits in which, like 
all children of my age, I was then kept. I craved to go beyond 
the garden gate, to follow the road that passed it by, and to 
set out for the Unknown. But, strangely enough, this “Unknown” 
fancied by my baby mind always turned out to be a 
solitary spot where I could sit alone, with no one near, and 
as the road toward it was closed to me I sought solitude behind 
any bush, any mound of sand, that I could find in the garden, 
or wherever else my nurse took me. 

Later on, I never asked my parents for any gifts except 
books on travel, maps, and the privilege of being taken abroad 
during my school holidays. When a girl, I could remain for 
hours near a railway line, fascinated by the glittering rails and 
fancying the many lands toward which they fed. But, again, 
my imagination did not evoke towns, buildings, gay crowds, 
or stately pageants; I dreamed of wild hills, immense deserted 
steppes and impassable landscapes of glaciers! 

When grown up, although I was in no sense a sedentary 
scholar, my love of Oriental philosophy and of comparative 
religion won me a position as a writer and a lecturer in a Bekgian university. 

I had already travelled in the East when, in 1910, I was 
commissioned by the French Ministry of Education to proceed 
to India and Burma to make some Oriental researches. 
At that time the ruler of Tibet, the Dalai lama, had, fled 
from his capital, because of political troubles with China, and 
had taken refuge in an Himalayan village in British Bhutan, 
called Kalimpong. 

Tibet was not altogether unfamiliar to me. I had been a 
pupil of the Sanskrit and Tibetan scholar. Professor Edouard 
Foucaux, of the College de France, and knew something of 
Tibetan literature. Naturally, I wanted to see the Tibetan  
Pope king and his court. 

I was informed by the British Resident that this was not 
easy. For up to that time this exalted lama had obstinately 
refused to receive foreign ladies. But I had managed to secure 
preying letters of introduction from high Buddhist personages, 
and the result was that the desire of the Dalai lama to see 
me grew even stronger than mine to see him! 

Around the monk sovereign, I found a strange royal house 
hold of clerical personages, clad in shining yellow satin, dark; 
red cloth, and gold brocade, who related fantastic stories and; 
spoke of a wonderland. Although when listening to them I' 
wisely made a liberal allowance for legend and exaggeration, I 
instinctively felt that behind those dark wooded hills which 
I saw before me, and the huge snowy peaks which pointed 
their lofty heads beyond them, there was, truly, a land different from all others.
 Needless to say, my heart leaped with 
the desire to enter it! It was in June of the year 1912 that I 
had my first glimpse of Tibet. The path which I had preferred 
to the road most usually taken starts from a low point 
in Sikkim, amid tropical vegetation, wild orchids, and the 
living fireworks of fireflies. Gradually, as one climbs, the 
scenery changes, nature becomes severe, the singing of birds 
and the noisy buzzing of insects subside. " The huge trees, in 
their turn, are unable to struggle in the rarefied air of the 
summits. With each mile the forest becomes more stunted, 
till the shrubs are reduced to the size of dwarfs creeping on 
the ground, while still higher up they cannot even continue 
to exist. The traveller is left amidst rocks richly embroidered 
with brightly coloured lichens, cold water falls, half frozen 



lakes and giant glaciers. Then from the Sepo pass one suddenly
 discovers the immensity of the trans Himalayan table 
land of Tibet, with its distant horizon of peaks bathed in 
strange mauve and orange hues, and carrying queerly shaped 
caps of snow upon their mighty heads. 

What an unforgettable vision! I was at last in the calm 
solitudes of which I had dreamed since my infancy. I felt 
as if I had come home after a tiring, cheerless pilgrimage. 

However, the very peculiar natural aspect of Tibet is not 
the only reason for the attraction which that country has exercised over me. Like many Oriental scholars, of whom Lam 
but an humble colleague, I deeply regret the loss, in their 
Sanskrit original, of a number of Mahayanist Buddhist Scriptures. 
These are more or less available in Chinese translations,
but what is the extent of the Tibetan translation and 
what original philosophic and mystic works have been written 
by Tibetan authors, either in accordance with Mahayanist 
doctrines or contrary to them, is as much Terra incognito as the 
land of Tibet itself. Thus, hunting after books and old manuscripts and seeking meetings with the literati of the country 
became my self assigned task. Anyhow, things could not end 
there. The unsuspected is the daily fare of the traveller in 
Tibet, and my researches led me face to face with a world
still more amazing than the landscapes I had beheld from the 
high passes through which one enters Tibet. I refer to the 
mystic anchorites, the dwellers on the frozen summits. But this 
is a subject to be treated elsewhere. 

strange as the fact may appear, I must confess that, unlike 
most travellers who have attempted to reach Lhasa, and 
have failed to reach their goal, I never entertained a strong 
desire to visit the sacred lamaist city. I had, as I have said, 
met the Dalai lama, and as for researches regarding the literature, philosophy, and secret lore of Tibet, these things could 
be pursued more profitably amongst the literal and mystics 

in the freely accessible and more intellectual parts of north 
eastern Tibet, than in the capital, 
so What decided me to go to Lhasa was, above all,’ the absurd 
prohibition which closes Tibet. A prohibition, one could 
hardly think it possible that extends over a gradually increasing
 area Is now placed on foreigners who wish to cross territories over which they could travel at will a few years ago, and where, in a still more ancient period, missionaries have 
even owned properties.

As an instance, the French traveller, M. Bacot, crossed the Tsarong: 
province and visited Menkong in 1909. Captain F. Kingdom Ward 
visited the same region in 1911 and again in 1914. (In 1924 he went 
to Pemakoichen, being at that time commissioned by the British Government or, at least, allowed by it to travel in Tibet.) 

In 1860 the French Roman Catholic missionaries had established several 
 quarters in the Tsarong province. 

 
M. Fernand Grenard, Sven Hedin and others, who failed in their attempts 
to reach Lhasa, had nevertheless crossed part of the northern Tibetan  
solitudes before being stopped. No one, nowadays, could openly proceed 
so far in the country. 

But, in more remote periods, Lhasa itself has been open to those who 
did not shrink from the hardships of such a journey. Several missionaries 
and lay travellers not only entered the sacred lamaist city but made prolonged stays there. To support my statement, I quote here what has been 
written on the subject by Edmund Candler, who accompanied the British 
military expedition to Lhasa in 1904; 

“It must be remembered that Tibet has not always been closed to 
strangers. Until the end of the 18th century, only physical obstacles 
stood in the way of an entry to the capital. Jesuits and Capuchins 
reached Lhasa, made long stays there and were even encouraged by the 
Tibetan  Government. The first Europeans to visit the city and leave 
an authentic record of their journey were the Fathers Grueber and 
d’Orville, who penetrated Tibet from China in 1661 by the Sining 
road and stayed in Lhasa two months , Friar Oderic of Portone is supposed to have visited Lhasa in 1325, but the authenticity of this record is 
open to doubt. In 1715 the Jesuits Desideri and Freyre reached Lhasa and stayed there thirteen years. In 1719, arrived Horace de la 
Panacea and the Capuchin Mission, who built a chapel and a hospice, made 
several converts and were not finally expelled till 1740. The Dutchman 
Van der Putte, first lay than to penetrate to the capital, arrived in 1720, 
and stayed there some years. After this we have no record of a European 
reaching Lhasa until the journey of Thomas Manning, the first 
and only Englishman to reach the city before this year. Manning arrived 
in the' retinue of a Chinese general whom he had met at Phari Jong and 
whose gratitude he had won for medical services. 
My wanderings in Tibet began with a few excursions 
across the tableland which extends immediately to the north 
of the Himalayas. A few years later I paid a visit to the 
Penchen lama,, better known to foreigners under the name of 
Tashi lama. I was most cordially welcomed. The high lama 
wished me to stay with him for a long time, if not forever. 
He offered me free access to all libraries, and a lodging either 
in a nunnery or in a hermitage or in a house in the town of 
Shigatze itself. I knew, alas! that he was not in a position to 
carry out his kind intentions,, and that I could not, therefore, 
take advantage of the wonderful opportunity he wanted to give 
me for Oriental research. 

The Tashi lama is a learned, enlightened, and liberal 
minded man. People who are not in the least acquainted 
with him have said that he is a backward and superstitious 
monk, the enemy of foreigners and all that pertains to Western civilization. This is completely wrong. It may be that 
the great lama of Tashilhumpo does not like one particular 
nation, that he resents the servitude in which the British government keeps his country. No one can blame him for being a patriot, and it is still more difficult to find fault with him 
because, as a Buddhist, he is a pacifist and does not encourage 
those who increase each year the taxes paid by the poorest 
villagers in order to support the ridiculous army they have been 
led to organize to serve the interests of the very people who 
seize their land. 

A Westerner may have ideas about the necessity or usefulness of colonization, the subjection of less civilised people, and be somewhat justified in his views. But the Asiatic who sees 
his country enslaved is still more justified in lacking friendly 
months in the capital. in 1846 the Lazarist missionaries Hue and 
Gabet reached Lhasa.” Unveiling of Lhasa,

These two French priests were the last travellers to enter Lhasa freely. 
After the British expedition, apart from political officers and their doctors, no foreigner has been allowed to go to Lhasa. 

Amongst Europeans who went to Tibet, may also be named Bogle in 
1774 and Turner in 1753. These two did not visit Lhasa. They were sent from India to Shigatze  as emissaries of Warren Hastings to the Tashi lama, 

As for myself, I profoundly despise everything which is connected with politics, and carefully avoid mixing in such matters. 
"In writing this I only wish to do justice to my kind host. 
If he had been the ruler of Tibet, instead of being compelled to fly from Tashilhumpo to save his life, he would have gladly opened the country to explorers, savants and all honest and well meaning travellers. 

As a result of my visit to Shigatze, the inhabitants of a village situated about twelve miles down the hill from the hermit age where I lived had to pay immediately a fine amounting to 
two hundred rupees for having failed to inform the British 
authorities of my departure. The Resident who sentenced 
them did not take the trouble to consider that these men had 
no knowledge whatever of my move, since I started from a 
monastery situated in Tibetan  territory, three or four days
march away from their village. The latter revenged them 
selves, according to their primitive mentality of savages, in 
partly looting my cottage. I complained in vain. No justice 
was accorded me and I was given fourteen days to leave the 
country. 

These uncivilised proceedings made me wish to retaliate, but 
in a witty way, befitting the spirit of the great city in which 
I had the privilege of being born. 

A few years later, while travelling in Kham, I fell ill and 
wished to proceed to Bhatang to be nursed there by the foreign 
doctors at the Mission hospital. Bhatang is an important 
Tibetan  town under Chinese control, as is also Kanze, in 
which neighbourhood I happened to be at that time. But since 
the Lhasa troops had conquered the region between these two 
places, it had been declared forbidden to foreigners. 
The officer in charge of the frontier post enquired if I carried a permit from the British consul at Tachienlu. The 
Tibetan  town at the extremity of the Kham province, being 
included in Szetchuan. 

“Great Man of Tachienlu,” he called him. With this permit, 
he added, I could go wherever I liked in Tibet, but he could 
not let me proceed without it. 

However, I continued on my way, only to be stopped a few 
days later and to be told again about the “Great Man of 
Tachienlu,” holder of the keys of the “Forbidden Land.” In 
the meantime my health grew worse. I explained my case 
quite freely to the Tibetan  officials with all the realistic 
details necessary to describe a severe attack of enteric, in 
which the language of Tibet Is indeed rich. But it was of no 
use. The fear of the “Great Man of Tachienlu” overpowered 
the natural kindness of the terrorized officers with whom I had 
to deal. But although I had to give up all hope of being 
attended by the doctors at Bhatang, I refused energetically to 
retrace my steps, as I was ordered to do. I decided to go 
to Jakyendo, a market town situated on the Lhasa road, beyond 
the conquered area, still in the hands of the Chinese. Jakyendo 
lies at the extreme south east of the “Desert of Grass”; I knew 
that I could find there , if I lived to reach it , the pure milk 
and curd which might cure me. Moreover, I suspected that 
a trip through the territory newly brought under the Lhasa 
rule might prove interesting. I therefore kept firm to my 
resolve. A full account of the days spent in argument would 
sound like an epic poem of olden days, half comic, half sad. 
At last; when each and all had clearly understood that unless 
they shot me they could not prevent me from  going to 
Jakyendo, I went on my way through the newly forbidden 
enclave. My hopes were not disappointed; that trip was 
interesting in all respects, and became the starting point of a  period of wanderings truly wonderful. 

While at Jakyendo I met an unfortunate Danish traveller 
who, like a number of others, had been stopped near Chang 
Nachuka, the frontier post on the trade route from Mongolia 
to Lhasa.' That gentleman, as his journey had been cut. short 
against his will, wished to return quickly to Shanghai. The road 
he should have followed crosses the very tract of land on 
which I had fought my battle with the authorities. Before
he had even reached it, soldiers who had been posted to watch 
the. passage prevented him from going forward. The poor 
traveller turned out to be another “Wandering Jew” and was 
compelled to recross the “Desert of Grass”. 

He had to organize a caravan to carry food and baggage 
for a journey lasting at least one month, through a wild region 
which has a particularly bad name for being haunted by large 
gangs of armed robbers. And even then he reached the extreme 
north-west of the Chinese border, while he had wanted to 
come through to the coast. This meant another journey of 
about two months! 

This meaningless tour could have been avoided by following the direct road, which can be travelled in a sedan chair, without any caravan, food and inns being found on every 
days march. Thus half the total time would have been saved. 
Such stories as this were not without their effect upon me. 
More than ever I decided to enter once more this land so 
jealously guarded. I therefore planned to reach the banks of 
the Salween, and to visit the “hot valleys” of Tsawarong and 
Tsarong. Would I have gone from there to Lhasa? Perhaps, 
but more likely I would have followed some track toward 
Lutzekiang or Zayul and travelled, in an opposite direction, a 
part of the much longer journey which I was to complete 
successfully eighteen months later. 

I started from Jakyendo at the end of the winter, travelling 
on foot and accompanied by only one servant. Most passes 
were blocked by the snow, and we experienced dreadful hard 
ships in negotiating some of them. We had happily surmounted material obstacles, crossed the frontier post under 
the very windows of the official who guarded it, and were nearing the Salween, when we were stopped. I myself had not been detected, but my luggage, containing some instruments 
and various requisites for botanical research, betrayed me. This 
small caravan was in charge of Mr. Yongden, a young Tibetan, the faithful companion of many of my journeys, and my 
adopted son. Though he travelled several days’ march behind 
me and trusted to be taken as a trader, the contents of the 
boxes he carried revealed his connection with me. He was 
stopped; men were despatched to look for me through the 
country, and thus my trip was brought to an end. 

was then that the idea of visiting Lhasa really became 
implanted in my mind. Before the frontier post to which 
I had been escorted I took an oath that in spite of all obstacles I would reach Lhasa and show what the \rill of a woman could achieve! But I did not think only of avenging my own 
defeats. I wanted the right to exhort others to pull down 
the antiquated barriers which surround, in the center of Asia, 
a vast area extending approximately from 79 to 99 degrees longitude. 

Had I spoken after my attempts had failed, some might 
have thought that I did it out of vexation. Now that success 
has been mine, I can calmly expose the obscure situation of 
Tibet today. Perhaps some of those who read of it, will 
remember that if “heaven is the Lord’s,” the earth is the 
Inheritance of man, and that consequently any honest traveller 
has the right to walk as he chooses, all over that globe which 
is his. 

Before ending, I wish to assure my many English friends 
that my criticism of the part their government has played in 
this situation is not the outcome of bad feelings against the 
English nation as a whole. Quite the opposite. I have, from 
my early youth, when I spent my school holidays on the 
Kentish coast, liked the company of English people, as well 
as their ways. My long stay in the East has greatly increased 
that feeling, to which I now add a sincere gratitude for so many 
hearty welcomes in so many houses' where kind ladies have 
endeavoured to make me feel as if I were in my real home. 
In their country, just as in mine or in any other one, the policy 
of the government does not always represent the best side of 
the nation’s mind. I suppose that the citizens of Great Britain 
and the Dominions are as little acquainted with the demons 
proceedings of political offices regarding far-off colonies or protectorates, as is the rest of the world. It follows that they 
cannot resent criticisms which are not addressed to them. 


What I have said may even astonish many of them, especially Christian missionaries, who may rightly ask why a self 
styled Christian nation should forbid the entrance of the Bible 
and its preachers into a land where she is at liberty to send 
her troops and to sell her guns. 

I must add a word regarding the spelling of the Tibetan  
names in this book. I have merely given them phonetically, 
without trying to follow the Tibetan  spelling, which is very 
misleading for those who are not acquainted with that language and capable of reading it in its own peculiar characters. 
As an Instance I will say that the word pronounced naljor is 
written the name of dolma is written sgrolma, and 
so on. As for the name Tibet, it may be interesting to know 
that it is a word unknown in the Tibetan  language. Its origin is not quite clearly traced, but Tibetans ignore it completely. 

CHAPTER 1.

Farewell! We are off! At the 
bend of the path I look back once more, one last time. 
Standing at the gate of his residence I see the foreign mission 
are who welcomed Yongden and me a few days ago when, 
without being in the least acquainted with him, we begged his 
hospitality. Some anxiety may be detected in his kind smile 
and his intent gaze. To what extent have we succeeded in 
deceiving that most excellent man? I cannot tell. He does' 
not know the object of our journey, there is no doubt about 
that. But the programme we laid before him was vague 
enough to awaken the suspicion that we were trying to conceal 
the fact that we were to undertake a dangerous expedition! 
Where would we be going, alone, on foot and without luggage, 
he wonders. He cannot guess, and I am certain that the 
names of the mysterious wayfarers who slept for a few nights 
under his roof will be remembered in his prayers. May his 
own wishes be ever fulfilled! May he be blessed for the 
warmth that his cordiality adds to the glorious sunshine that 
lights my fifth departure for the forbidden “Land of Snow!” 

Farewell! We have turned the corner of the road, the 
Mission House is out of sight. The adventure begins. 

This is, as I have said, my fifth journey into Tibet, and 
very different, indeed, have been the circumstances and manner 
of these successive departures. Some have been joyful, enlivened by the babbling and broad laughter of the servants and a country folk, the jingling of the bells hung on the moles’ necks, 

and that rough yet gay fuss that the people of Central Asia 
so love. Others were touching, grave, almost solemn, when, 
dressed in the full lamaist garb of dark purple and golden 
brocade, I blessed the villagers or the dokpas, who had congregated to pay for the last time their respects to the Kandhomaa of foreign land. I have also known tragic departures, 
when blizzards raged in the solitudes, sweeping across awe 
inspiring white landscapes of impassable snow and ice, soon 
to be wrapped again in dead silence. But this time the bright 
sun of the Chinese autumn shines in a deep blue sky, and the 
green wooded hills seem to beckon us, promising pleasant walks 
and happy days. With our two coolies carrying a small tent 
and an ample supply of food, we look as if we were starting 
for a mere tour of a week or two. In fact, this is precisely 
what we have told the good villagers whom we have just left, 
namely, that we are going for a botanical excursion in the 
neighbouring mountains. 

What would be the end of this new attempt? I was full of 
hope. A previous experience had proved to me that in the 
disguise of a poor traveller I could escape notice. But although 
we had already succeeded in leaving quietly behind the bag 
gage brought with us to cross China, we had yet to assume 
our full disguise and, (most difficult task), to get rid of the 
two coolies whom we were compelled to take with us to avoid 
the gossip which would certainly have spread In the Mission 
House amongst the servants and neighbours, had they seen 
a European lady setting out with a load upon her back. 

I had, however, already thought of a way of freeing myself 
from the coolies. My plan depended, it is true, upon certain circumstances over which I had no control, and any little unforeseen incident might wreck it; but I could not think of 
a better one, and so relied upon my good luck. 

We had started late, and our first stage was rather short. 
We encamped on a small and sheltered tableland near which 
one could get a beautiful view of the highest peak of the 
Kha Karpo rangea. The place is called “the Vultures' Cemetery because once a year the Chinese slaughter hundreds of 
these birds there to procure their feathers, with which they do 
a big trade. They attract the birds with the carcass of a horse 
or a mule as bait, capture them with nets, and when the poor 
creatures are caught in the meshes they beat them to death. 
The plucked bodies are then used as bait to snare other vultures, which in turn share the fate of the first comers. This plucking of vultures' feathers lasts for a whole month amidst 
putrefaction and pestilence./ Happily, when I reached that I 
spot it was not the vulture killing season, and I saw only | 
heaps of bleached bones amongst the short and thorny vegetation which covers the ground. 

Dokfas: literally, inhabitants of the solitudes, the cowmen who do not 
practice husbandry. 
Footnote. A kind of incarnated fairy. 

Nature has a language of its own, or maybe those who 
have lived long in solitude read in it their own unconscious. 
inner feelings and mysterious foreknowledge. The majesty 
Kha Karpo, towering in a clear sky lit by a full moon, did not 
appear to me that evening as the menacing guardian of an 
impassable frontier. It looked more like a worshipful but 
affable Deity, standing at the threshold of a mystic land, ready 
to welcome and protect the adventurous lover of Tibet. 

The next morning I saw again the huge peak of Kha Karpo 
shining at sunrise, and it seemed to smile encouragement to me 
with all its glittering snows. I saluted it and accepted the omen. 

That night I slept at the entrance of a gorge in ’which a 
tributary of the Mekong roared loudly , a wild, picturesque 
spot inclosed between dark reddish rocks. The morrow was 
to be a decisive day. It would see me at the foot of the track 
that leads to the Dokar Pass which has become the frontier of 
the selfstyled “Independent Tibet.” My scheme was to be 
tested there. Would it work as I hoped? Would the coo 
lies leave me without suspecting anything of my designs? 
Would the situation of that village of Londre, about which I 
had but little information, favour an escape by night over a 
small path leading, higher up on the hills, to the pilgrimage 
road round the Kha Karpo, which crosses the Dokar Pass? 

A number of questions arose in my mind, each with its 
own anxiety. However, as I lay on the ground, in the small 
tent that Yongdeh had made himself in the Lolos’ country, 
that particular happy feeling of ease and freedom which the 
stay in solitary places always brings to me wrapped my mind 
in bliss and I went to sleep calm as a child lulled by fairy tales. 

Next morning, leaving my old friend, the Mekong, we 
turned westward through the rocky gorge at the entrance of 
which we had slept. Soon it opened out into a narrow, densely 
wooded valley. The weather was sunny and walking easier. 
We passed two mounted Tibetan traders, who gave us scarcely 
a glance. Perhaps they thought we were Chinamen, for Yong 
den and I both wore Chinese dresses. Nevertheless this first 
meeting, precursor of the many which were to follow, gave us 
a little shock. Although we were yet in that part of Tibet, 
still under Chinese rule, wherein foreigners can travel freely, 
though at their own risk, it was most important that rumours 
of my wanderings in the neighbourhood of the border should 
'not spread. For the Tibetan  officials, once warned and on 
the alert, would have the road carefully watched, which would 
greatly increase the difficulties of our entering the forbidden 
area. 

, A little before noon we came in sight of Londre. Had we 
been alone, Yongden and I, we could have easily avoided passing through the village by hiding ourselves in the wood until evening. ' It would have saved us much trouble and fatigue, 
for between the steep slopes of the Kha Karpo range which we 
were about to climb, there was but the width of this torrential 
river which we had followed upwards and crossed several times 
in the narrow gorge. But such a thing was out of the question, 
for I had expressly told the coolies that I intended to go into the 
country of the Loutze tribes to collect plants, and the road to 
Lutz Kiang went through Londre and there turned in a direction exactly opposite to the Kha Karpo. 

Very disturbed, and reflecting that each step added a difficulty to my approaching flight, I followed the two Tibetans who meant to take me to a wooded tableland about ten miles 
higher, where they knew of a good camping ground. As far 
as they could see; Yongden and I scarcely cast a glance at the 
country in the direction of the Dokar Pass; but in reality we 
did our best to impress on our memory the shape and peculiarities of the landscape which would help us when we had to cross it on the next night. 

Our passage in Londre was as inconspicuous as we could 
have wished. Not one of the villagers whom we met appeared 
to take any particular notice of us. This most happy circumstance was perhaps due to the fact that an American 
naturalist worked in the vicinity and employed a large number 
of people. No doubt the villagers thought that we were on 
our way to join him as assistants. 

After having proceeded for a few miles on the Lutz Kiang 
path, turning my back to my real goal, I thought it imprudent 
to proceed farther. Safety required that plenty of time be 
allowed for the long tramp on the opposite side of Londre, so 
that dawn should find us far away from the village, having, 
if possible, reached the pilgrimage road. Once there, we could 
easily pretend to have come from any northern Tibetan  part 
we cared to name, in order to get round the Sacred Mountain. 

I had hesitated a long time in choosing the road I would 
take in order to enter independent Tibet. The one I preferred, or perhaps I should say the one which circumstances 
seemed to be thrusting upon me, is followed every autumn by 
many travellers. By taking it I foresaw that I should run 
the danger of frequent meetings. Not that this inconvenience 
was without its favourable aspect, since our tracks could 
be more easily lost amongst those of pilgrims from various 
Tibetan  regions, each of whom spoke in different dialect, and 
whose womenfolk had a variety of different dress and coiffures. 
The little peculiarities of my accent, my features, or my clothes 
would more easily be overlooked on such a road, and if enquiries were to be made, they would have to embrace so many people that confusion might very likely follow to my advantage. 
But of course I sincerely hoped that no enquiry would be made, 
and that we should meet as few people as possible during the 
first few weeks of our trek. 

We had reached a point where the road commanded the view 
of the valley at the entrance of which Londre was built. It 
was covered with a dense jungle in the middle of which flowed 
a clear stream. A trail descended to it from the road, and it 
was here that I paused for a few minutes, wondering once 
more how I should get rid of my two unwanted followers. I 
soon made up my mind. 

“My feet are swollen and sore,” I said to the men. “I can 
not walk any longer. Let us go down near the stream, and 
we will make tea and camp.” 

They were not astonished. Truly my feet had been hurt 
by my Chinese rope sandals, and the coolies had seen them 
bleeding when I had washed them in a stream. 

We went down, and I chose a small clearing surrounded by 
thick bushes and there pitched my tent. The presence of the 
water, and the protection afforded against the wind by the 
thickets would certainly have justified my choice of the spot 
had the two peasants or any other persons questioned me about 
the selection of this rather gloomy place. 

A fire was lighted, and I gave the coolies a good meal. 
Yongden and I endeavoured to swallow a little tsampaa 
although the imminence of our departure, the fear of seeing 
our plans upset at the last minute, had left us little appetite. 
However, when the meal was finished, I ordered one of the 
men to go up the hill to cut some dry logs, since only twigs 
could be found near us. When he had gone I explained to 
his companion that I had no need of him because I meant 
to stay there about a week collecting plants on the neighbouring mountains, before I went to Lull Kiang. When necessary, I added, I would hire a man from the villagers of Londre 
to carry my luggage. He understood and, well pleased with 
good wages, he started immediately for home, convinced, of 
course that the man who had gone to cut the wood would 
remain to attend on me. 
Flour made of roasted barley, the staple food of Tibetans. 
The latter was told exactly the same thing, when he came 
back with the wood, but as I did not want him to meet his 
companion for some time, lest they should discuss my strange 
plan of camping alone, I added that, as I could not proceed at 
once to Lutz Kiang, he was to carry there a letter and a 
parcel. From there, he could return to his village by a direct 
road, without coming back to Londre. 

The parcel contained a few clothes, a gift to the poor. Must 
I relate that, shut in the small tent, Yongden and I had again 
examined our baggage and, finding it still too heavy, we had 
given up the waterproof groundsheet that was meant to keep 
us, when sleeping, from direct contact with the damp or frozen 
ground? Yongdon and I discarded also the only pieces of spare 
clothing we had kept. Nothing was now left us except the 
clothes we were wearing. We had not even a blanket, although 
we knew that, during the winter, we should have to cross 
high, snowy ranges, passes of over 18,000 feet; and as much 
food as possible had to be carried, since we did not wish to 
show ourselves in the villages for at least a fortnight. Later 
on, when crossing desert regions, a full load of provisions would 
again be indispensable; success and even life might depend 
upon it. 

The small package was addressed to a missionary whom I 
had never seen and who had probably never beard of me. 
Such was my plan of ridding myself of my last coolie. He 
went away, as satisfied as his comrade, with a few dollars in 
his pocket, believing that the other peasant had been sent on 
some errand in the neighbourhood from which he would return 
before evening. 

What these two said, a few days later, when they met after 
having rounded the same range, one on the northern and 
his friend on the southern side, must have been amusing, but 
I never heard it! 

All necessary arrangements had been made. We stood, 
Yongden and I, in the thick jungle, alone and free. The novelty of our situation bewildered us a little. For months, during the long journey from the sands of Gobi to Yunnan, we had been discussing the way in which we could “disappear,” as we used to say, and assume other personalities. Now, the 
hour had come and we were to start that very night for the 
Dokar Pass which now forms the border of independent 
Tibet. 

“Let us drink a cup of tea,” I said to the young lama, “and 
then you will start on a scouting tour. At any rate, we should 
reach the foot of the Kha Karpo track without meeting any 
body, and be out of sight from the village before daybreak.” 

Hastily I revived the fire. Yongden brought water from 
the stream, and we prepared the Tibetan  tea, with butter 
and salt, in the simple manner of poor travellers who cannot 
enjoy the luxury of a churn to mix it. 

I may as well explain immediately the composition of our 
cantine. We had only one aluminium pot, which was our kettle, 
teapot, and saucepan all in one. There was also one lama 
wooden bowl for Yongden, an aluminium bowl for myself, 
two spoons, and a Chinese travelling case containing one long 
knife and chopsticks, which could be hung from the belt. That 
was all. We did not intend to indulge in refined cooking. 
Our meals were to be those of the common Tibetan  travellers; 
that is to say, tsampa, mixed with buttered tea, or eaten nearly 
dry, kneaded with butter. When circumstances would allow, 
we would make a soup. Forks were useless with such a diet, 
and even our two cheap spoons could not be produced freely, 
as they were of a foreign pattern such as only affluent Tibetans 
possess. Arjopas (pilgrims travelling on foot and often begging 
their food), as we pretended to be, have none. In fact, these 
spoons became, later on, the occasion of a short drama in which 
I nearly killed a man. I shall tell the story in due course. 

The tea drunk, Yongden started. Hours passed; night had 
fallen. I remained seated near the fire which I did not dare 
to let blaze, fearing that it might be seen from afar and betray 
our presence. The remains of the tea, kept as a last cordial 
to cheer our departure, were shimmering on the embers; the rising moon tinged with bluish and russet hues the melancholy depths of the valley. All was silence and solitude. 
Footnote. Elevation,  Eighteen thousand four hundred feet above sea level. 

What had I dared to dream?. verpower my mind. 
Whatever might be the future, I would not shrink from it. 

‘Stop here! Go no farther! Such were the commands of 
a few Western politicians, to explorers, savants, missionaries, 
scholars, to all, in fact, except their agents, who travelled freely, 
wherever they were sent, in this so-called “Forbidden Land.' 
What right had they to erect barriers around a country which 
was not even lawfully theirs? Many travellers had been stopped 
on their way to Lhasa, and had accepted failure. I would not. 
I had taken the challenge by my oath on the iron bridge 
and was now ready to show what a woman can do! 

As I was thus musing, Yongden emerged suddenly from the 
bushes. Strangely lit by the moon, he looked a little like a 
legendary mountain spirit. 

Briefly he reported the result of his scouting: To avoid the 
village we should have to cross a rickety footbridge higher up 
the valley, and follow the stream downward on the opposite 
bank. Perhaps it was possible to make a direct descent by 
wading In the river itself past any village house that might be 
perched upon the bank. This would certainly be a short cut, 

we was stopped after a few weeks, journey 
and led me through a very interesting part of the province of Kham. 

I had then every opportunity of studying at first hand the conditions of 
the inhabitants, as the Lhasa government had succeeded in establishing 
complete ascendency there after its victory over the Chinese. 

but, as people were in the fields nearby, he had not been able to 
test the depth of the water. 

Whichever road we might choose, we could not avoid passing 
in front of a few houses between the small bridge on the stream 
flowing out of the valley where we pitched our camp, and the 
large one on the tributary of the Mekong, which we had seen 
on our arrival. 

When we had crossed that second bridge, we could look for 
the bypath which was to lead us to the pilgrimage road. 
Yongden had seen it clearly, winding up the steep slope, but 
he had failed to discover the exact point from which it branched 
from the bank of the river. 

With these vague ideas, I hurriedly set out. It was already 
late and we could not guess how many miles we should have 
to tramp that night until we could reach a spot which afforded 
some degree of safety. 

Was my load heavy on my shoulders? Were its rough 
straps cutting my flesh? Indeed they were! I felt it later, 
but at that moment I was not aware of it. I was aware of 
nothing. I knocked myself against sharp rocks, I tore my 
hands and my face in the thorny bushes. I was dead to all 
sensation, stiffened, hypnotized by the will to succeed. 

For several hours we trudged in the valley. We had first 
climbed up to the main road, and then, skirting isolated farms, 
tried the passage in the stream. It proved impossible at night 
time. The water was rather high, the current swift and breaking against boulders. We should have fallen in two minutes. 
And so we again directed our steps in search of the foot 
bridge. Several times we lost our road. The trails that my 
young friend had marked in the day were difficult to find by 
the dim light of the moon, veiled in mist. At last we found 
ourselves on an easy but very winding track on the opposite 
bank. It led tortuously beside the stream, and we were exasperated by the precious moments lost in following it.«. When at last we caught sight of the village, we put our loads down, 
drank a draught of the clear water that flowed past us, swallowed a granule of strychnine to rouse fresh energy in our tired bodies, and took the dreaded passage on the run. 

A bridge, the houses, the second and larger bridge. 
safely passed. We stood at the foot of the wild and solitary 
hill on which a narrow, twisting trail led to other tracks and 
paths and roads leading into the very heart of Tibet, the 
Forbidden Capital of the Lamas. 

A dog had given a low, suppressed bark when we were near 
the river , a. single dog, in' that village where a dozen or more 
of these rather fierce animals wandered to and fro all night! 
It reminded me of the Indian tales relating the nightly flight 
of those sons of good family, who, in quest of the “Supreme 
Deliverance,” abandon their home to take to the religious life 
of the sannyasin. In order, we read, to make their flight 
easier, “the gods lulled the men to sleep and silenced the dogs.” 
So had it been with me, and smilingly I returned thanks to the 
invisible friends who protected my departure.
In our haste to be off we overlooked a small landslide just 
in front of us, which was in reality the beginning of the bypath 
leading upward that had fallen in. We searched for the road 
along the river bank until we neared a steep gorge which 
afforded no means of ascent and we were thus forced to return 
to the bridge. Another half hour was wasted here; we were 
in full sight of the village and trembled for fear of being 
noticed! Moreover, the right track, which we found a little 
after midnight, happened to be extremely steep and sandy. 
Heavily loaded as we were, we could only make slow progress, 
in spite of our strenuous efforts, being compelled to stop frequently, out of breath. It was terrible, and my feelings could well be compared to those of a nightmare in which the dreamer 
imagines himself to be pursued by murderers and tries his 
utmost to run away, but cannot move his feet! 

Toward the end of the night we reached a gloomy spot 
sheltered by large trees. Our steps awakened a number of big 
birds perched on the branches, which flew away noisily. A 
streamlet flowed nearby and Yongden, who had not enjoyed a 
minute’s rest since the morning of the previous day, craved a 
refreshing bowl of tea. 

Thirst parched my mouth and I shared the desire of my 
companion, but nevertheless I was most reluctant to stop. 
This dark place, the only one where water was obtainable, did 
not appear to me very safe. It might possibly be haunted 
by leopards and panthers, of which there are many on these 
hills. Above all, I wished to put as great a distance as possible 
between us and Londre. Had I been alone, I would have suffered no matter what agony, and would have crept on my 
knees if I could no longer stand, rather than delay a single 
minute. But the exhausted lama’s fatigue overcame prudence. 
Nothing could be done; he fell rather than sat upon the wet 
ground, and I went in search of fuel. 

The hot drink was most comforting. Unfortunately, his new 
sense of well-being lulled my companion to sleep. I could have 
cried. Each minute wasted on that path diminished our 
chances of success. However, in such cases nothing is to be 
done; sleep is a necessity that cannot be resisted. Nevertheless, Yongden was not allowed a long rest and we continued 
on our way. 

The solitude reassured us. The sun had long since risen and 
we were still climbing when we heard a voice above us. Then, 
without exchanging a single word, panic stricken, Yongden and 
I threw ourselves out of the path and rushed like scared game, 
through the thick jungle, our only idea being to escape from 
sight. 

I found myself, without being able to remember how I had 
come there, on an old stony landslide surrounded by thorny 
bushes. Of my companion there was no trace. 

However, he had not gone far and we soon found each other. 
But we did not dare to walk again in broad daylight. Wood 
cutters, cattle drovers, or others might be going down to Londre 
and talk about us there. Pilgrims might perhaps follow that 
path, overtake us, notice something peculiar in our appearance, 
and repeat it in gossip on the other side of the border. We 
expected the worst, anxious to give bad luck as little chance as 

possible. We therefore spent the first day of our journey 
squatting under the trees. From our resting place we could 
hear, higher up. Invisible folk driving equally invisible cattle. 
A woodcutter appeared on an opposite slope. I watched him 
for some time; he sang prettily as he piled his logs and doubtless was not in the least aware of the agony he was causing a foreign woman. The autumn foliage probably screened us 
completely from the gaze of distant observers, and the villagers 
did not suspect our presence. Nevertheless, in my fear of having been seen, I was filled with the most pessimistic ideas. I almost believed that failure was awaiting me and that I had 
come here in vain from far away Turkistan, across the whole 
of China. 

Soon after sunset we began our nocturnal tramp. When 
darkness came we saw several fires higher up on the hill. We 
could not be sure that the winding path which we followed 
would not lead us to them, and we were very much worried. 
Coal men or, perhaps, pilgrims were camped there and the 
prospect of arriving at night amongst Tibetans by the Londre 
track did not please us in the least; for such a meeting would 
have been the occasion for many embarrassing questions from
inquisitive people. 

We remained for a long time seated on the grass in a clearing, waiting for the moon to rise. We could not see the trail, yet all the time we could see these alarming, glowing fires! 
They gave a peculiarly disquieting and demoniacal aspect to the 
black, indistinct landscape of pines and huge rocks jutting 
around them in the dark starlit sky. How thankful we were 
when we saw them far behind us and were certain that we 
could not meet the people near them. 

Soon afterwards we arrived at a small chorten marking the 
junction of our track and the pilgrims road. This is a  Tibetan  monument erected to hold religious objects or the remains of great departed lamas. The latter was 
a rather large mule path, and walking became easy and pleasant. To have reached this spot without meeting anybody was indeed fortunate. If my luck held out, I might, with equal 
 fortune, cross the Dokar Pass and reach the district of Menkong. I could then congratulate myself on having made the most important step toward final success, f6r in that country 
many roads cross, bringing together travellers from various 
directions. Our tracks would be easily lost, and with a little 
cleverness we could lose ourselves in the anonymous mass of 
poor Tibetan  pilgrims whom the officials do not condescend 
to honour with so much as a single glance. 

Thirst was torturing us still more than upon the previous 
night when we reached a large roaring mountain torrent which 
cut across the road. A small bridge spanned it rather high 
above the water which rushed, white with foam, amidst a 
chaos of boulders. Yongden thought only of his thirst, and 
wished to go down the road immediately to drink. This was 
dangerous, since, in the darkness, he could not see the obstacles 
which might cause him to stumble and roll into the torrent, 
which would have immediately carried him away. I demonstrated with the obstinate fellow, but he argued that as water was so scarce, seeing that we had found none since the previous 
night, it was indeed possible it would be hours before we struck 
water again. I could not contradict him, but thirst was preferable to being drowned. I therefore ordered him to cross the footbridge. On the other side, the bank was less steep and 
an easy way down could be seen. Although time was precious, 
and I did not like to light a fire so close to the road, I was 
thinking of halting, when, to our dismay, we heard a voice 
calling us. It was that of a man who offered us red embers 
to kindle a fire, and even a cup of ready-made tea to begin 
with! 

We remained motionless, speechless. We had talked in English a few minutes before. Had that man heard us? 
“Who are you?” asked another voice. “Why are you walking at night?” 

We still could see nobody, but the sound came from a huge 
tree. I thought that it might be hollow and that travellers had 
taken it as hostelry for the night. 

“We are pilgrims,” answered Yongden. Dokpas from 
Amdo. We cannot bear the heat of this country. When we 
walk in the sunshine, we get fever. So we tramp around the 
Holy Hill at night.” 

That was quite a plausible reason. The man who had asked 
the question asked nothing more, but Yongden continued: 
“And you, who are you?” 
“We, too, are pilgrims.” 
“Well, goodbye,” I said, to cut the talk short. “We will 
still walk a little, and camp the next time we find water.” 
So ended the first chance meeting on our way to Lhasa. 
We congratulated each other that it did not happen while we 
were still on the track climbing from Londre, but at the same 
time we learned that even night marches were not absolutely 
secure, and that we had to be prepared at any hour and at any 
place to explain, in a way that awoke no suspicion whatever, 
the reason of our doings. 

We continued our way for several hours without finding 
further traces of water. I felt exhausted and walked mechanically, half asleep. Once I thought that we were approaching 
a hut built on the road and turned over in my mind what I 
would say and do if I met Tibetans. But the “hut” turned 
out to be a passage between two great rocks. At last utter 
exhaustion compelled us to rest. The site was not in the least 
fit for camping; the exceedingly narrow trail skirted a stony, 
natural wall, and, on the other side, ended perpendicularly. 
We lay down on a rocky mattress whose roughness we unpleasantly felt through our clothes and endeavoured to remember 
even in our sleep that we were perched on the edge of a precipice whose depth was unfathomable in the night. 

In such wise we spent the second happy night of our wonderful adventure. Day had not yet broken when Yongden and 
I loaded our burdens on our backs and continued the tramp 
through the forest. More than twenty-four hours had now 
elapsed since we had eaten and drunk. We had not yet become 
accustomed to prolonged fasts, and this first one was hard to 
bear. 
We proceeded as fast as we could in order to reach some 
stream before hiding ourselves for the day. It was a race with 
the sun, which was now rising rapidly. It appeared some 
where above a summit hidden in the thick foliage, and its heat 
soon began to light and warm the underwood. The time had 
come for us to take shelter in the forest. The men whom we 
had met during the night might overtake us, and that would 
mean a long talk, a lot of explanations, and, what was still 
worse, our showing ourselves in broad daylight. 

We crept between the thickets that extended beyond some 
dochoda until we were completely invisible from the path. 
Looking down, I discerned some blue smoke floating far below 
between the trees. A distant noise of running water could 
also be heard. Travellers or woodcutters were enjoying their 
morning meal, an idea which so increased our hunger that 
Yongden decided to risk himself on the road with our kettle 
in search of water. 

While alone,.I hid our baggage under some branches, and 
lay down flat on the dry leaves and threw others over me. 
Any wanderer through the wood could have passed very near 
without detecting my presence. Indeed, this happened to 
Yongden when he came back with his kettle full of wafer. 
I had fallen asleep and he roamed a long time in the jungle 
looking for the place where he had left me. He did not (tare 
to call aloud, and had I not been awakened by the noise he 
made in wading through the dry leaves and got up, he would 
have wandered still longer. 

We had discussed, during the previous night, the question 
of our disguise. Till then we had worn our Chinese robes, 
which would not have compromised us even if I were recognized as a white woman, for, as a rule, all foreigners in these 
remote parts of Tibetan  China dress in this way. But we now 
hoped that no one who could detect us would come along our 
road. Our fellow travellers would probably be pilgrims from 
various regions of Tibet, and our best plan was to merge at 
once in their number, like inconspicuous, common arjopas. 

The arjopas are those mendicant pilgrims who, all through 
the year, ramble in thousands across Tibet, going from one to 
another of its sacred, places. The arjopa, not necessarily, but 
for the most part, belongs to the religious order , either as a 
monk or as a nun. He or she may be a true pauper or even 
a professional beggar, but the mass of them have homes and 
means of subsistence in their own countries, although they can 
not afford to ride on horseback during their pious journeys. 

Some arjopas start without any money and rely entirely upon 
charity during their pilgrimages; others are not entirely penniless, but keep carefully the few coins they possess for the unlucky days when almsgivers are few or none. A third category Is rich enough to purchase the simple food of the ordinary Tibetan  diet. However, for the most part, the pilgrim passes 
easily from one to another of these different classes. A lama capable of reading the Scriptures, who can perform the different lamaist ceremonies, and can, above all, act as exorcist 
and fortuneteller, may at any time find himself so well provided with food, clothing, and even money, that he may dispense with begging for several months. On the other hand, the owner of a heavy purse may fall, be delayed on his 
way by other circumstances, or be robbed , a thing which happens frequently , and have to take his place, in the same day, amongst the poorest of his colleagues. 

I had chosen to travel as an arjopa because it is the best 
disguise to pass without attracting notice. Yongden, who is 
an authentic and well-read lama, looked his part perfectly, 
and I, his aged mother, who had undertaken a long pilgrimage 
for devotional reasons, constituted a rather touching and sym 
pathetic figure. These considerations had their full weight 
when I decided upon our disguises, but , and why should I not 
confess it?, the absolute freedom of the arjopa, who, like 
Diogenes, carries all his possessions with him, and who is 
free from the care of servants, horses, luggage, sleeping each 
night where he pleases, attracted me greatly. I had had a 
taste of it during a previous short trip in Kham, and wished 
to enjoy it more fully and longer. And now that I have thoroughly experienced the joys and the hardship of the arjopcas 
life in Tibet, I deem it to be the most blessed existence one 
can dream of, and I consider as the happiest in my life those 
days when, with a load upon my back, I wandered as one of 
the countless tribe of Tibetan  beggar pilgrims. 

‘ After a copious meal of tsampa, dried meat and buttered tea, 
we began to disguise ourselves. After all, was it really a disguise? Yongden clad himself as a lama, as he did when residing 
in a monastery. As for me, I had for years accustomed myself 
to wearing Tibetan  clothes, the only novelty being in the 
coarseness of the plain white lay dress I put on for the 
journey. 

The headgear caused me some little annoyance. I had 
brought no hat from Amdo, thinking that I would purchase 
one at Atunze. But I did not pass that town, and I could 
not find a hat In any of the villages on our way. For the 
time being, an old red belt would suffice, twisted around my 
head in the fashion of the Lutzchiang. The boots which I 
had brought from Kham showed, as well as the peculiar 
material of my dress, that we hailed from that province and 
provided me with a certificate of Tibetan  nationality. 

Two years previously, in another attempt of the same kind, 
I had cut my plaits; now, in the part of a lay woman, I 
required’ long ones. I therefore lengthened mine, which had 
not yet grown long enough, with jetblack yakas a hair, and 
in order to match that colour I rubbed a wet stick of Chinese 
ink on my own brown hair. I hung large earrings on my 
ears, and they altered my appearance. Finally I powdered my 
face with a mixture of cocoa and crushed charcoal, to obtain 
a dark complexion. The ‘makeup” was rather strange, but 
suppliers to the theatrical trade, from whom I could have 
obtained better ingredients, have not yet opened branches in 
the Tibetan  wilds! 

At sunset, we gathered our baggage and emerged from the 
jungle full-fledged Tibetan  wayfarers. 
The next morning we found as a camping ground, after our 
long tramp, only k most unhealthy place nearly level with a 
stream, and which was certainly part of its summer waterbed. 
We could not see the ground beneath us, it being hidden by 
reeds which, had been burned in a forest fire and which had 
fallen in an inextricable entanglement now covered by a thick 
layer of green moss. We ate, but owing to the nearness of 
the road, we did not dare to light a fire, and drank the icy 
water that had an unpleasant taste. 

How long had I slept? I could not say. When I opened 
my eyes I saw a man clad in Tibetan  dress, wearing a soft 
felt hat of foreign shape, as Tibetan  soldiers outside of 
Lhasa do. 

In less than a second many thoughts dashed through my 
still slumbering mind: A Tibetan  soldier , we are still ,on 
Chinese territory , what is he doing here? Has he been 
sent across the border to watch us? Have the Tibetan  
officials been informed that we are proceeding toward the 
Dokar Pass?. At any rate, I must convince him that I 
am a true Tibetan ; and, as the best means of convincing 
him, I pretended to blow my nose with my fingers. 

That gesture thoroughly awakened me, and what I had 
taken to be the soldier turned out to be nothing more than a 
rock and a few branches. 

But I had not the heart to laugh at myself. I had been too 
much frightened, and to make things worse, I began to shiver 
in a way which left no doubt In my mind that I was in for an 
attack of fever as the result of our prolonged stay in that 
damp spot. 

I looked at my watch. It was only three o’clock, but days 
were short at this time of the year, and the waning moon did 
not rise until the middle of the night. During the next fort 
night we should have to chance our luck and proceed partly 
during the day, or we would linger too long in the country, 
which would indeed be dangerous.
Late in the evening we arrived at a peculiarly beautiful spot, a kind of wide, natural clearing surrounded by ramparts of 
thickets. Shadowed by giant trees which veiled an intense 
darkness, it looked like a temple meant for some solemn occult 
rites and made me think of the Druids. 

Pilgrims used to camp there; one knew it from the large 
number of mediums to be seen scattered about. Some sybaritic devotees had gone so far in their search for comfort as 
to spread a double thickness of fir tree branches around the 
primitive hearths, in order to provide themselves with a carpet, 
and these dark green patches on the golden brown leaves 
which autumn had strewn over the ground still further 
increased the impression one had of being in a mysterious 
sanctuary. 

Big logs lay scattered around, and without taking much 
trouble we soon enjoyed a most glorious fire. Invisible 
animals were roaming in the jungles; we could hear the noise 
of the small branches they broke as they stalked through the 
bushes. Sometimes, we heard steps quite near us; maybe one 
of the fourfooted wanderers was watching us, but we could not 
see it in the circle of darkness that surrounded the clearing, and 
veiled its farthest corners. I trusted, nevertheless, that no 
beast would venture near the heap of glowing coal from which, 
at times, flames leaped high and clear. 

With flaming branches in his hands, Yongden went twice to 
fetch water from the river. I told him to chant some Tibetan  
liturgy all along his way, so that, together with the bright 
light, the noise would frighten away any leopards or panthers 
which might be prowling around. That grave psalmody in 
the depths of the forest matched perfectly the peculiar atmosphere of the place and aroused in me the desire to perform 
there the fearful rite which Tibetan  hermits hold in high 
esteem as a way of liberating one’s mind from all attachment. 
It is poetic in spite of its stern symbolism, and Tibetans fully 
got and wayfarers use to camp. 
I ignored the danger of being overheard by travellers, if any 
such should happen on the road, as had been my experience 
the night when I had imprudently spoken English near a 
torrent. If anyone saw me forming the figures of the mystic 
dance and calling upon the gods and the demons, he could but 
be convinced that I was a Tibetan  naljormaa and, being 
struck with terror, would certainly not remain in the vicinity 
to ask idle questions. 

After a short rest; we did our best to start before daybreak, 
but the waning moon’s light could not penetrate the thick foliage. We were not able to find our way, and had to return to 
our camp and wait. 

As we ascended the sacred mountain the forest changed its 
character. It became darker and wilder than in the neighbour 
hood of Londre. Our night tramp was wonderful; we felt as if 
we had entered another world. Born of the moon’s rays, 
filtering through clouds and branches, or perhaps of other and 
unknown causes, strange shapes rose before us. Often we saw 
the glimmer of fires hidden in the recess of the mountains. 
Moving shadows were silhouetted indistinctly in the dim light; 
peculiar notes were heard. 

Once, while walking ahead, I saw two tall figures coming 
toward us. Retracing my steps, nearly crawling on the ground 
to avoid giving ourselves away, I dragged Yongden along the 
dry bed of a high banked stream, and there we stayed, 
crouching amongst the stones and the fallen leaves, watching 
the intermittent glare of a fire at the foot of a distant huge 
perpendicular rock. 

Early in the morning, at the time when Tibetan  travellers 
start for the day’s march, we listened attentively, trying to 
detect sounds of human voices or the noise of animals. But 
the forest remained silent, I was more puzzled than ever 

and, to gratify my curiosity, we went a long way off the trail 
to the big rock. 

It was surrounded by thorny bushes and a few dead trees. 
No suitable place for a camp could be found near by. The 
rock itself had been decorated long ago , as are many in Tibet 
, with the image of Padmasambhava, and some mystic 
formulae, but these had nearly disappeared beneath the moss. 
Of fire, embers, ashes, or charred wood, there was no trace. 

I noticed a long, narrow crevice between the ground and the 
rock, and here the stone seemed blackened with smoke. I 
thought, however, it was rather its natural colouring. Yong 
den and I roamed more than an hour in an attempt to discover 
the entrance of a cave beneath the rock. We found none. 

While we were busy a few blackbirds alighted on some 
branches and appeared to follow our doings with a mocking 
interest, moving their heads and uttering chirps like laughter. 
Their noise was unpleasant and Yongden grew angry. 
These little black fellows,” he told me, ‘ado not seem to be 
natural birds. They must be the same mischievous mi ma yin a 
who play tricks at night with fire and music to delay us on 
the road, and have now taken another shape.” 

I smiled at his imagination, but he was quite in earnest. 
His great-grandfather had been a somewhat famous magician 
lama, and I believe the blood of that ancestor was now alive 
in him. He recited a zung (magic formula) with the necessary 
ritualistic gesture and, strangely enough, the birds flew away, 
shrieking loudly. 

“You see,” triumphed the young lama, “I knew it! It is 
unwise of us to stay here.” 

I smiled again; but as to the necessity of pushing on I 
could not argue. That very night we meant to cross the 
border of “the Forbidden Land.” a 

The approach to the pass was most beautiful. Early morning found us in a large valley white with frost. On our left, 
strangely shaped rocky hills seemed crowned with turreted 

‘ Mi ma yin , a literally, not man. One of the six classes of beings, ac 
cording to Tibetans. 

22 



MY JOURNEY TO LHASA 

castles. At first sight I thought that a monastery had been 
erected there for the use of contemplative lamas, as there are a 
large number in Tibet, but I soon realized that Nature was 
the only responsible architect, and had herself built these 
dignified yet graceful edifices. 

I very much regretted that the nearness of the border and 
the extreme care I had to take in order to avoid being seen, 
prevented me from camping a few days on this site. I would 
have liked to find a way by which I might climb into these 
fairy dwellings. Knowing Tibet and its people as I did, it 
would have been no surprise to me to have found a hermit in 
this eyrie. 

Proceeding toward a ridge which seemed to be the summit 
of the pass, we crossed several abundant springs. Water was 
flowing everywhere on natural terraces supported by rocky 
walls. In summer, dokpas bring their cattle to these heights. 
We had seen signs of them in the valley, but at this time of 
the year silence reigned supreme. 

The belief that we had only a short distance to cover to be 
at the end of our climb infused fresh strength in us. We 
walked fast and soon arrived at a bend of the track, nearing 
the spot which we had taken for the pass. Here we saw that 
we had only reached another broad valley which, far away, 
was fringed by slopes which doubtless led to the Dokar Pass, 
but the pass itself could not yet be seen. This was an unpleasant surprise. We were tired, for the troubles of the previous 
night had not allowed us much rest. Moreover, we did not 
deem it prudent to proceed during the middle of the day in 
that open place, in which we could be observed from every 
side. A chaos of huge rocks, very likely the product of some 
landslide that happened centuries ago,' could, fortunately, be 
used as a refuge. Stunted fir trees were still thriving there, 
in spite of the high level, and served us as a shelter. 

From that place I could still see the tops of the fairy palaces 
that I had admired from the valley beneath, but I was now 
above them and thus could see that the other side of the hill 
was much less steep. 


3 



I have myself lived for several years, in caves or rough cabins, 
in the grassy desert and at the foot of the everlasting snows, 
the strange and wonderful life of the Tibetan  mystics. I feel 
deeply its particular attraction, and all that is connected with 
it immediately awakens my interest. Now it appeared to me 
that those natural edifices were inhabited. A mysterious message seemed to be conveyed to my mind, as I sat gazing 
intently at them, a kind of silent talk between speakers invisible 
to each other. What did it matter, after all, if on that hill 
there lived a human being like myself? What I heard was 
the thousand year old echo of thoughts which are rethought 
over and over again in the East, and which, nowadays, appear 
to have fixed their stronghold in the majestic heights of 
Tibet. 

We set out again in the middle of the afternoon. We felt 
confident that no one would be on the road at that time. 
Tibetans always manage to cross these high passes at noon, 
to allow time to go far enough down on the other side to 
avoid excessive cold and lack of fuel during the night. 

We were not ordinary travellers, and the usual rules dictated 
by prudence could not be part of our own code, which consisted in one single article: to avoid detection. For the rest, 
we relied on our robust constitutions and the strength of our 
will. ■ 

During the short halt that we made at the foot of the final 
climb we noticed a man leading a horse, who had reached the 
beginning of the upper valley, near the place where we had 
camped, and from which I had gazed at the rocky castles and 
allowed my mind to dwell on their imaginary inhabitant. The 
man sat down when we moved on, and we lost sight of him. I 
may say at once that the following day he should have caught 
up with us, for there was only the one pilgrim’s road and circumstances had delayed us long on our way. But he never 
appeared. We asked some pilgrims who overtook us about 
him, and they answered that they had met nobody. This fact 
somewhat confirmed my intuition as to the presence of a 
hermit in the vicinity. The man with the horse was probably 

4 



MY JOURNEY TO LHASA 

his jinda (supporter), who brought him a supply of food. He 
had left the track and would perhaps remain a few days with 
the lama. That the majesty of that solitary site had been 
appreciated by an ascetic was not astonishing, for one who 
knew the Xand of Snows” and its religious folk. 

The Dokar Pass now stood before us, most impressive 
against a gray evening sky. It is a depression in a gigantic 
barren range whose Cyclopean slopes sag like cables out 
stretched across rivers to serve as bridges. The knowledge 
that it marks the threshold of the guarded region added to 
the sternness of its aspect. 

The ground around the pass is most sacred to the gods, and 
the Tibetan  pilgrims who walk along the track have built 
countless tiny altars, made of three standing stones, and a 
fourth one as a roof, under which offerings are made to 
spirits. 

On the pass itself and following the neighbouring ridges, 
the mystic flags which can be seen on all the heights of Tibet 
were planted in exceptionally large numbers. In the falling 
light they looked alive, belligerent, and threatening, like so 
many soldiers scaling the crests, ready to fight the presumptuous traveller who would venture on the road to the Holy City. 

As we reached the cairn marking the top, a gust of wind 
welcomed us , the violent, icy kiss of the austere country whose 
severe charm has held me so long bewitched and to which I 
always return. Turning successively toward the four quarters, 
the zenith and the nadir, we uttered the Buddhist wish, ‘May 
all beings be happy!” and began to climb down. 

A blizzard descended upon the peaks. Black clouds rolled 
hither and thither, turning into sleet. We hurried in our effort 
to reach the base of this steep and inhospitable slope before 
nightfall. 

But darkness came early. We missed the path winding 
between the landslides, and found ourselves slipping helplessly 
with crumbling stones under our feet. It became dangerous 
to proceed in that way, with a speed that we could not control. 
 






So,  succeeded In pulling up, we fixed our pilgrim strains 
before us In the ground as a point of support. Clinging to 
each other for safety, our loads still on our backs, we remained 
squatting upon the snow, which fell from eight o’clock in the 
evening till two the next morning. Then a last melancholy 
quarter of the moon rose between the clouds and we descended 
to the wooded zone. 

We were resting, seated at the edge of a glade where a 
forest fire had destroyed the big trees and which was now 
covered with short shrubs, when I noticed the forms of two 
long animals with phosphorescent eyes, which crossed the 
track several times and finally disappeared in the direction of 
the river. They were quite distinctly visible in the moonlight 
and I pointed them out to Yongden. He saw them well, but 
persisted in saying that they were deer, though their shape and 
the peculiar glimmer of their eyes indicated carnivorous wild 
beasts. I delayed a little, to avoid an undesirable encounter, 
and then we continued our descent to the river. 

We were exhausted and there was no certainty that we 
could soon find water again, as the stream entered a gorge and 
our trail climbed up on the hill. So, in the hope that the 
animals would let us alone if they were still in the vicinity, we 
lit a fire to make tea. 

While we were drinking, we heard some noise behind the 
bushes, but we were beginning to be accustomed to the prowling of wild beasts around our camps. Yongden fell asleep. 
I decided to watch, but my eyes were heavy, and closed in 
spite of my efforts. 

I was dozing, when the sound of a low sniff awakened me. 
A few feet from the place where we were lying, one of the 
animals with glimmering eyes was looking at us, and I could 
see its spotted coat! 

I did not awaken Yongden. It was not the first time that 
I had seen creatures of that kind at such close range. They 
seldom attack men unless provoked or wounded, and I was 
convinced that they would never harm me or those who were 
near me. 




MY JOURNEY TO LHASA 

That nocturnal meeting reminded me of another one which 


We could not allow ourselves a longer rest. The day had 
broken and it was time for us to retire to a hidingplace, away 
from the trail. I awakened Yongden and we went. A few 
minutes after we started the young man pointed out with his 
stick something under the trees. 

“There they are,” he said. 

The pair of spotted fellows were indeed there. They turned 
their heads toward us, looked for a little while, and then went 
their way along the stream, while we climbed the path. 

As we went up, the aspect of the forest changed once more. 
It was now much less dense. The sun that had risen lit the 
undergrowth, and through the openings in the foliage we 
could see the opposite bank of the river beneath us. We 
noticed with astonishment that it seemed to be cultivated, but 
cultivated in a fanciful way, more in the fashion of gardens 
and parks than of common fields. 

It was a glorious morning, and we enjoyed our walk so much 
that we continued it long after the hour at which we usually 
sought shelter. The river bent suddenly and we confronted a 
village built on a slope at the foot of which our path turned 
along the stream. A few Isolated houses could even be seen 
quite near us on the sides of the path itself. 

What village was this? It was not charted on any map and 
none of the people of the country from whom we had cleverly 
got information, before our departure, had ever told us a word 
about it. Its architecture was peculiar. We did not see cottages and farms, but villas and miniature palaces surrounded 
by small yet stately looking parks! 

The strange town was bathed in a pale golden light. No 
sound of human voices, no noises of animals, were heard in it. 
But, now and then, a faint silvery jingling struck our ears. 
We were amazed. Were we in Tibet of had we reached 
fairyland? 

We could not, however, remain standing in the path. People 
might come along, and to be seen so near the frontier posts 
was imprudent. It was imperative, for safety as sake, that we 
should delay our investigations until the evening. Once more 
we retreated amongst the bushes and the rocks. There, over 
tired, I sank on the moss and fell asleep, feverish and raving 
a little. 

Our impatience to see again the fantastic village, our fear 
of having to cross an inhabited place, and the desire to look 
for ways to avoid it, brought us on the trail before sunset 
at the spot on which we had stood in the morning. 

Where were the graceful villas, the stately little palaces and 
the sunny gardens? 

The forest was empty. A severe landscape of dark trees 
extended before us, and a cold breeze, wailing among the 
branches, took the place of the harmonious jingling. 

We have dreamed,” I said to Yongden. “We did not see 
anything this morning. All that happened while we were 
asleep.” 

“Dreamed!” exclaimed the lama. “I will show you how we 
have dreamed. This morning, while you were looking at the 
miraculous town, I drew a sungpo, magic sign, on a rock 
with the spike of my staff, so that neither gods nor demons 
could oppose our progress. I shall find it again.” And he 
looked on a flat stone at the foot of a fir tree. “There it is!” 
he triumphed. “Look!” 

I saw the roughly drawn sungpo. It silenced me for a 
moment. 

“My son,” I said, proceeding forward, “this world itself is 
but a dream, and so..” 

“I know,” interrupted my companion. “Nevertheless, the 
sungpo and the ngags [magic words] that I uttered while draw ing it, have dispelled the mirage. It was certainly the work of 
some who wished to delay us!” 

‘Yes, like the blackbirds,” I continued, laughing, “and maybe 
the small leopards, too.” 

“Like the birds, yes!” affirmed my son, decidedly vexed. 
“As for the leopards, I do not know. They looked honest 
beasts. Anyhow, we will soon be out of these Kha Karpo 
forests and confront true villages instead of dreamland ones, 
and true men, officials, soldiers, and others, instead of mi ma 
yin. Let us see, then, if we can manage our business with 
them as cleverly as I have done with the folks of other 
worlds.” 

“Have no fear about it,” I replied, seriously, “I will look after 
that.” 

“How will you do It?” he asked. 

“I will make them dream and see illusions, just as the mi mayins did to us.” 

And I really did so when, a few days later, circumstances 
brought us before Tibetan  officials. 

The miracle which had allowed us to proceed for a whole 
week on a road followed by many pilgrims, without meeting 
a single soul, could not last forever. Arrived at one of the 
minor passes on the Kha Karpo range on our way down to 
the Salween, we suddenly heard a jingling of bells behind us. 
It was a party of pilgrims, men and women, with two horses, 
who had overtaken us. We exchanged a few words, and each 
of us walked devoutly around a latza a in which flags bearing 
printed mystic formulae were stuck. The pilgrims, who were 
not Impeded by loads on their backs, went down the trail 
more quickly than we did and, when we arrived at the bottom 
of a pretty, narrow valley in which several clear streams met, 
we found them already seated, drinking tea. 

We had now to begin the apprenticeship of the career we 
had momentarily embraced. It would have been contrary to 
the custom to pass the place without taking our meal, for the 
time had come for tshaphog , that is to say, the halt in the 
middle of the day. 

I looked round, ready to go collecting wood to make a fire, 
but the kind pilgrims, seeing a lama, invited us to join them. 
I felt delighted to be free to remain quietly seated, enjoying 
the scenery, which was grand. 

In a frame made of several ridges of forest covered mountains, one above and behind another, a gigantic peak of the 
Kha Karpo towered, dazzling white, its summit pointing straight 
into the dark blue sky. Before it, our group seemed a 
gathering of tiny animals crawling on the ground. The sight 
was really crushing, and did indeed remind us of our nothing 
ness. Yet the good pilgrims gave their whole attention to 
their food and some gossip, and turned their backs on the 
exalted abode of the gods they had come from afar to worship. As for myself, I was lost in a trance of admiration, 
forgetting that my attitude might look strange to the Tibetans. 
As a matter of fact, it did, and they enquired why I did not 
eat. 

“Mother Is with the gods,aa answered Yongden, who put a 
warm bowl of tea before me to bring me down to the world 
of men. 

A woman, misunderstanding his answer, put a new question 
about me. 

“Is the another a pamo?a a she asked. 

I was afraid that my companion would not be able to suppress his laughter at this funny idea, but he replied, gravely: 

“My father was a nagspa; a she was initiated his sang yum.

All looked at me with due consideration, and the chief of 
the party sent me a piece of dried meat. Until then he had 
offered us only tsampa, but the new personality that we revealed to them inspired respect in these benighted Tibetans. 

Nagspa are dreaded for the occult powers they are supposed 
to possess, and to incur their displeasure or that of their 
kindred, even for involuntary offences, is a serious matter. 

So, having suddenly become grave, they made us a little 
present of butter and tsampa and hastily went their way, desirous to escape our honourable but dangerous company. This 
was just what we wished. 

The following day brought us to the limit of the Kha Karpo 
forests. From the top of a hill, we saw Aben on the bank of 
the Lhakangra river. This place, where the Chinese used to 
keep a small garrison, had become, we had been told, a Thi 
betan frontier post. Our difficulty was now no more a ques 
tion of wandering through solitary forests, but of crossing a ' 
populated village which, with its outlying cultivation and isolated farms, stretched for several miles. 

Our old trick of tramping by night was no longer of any 
use here. No doubt dogs frequented the road and were likely 
to be fierce at night, and in any case noisy. One cannot expect 
a miracle to happen at every turn. Until then we had enjoyed 
such wonderful luck that prudence naturally prompted us to 
make allowances for It and not count too much upon its protec 
tion. To be caught roving at night would have got us into 
trouble. Enquiries might follow and we feared nothing more 
than these. Our best plan, wc thought, was to cross Aben 
before daybreak. By so doing we should get the benefit of 
darkness, and as Tibetan  travellers are in the habit of starting 
at these early hours on their days march, anyone who might 
hear us passing by or see us, would find in It nothing extra 
ordinary. 

We studied the aspect of the valley from the top of a woody 
hill in order to be able to proceed quickly in the dark. Fearing to arrive too early in the vicinity of the village, we 
remained a long time seated there, with the result that, since the 
road wound, in its descent, more than we had suspected, night 
fell long before we had reached the bottom of the valley. 

For the first time since we had left Londre, the weather was 
really unpleasant, a cold wind pierced our clothes, and low 
clouds foretold snow. We no longer knew the exact where 
abouts of the village. Bushes conspired with the darkness to 
mislead us. Several times we sat on the. ground with our loads 
on our backs, overpowered by sleepiness. But we could not 
allow ourselves even the poor comfort of a nap. Before taking 
whatever rest we might enjoy that night, we needed to ascertain 
that we had reached the Lhakangra road and that, hurrying 
through the village a few hours later, we would have only to 
walk straight before us. Unfortunately, we failed to find the 
road amongst the intersections of the bypaths. At length we 
found ourselves near some houses and were compelled to stop. 
Snow began to fall. To spread our small tent over us like a 
blanket was out of the question. Once untied, we could not 
have repacked our loads properly in the dark, and might have 
left behind us some compromising article. Nothing, therefore, 
remained for us but to sleep uncovered for a while, with our 
packs as pillows. 

Long before daybreak we awoke and started. At a first 
attempt we luckily reached the centre of the village. Hearing 
voices inside a house and being panic stricken, we hurriedly 
turned a corner, ran straight before us, and found ourselves 
again amongst the fields. In our haste we had mistaken the 
direction. The early light of dawn revealed the river and we 
saw that we were going up instead of down the stream as 
we should. We now had to abandon our carefully considered 
scheme. We should have to go through Aben in daylight. 
Country folk were already to be seen going to their work. 
There was nowhere to hide ourselves, and the longer we 
.waited, the worse our chances would be. 

People whose hearts are not strong and who cannot sufficiently master their nerves are wiser to avoid journeys of this 
kind. Such things might easily bring on heart failure or 
madness. 

We retraced our steps, passed once more under the windows 
of the house where we had heard the voices which had fright 
ened us. People were still talking, the blinds were open, and 
I could see the flame of a fire. These blessed villagers would 

32 





drink hot tea, whereas our last meal had been taken early in 
the morning of the previous day, and we did not feel sure that 
we should be able to stop to eat during the day which was 
dawning. 

All was well. We were on the right road! We went at a 
good pace and soon passed through the village. But all our 
troubles were not over, for another cluster of houses appeared 
on a hill overlooking the valley, which narrowed to the size 
of a gorge, giving passage to the river which entirely filled 
the bottom of it. A small path had been cut high up on its 
right bank, and this was our road. Looking up, I discovered 
from the foot of its sandy cliff a kind of loggia that commanded the view of the gorge from afar, and immediately 
jumped to the conclusion that sentries might well be posted 
there to observe travellers. 

Perhaps it was an old Chinese building. It might indeed 
have been used by them as a watch tower, but most probably 
it was now put to another use. I did not, one can well under 
stand, remain there to ascertain the history of that painted 
balcony. It left me perfectly indifferent. I did not even 
dare to stop to drink at the rivulet which crossed the path 
below, although I knew that I might not come across any 
more water for some miles, I ran and ran, as if flying. Contrary to my custom, which was to let Yongden march first, so 
that passersby could see his face, while I remained more or 
less hidden behind him and his load, I told him to follow me 
because the possible danger was now behind us. Thus, if we 
walked close to each other, the watchmen from Aben, if there 
were any, could discern only the familiar sight of a load surmounted by the red cap of a lama, under which hung a raggy 
shamtabs.

Nevertheless, we endeavoured to reach the end of that 
interminable gorge as quickly as possible. The path, following 
the windings of the cliff, alternately hid us from the spur on 
which the upper part of Aben fort or monastery was situated, 
and brought us again within sight of it. We took advantage 
of this circumstance to rest a few minutes when we were 
sheltered. It seemed like a game, but a tiring, nerveracking, 
meaningless game. 

The walk without the preoccupations that spoiled it would 
have been charming. In this country autumn has the youthful 
charm of spring. The sun enveloped the scenery in a rosy 
light that spread joy from the river of opalescent green, flowing 
swiftly in the depths of the gorge, to the top of the cliffs, on 
which a few hardy fir trees pointed to the sky. Each pebble 
on the path seemed to enjoy the warmth of day, and chatted 
with suppressed laughter under our feet. A lilliputian shrub 
that grew on the side of the road perfumed the air with a 
strong aromatic scent. 

It was one of those mornings when Nature bewitches us 
with her deceitful magic, when one sinks deep into the bliss of 
sensation and the joy of living. 

It is but a short distance between Aben and Lhakangra. 
We did not want to be seen in the latter place and had again 
planned to cross it at night. We had, therefore, plenty of 
time , and as soon as we met a stream in a gorge that crossed 
our path, we halted to take a meal behind some big rocks a 
little below. Many groups of pilgrims and several lonely 
travellers passed near us without suspecting our presence. 
Strangely enough, now that we had crossed the Dokar Pass 
and entered Tibet, the stream of devotees which appeared to 
have been stopped during the first week of our journey began 
to flow as usual in that season. We saw, from behind our 
hidingplace, a most picturesque procession of men and women 
from different parts of eastern and northern Tibet, all making 
haste to reach Lhakangra early and to find room in the primitive inns there. Still, a few stopped as we did, and began to 
cook bread. We had no wheat flour and hoped they might 
be willing to sell us a small quantity of their own. Yongden 
went to propose this to them, but they had only a very little, 
and wanted to keep it. A talk followed in which my companion tried to get as much’ information as possible about the 
country. As the pilgrimage Is usually performed thric, at 
Intervals of several years, some of the travellers we met were 
able to supply us with very useful information. 

My companion returned, and we drank a bowl of tea. I 
was washing my handkerchief in the stream when one of the 
travellers came over to us and asked the lama to foretell the, result of some litigation he had at home. That was the first 
time during our journey that Yongden acted in the capacity 
of a “Red Cap” lama, an adept in the art of mo.

Years before, when we travelled in the northern country and 
I wore my beautiful lama robes, 'it was I who was requested, 
to bless the people, blow on the sick to cure them, and prophesy 
about countless things. I performed a few miracles, chance, 
the faith and the robust constitution of those who were 
benefited making it difficult to abstain from working wonders, 
and I had some gratifying success as an oracle. That glorious 
time was gone! Now I humbly washed our pot in the stream, 
while Yongden solemnly revealed to his attentive listeners the 
secrets of the future concerning a disputed land many hundred 
miles away. 

We passed to the left bank of the Lhakangra river, and 
the scenery changed entirely. The gorge had become very 
narrow and wild. On both sides there were dark cliffs of 
rock, which might in places have reached seven or eight hundred feet in height, leaving only a narrow ribbon of sky visible 
overhead. Yet the view was far from being gloomy or depress 
ing. Perhaps the pictures painted and carved in large numbers 
on the rocks modified the character of the place itself. Hundreds of Buddhas, Bodhisatvas, famous lamas of yore and 
deities appeared there, all in the attitude of meditation, their 
eyes half closed in some inward gaze. That silent, motionless, 
saintly crowd had created in the dark, a very peculiar 
mental atmosphere. Between the images were engraved large 
portions of philosophical treatises as well as short mystic 
sentences or praises of the wisdom of Buddha. I remained for 
a long time reading here and there, enjoying the serenity 
conveyed by these old Scriptures. 

I was indeed privileged to experience in a single day the 
intoxication arising from the beauty of nature and the peaceful 
delight of the mind brought to the threshold of the supreme 
Deliverance, and thrice blessed verily is the country that can 
offer both these things to those who tread its ground. 

A mendong a covered by a roof, which we saw at dusk, 
might have provided us with shelter for the. night, but we 
thought that we were still far from Lhakangra, and therefore 
continued our way. we crossed a bridge once more. The 
gorge bent suddenly, and the large Salween spread its green 
waters in front of us. We were in Lhakangra. 

Although it was nearly dark, we did not dare to turn back. 
We could have been seen, and it would have seemed strange 
that pilgrims such as we were supposed to be avoided the village. The best way, as our plans were once more upset, was 
to spend the night bravely somewhere in a corner like other 
travellers. 

We met several people who were camping near a fire, 
exchanged a few words with them and decided to stay in a 
small cave situated on the, road we were to follow the next 
day. There we should be somewhat sheltered if snow fell, 
I gathered some twigs and dry cow dung on the road. I stole 
a few branches from the fences of the neighbouring fields, but 
arjopas must be cautious in their ways. Unless they halt in 
the forest, they are taken for thieves if they are seen burning 
big logs. Tibetan  farmers do not like people to pillage the 
fences that protect the cultivated land from the intrusion of 
cattle, and in doing so one. risks serious thrashings. 

As we were in a hamlet and night protected us, Yongden 
thought that he might well take the opportunity to purchase 
food. We had lived until then on the supply that we had 
carried when leaving the Mission House. Ten days had elapsed 
since then, and our bags were nearly empty. I wrapped myself 
in my thick dress according to the manner of the poor Tibetans, and made a pretence of sleeping to avoid useless talk if, 
by any chance, some one passed near me, while my companiqn 
went toward the houses. 

The first one he entered happened to be that of the larin, in 
charge of the Lhakangra shrine. He was welcomed on his 
twofold title of colleague and buyer, for the lama added to 
his profits as a shrinekeeper those he derived from a small shop 
where pilgrims could revictual and purchase sundry articles of 
devotion such as incense sticks, small flags bearing mystic 
drawings or words, etc. They both, by chance, belonged 
to the same religious sect and subsect. Moreover, the lama 
was not a native of the.country, his birthplace being in far 
northern Kham, where Yongden had long lived with me, and 
whose dialect he spoke rather well. That coincidence of circumstances made them friends in no time, but the affair was 
not to end there. 

Looking round the room, Yongden saw books on a shelf and 
asked his permission to have a look at them. This being 
granted, he read aloud a few lines of the first one he opened. 

“How beautifully you read!” admired the lama. “Are you 
able to read any book in that way?” 

“Indeed!” answered my companion. 

Then, passing suddenly to another topic, the lama shop 
keeper pressed Yongden to spend the night in his house, offering 
to go himself to fetch and carry his luggage. Yongden refused 
but, as the lama insisted, he confessed that he was travelling 
with his aged mother. This did not in the least cool the good 
intentions of the kind host. There was room for the mother 
as well, and it was hard to convince him that, by this time, I 
was sleeping soundly and was best left alone. 

Then the keugner, sacristan, being at a loss to manage the 
success of the scheme he had in mind, without making it 
known, was forced to disclose the fact that his hospitable feel 
ings were not altogether disinterested. 

“Lama,” he said to Yongden, “some villagers have come here 
from the opposite side of the Giamo nu chu (Salween) and 
have asked me to perform the rites for the dead pn behalf of 
one of their relatives who passed away recently. They are 
wealthy people and would have gone to the lama of their own 
country monastery had he not been away in Lhasa. I have 
been chosen in his place, and it would be very profitable for 
me but I am not well read and I am so afraid of making 
mistakes in placing the ritual offerings and reciting the liturgy 
in the proper way. I see that you are learned. Perhaps you 
know these ceremonies?” 

“I do know them,” declared Yongden. 

“Then I beg you to do me the service of staying here three 
days. I shall feed you both and give you some provisions for 
the road when you set out. The mother might recite mani, the 
wellknown Aum mani padme hum, at the door, and no 
doubt the villagers will give her some tsampa.

Yongden declined the proposal on the ground that we be 
longed to a party of pilgrims who were already ahead. We 
could not linger behind, but were, on the contrary, compelled 
to proceed quickly in order to join them and return together to 
our own country. 

When my companion returned with a few provisions, he told 
me of his talk with the lama, and I rather regretted that the 
vicinity of the border commanded a hasty progress. I would 
have enjoyed the fun of reciting mani “at the door.” However, 
the near future was to give me more opportunities to enjoy that 
kind of fun than I could have ever dreamed of. I should find 
it hard to recount the number of times I have chanted mani, 
outdoors and indoors during my journey. I became rather ex 
pert at it, and was complimented twice for the nice way I had 
of chanting it. Perhaps, after all, Tibet helped me to discover 
the “jewel” which dwells in the heart of the “lotus.” a 

The cunning lama came in the early morning to talk again 
with Yongden. In order to avoid being seen by him I went 
down and walked around the shrine for about an hour, putting 
into motions as I walked, each of the many reels which contain tightly rolled bands of the paper on which is printed a 
thousand times the mystic sentence, Aum mani padme hum.  

I deemed that morning’s walk to be rather superfluous for 
one who would have to tramp a good number of miles during 
the day, but I found no better means of getting away, and 
even so, I did not escape a talk with the lama, who stopped for 
a little chat with me on his way back home. 



CHAPTER 2.


A LONG the majestic Glamo nu chu (Salween) the road goes 
alternately through deep gorges and broad, widening valleys. The scenery in either case remains at once majestic and 
enchanting. 

Truly, fear is still there, crouched in a corner of my heart, 
ready to spring up. Our stay at Lhakangra has been too long. 
Has the shrinekeeper begun to wonder who we are? I observe 
those who come behind me. Are we not followed, spied upon? 
That horseman yonder, riding in our direction, is he not a 
soldier sent to bring us back? 

Eve, when she was banished from Eden, had explored all its 
pleasures, and except for these it could afford her no cause for 
regret. Even if Eveas mind were of a similar cast to mine, she 
might have found interest in the adventure which opened to her 
the wide unknown world beyond the in closure of Paradise. 
But I, her little greatgranddaughter, although I had wandered 
for years in my fairyland, I was far from having exhausted 
its interests. Had I been compelled to turn back now, I 
would never have known the new landscape hidden behind the 
woody Kill that shut off my horizon, nor penetrated the 
mystery beyond that other rose-colored one which stood 
behind it, nor climbed the pass which, still farther, traced a 
mauve soft line on the sky between snow white peaks. Fore 
bodings still arose In my mind only to fade in their powerless 
ness to disturb the joy of those wonderful hours. 

A few days after leaving Lhakangra, a tragic meeting saddened us. Near the road, in front of the Giamo nu chu, whose 
icy emerald water appeared in the bright sunlight like a glittering moving mirror, lay an old man, his head resting on a 
leather bag. When we approached, he gazed at us with vacant 
eyes, already dull, and with an effort he lifted himself a little 

on his elbow. I could see the poor fellow was near his end. 
Yongden asked him how he got there alone. The story was 
simple. The old peasant had left his village with a group of 
friends to.travel round the Kha Karpo on a pilgrimage. An 
illness, whose cause he could not understand; had suddenly 
deprived him of his strength. He was unable to walk and had 
to fall behind. His companions had slackened their pace; 
they had even stopped for a whole day, and then they had 
gone on their way. Such is the Tibetan  custom, even in the 
desert, where an abandoned sick man, if he cannot reach a 
dokpas, encampment, will die of starvation when once his 
provisions are exhausted. Nor must one forget the wolves and 
the bears who roam about. 

“Shall I die?” the old man asked Yongden. “Lama, cast lots 
to know.” 

“No, you will not die,” answered the latter, after having 
quickly performed the usual rites, in an attempt to cheer up 
the forlorn traveller. 

He meant well, but I thought that the glimmer of hope he 
lighted would soon vanish if, the next morning, the man himself 
felt still weaker, or if in the darkness of the next night, he 
realized the approach of death. Then in spite of the promptings of prudence, it became impossible for me to continue my 
part of the aged, feebleminded, and beggarly mother. In a 
few words I reminded him of the simple beliefs of the religion 
he had followed since his childhood, and promised him, not 
only this life, but a happy rebirth in the abode of Chenrezigs a 
which awaits those who die while on a pilgrimage, and, after 
thousands of years spent there in rest and delights, other lives 
again and again, till he reached the supreme enlightenment 
that liberates one from the bondage of life as well as of death. 

He listened to me attentively and piously. He bent low 
and touched the bottom of my dress with his forehead, as 
Tibetans do to the Jamas whom they worship. 

I believed that a khandoma a or a goddess had seen his distress 
and assumed the shape of a pilgrim to console him. What 
mattered, if the illusion enchanted his last hour? 

“Can we help you in any way? I asked him. 

“No,” he answered, “I have food and money in my bag. 
I am well here, with the gods. 

‘'Kale ju, we both answered, and we went on our way. 

I felt that Nubdewaachen , the land of bliss , shone now 
before his eyes that began to see but dimly the things of this 
world. The dying man was carried away by the vision I had 
evoked and had lost all desire for this life, for which, at first, 
he had begged my companion so anxiously. 

We enjoyed a few days of relative tranquillity, loitering 
leisurely along the beautiful valley. We were no longer in a 
solitary region, as we had been during our tramps in the Kha 
Karpo forests. Villages were rather close together, and deeming 
it still wise to avoid staying over night amongst Tibetans or 
even being seen during the daytime by many people, we 
managed to pass these villages at daybreak or a little earlier. 
This mode of travelling compelled us to remain long in one
Of the way and out of sight spots, waiting for the proper time 
to venture to pass the houses. 

There was nothing unpleasant in such lazy vagrancy amidst 
beautiful scenery, favoured as we were with fine weather. The 
only drawback was that it made our progress dreadfully slow. 
Anyhow, we felt the benefit of these long rests in the jungle 
after the painful strain to which our nerves had been subjected. But perfect peace was far from our present reach. One 
morning, when we were imprudently taking our meal in a 
small cave near the road, a woman aroused the fear latent in 
our minds. 

She was a well dressed lady of rank, covered with jewels; 
three maid servants followed her. She stopped before us and 
asked from what country we bad come. At that time we 
styled ourselves Mongolian dokpas of the northern KokoNor a 
solitudes. Yongden, therefore, answered: “We are people 
from beyond the Blue Lake. She 
replied: “Are you philings, foreigners?” I made a pretence 
of laughing at such an idea, and Yongden stood up to attract 
the attention of the lady to himself, so that she might, by 
scanning his regular Mongolian features, be convinced that he 
had nothing of a Westerner about him. “She is my mother,” 
he declared, pointing to me. Then, after a few other questions, 
the woman went on her way. 

A little later her husband passed us, riding a superb horse 
with a silver and gold inlaid saddle. A dozen attendants followed, leading the horses of the lady and her maids. 

The gentleman did not honour us with even a single glance. 
Yongden learned from a servant that they all came from a 
place situated beyond Menkong, and that circumstance added 
some strength to my resolution to avoid that small town, capital of the Tsarong province and seat of a governor. 

The question asked by the woman had made us most un 
happy. So, in spite of the trouble I had taken to powder 
myself with cocoa and charcoal, in spite of my pretty yakhair 
hairdressing, I did not look Tibetan  enough in that Kham 
country where most women have a dark complexion! What 
more was to be done? It might be also that rumours had 
been spread about us, after our passage at Lhakangra. We 
did not know what to believe. 

The jungle had ceased to be charming. I again began to 
see a spy behind every bush, and the water of the Salween 
muttered threatening or mocking words. 

Then we bethought us that perchance we were alone responsible for the question that the Tibetan  lady had asked us. 
We could not guess the extent of her geographical knowledge. 

Perhaps she was learned enough to have thought of the Asiatic 
Russians when Yongden had mentioned "beyond the Blue 
Lake.” But more likely she had confused tso (lake with gya 
tso (ocean) and had understood that we had come from the 
other side of the “blue ocean,” which was tantamount to saying 
that we were not Asiatics. That idea reassured us, but we 
struck out forever from our travelling vocabulary the words 
parcho la, and transported our mothercountry a good 
deal southward. We became natives of Amdo! 

We were nearing the end of the last gorge before the wide 
broadening of the valley at the point where our path deserted 
the Giamo nu chu and turned toward the passes that led to 
the river Nu. Yongden walked ahead. He had already turned 
the corner of a rocky headland and was out of my sight, when 
a welldressed man coming toward me appeared at the point 
of the small promontory. The path was exceedingly narrow 
and when two people met there one of them had to stand aside 
against the rock to allow the other to pass. 

With a humility suitable to my part of an Oriental woman 
and beggar, I had already begun to make room for the 
traveller, but he stopped suddenly, quickly removing the an 
he carried over his shoulder and the sword that was passed 
through his belt, according to the Tibetan  fashion. He first 
silently bowed down three times, then, with clasped hands and 
head bent, as when asking the benediction of a lama, he approached me. 

Astonishment paralyzed thought. I mechanically obeyed 
an old habit acquired when I lived in lamaist monasteries, 
and laid my hands on the manas head. Before I had sufficiently recovered from my surprise to think of asking him 
who he was, he had again put on his gun and sword and was 
gone. I turned to look at him; he strode rapidly along the 
gorge, and after a few minutes was but a small moving black 
speck In the gigantic corridor. 
 

'‘Did you see that man?” I enquired of Yongden as soon 
as I rejoined him. 

“Yes,” he said. 

“Did he speak to you?” 

“No. He only greeted me with the usual.

“Do you know him?” 

“Not in the least.” 

I related to my companion what had just happened, and he 
concluded that the man had seen that I was a naljorma. 

As for me I suspected that the stranger had formerly met 
us both somewhere. He had recognized Yongden and had 
guessed the identity of the lay woman who followed him clad 
in plain white clothes. I was very sorry to have let him go 
without speaking with him. And now, although he had shown 
me respect by asking my blessing and, therefore, could have 
no bad intentions toward me, he might tell some one about his 
meeting and, as he was proceeding in the direction of Aben, 
such talks might prove dangerous. 

But Yongden persisted in saying that he had never seen the 
man before, that he did not know us in the least, and that he 
had been prompted by some occult influences. Then he began 
to tell me several Tibetan  stories about similar instances, and 
soon landed me in the phantasmagoric yet fascinating realm 
of thoughtforms, previous lives, and many other kindred 
topics. But my modest wishes were confined to the desire 
that, whatever might have been the motive which he had 
obeyed, my safety might not be endangered by my unknown 
worshipper. 

We were now approaching Thana, where we had been told 
that there existed a frontier station. Trusting the maps and 
some travel books that I had read, I believed that the pilgrims’ 
road turned east toward a twin pass of the Dokarla, leading 
to the Chinese territory on the watershed of the river Mekong. 
In reality the path to Menkong, the capital of Tsarong, is 
the only one.to branch oflF at that place along the Giamo nu chu. 
The one which we were to follow northward forks only at 
Wabo, I did not know these details and was most preoccupied 
with the invention of a new story concerning the aim of. our 
journey, as we should be leaving behind the sacred mountain 
which had until then supplied us with the plausible and re 
spectable motive of performing a religious pilgrimage, I felt 
almost convinced that, if we kept to the circuitous road, nobody 
would take any notice of us, for was not that station at Thana 
probably established precisely in order to observe those who 
left it to set out for Tibet? I already had visions of barriers, 
of officials before whom travellers were led to be interrogated. 
What would that Thana village be like? I was puzzled and 
anxious. 

As we were walking toward our fate , good or bad we could 
not know , we saw a few snowy peaks and a great part of the 
Kha Karpo itself, shining marvellously white, which, it pleased 
me to imagine, bid us a cordial farewell. At that time of year 
only dry, thorny shrubs were to be seen in the wide valley. 
The hills were barren and of a lightyellow colour. On the 
opposite bank of the river, which flows between high banks, we 
saw a monastery. 

We managed to reach Thaiia at night. We arranged it even 
too well that time, it seems, for we were not able to find 
our way in the dark and arrived near a temple where there 
were a number of watchdogs, who barked dreadfully at our 
approach. Happily, they were well shut in and could not es 
cape to attack us; but I feared that people would look out to see 
who were causing the noise and make certain that they were not 
thieves. Furthermore, the passage of mysterious strangers in the 
night held the danger of enquiries about us and the risk of being 
reported at the station. To avoid this, Yongden called aloud to 
the shrinekeeper, asking shelter for the night for a tired arjopa 
who had hardly been able to struggle through the last lap 
of his journey on account of a bad leg. »My companion’s 
request was full of pathos and loud enough to be beard all 
over the temple buildings. During his performance I had 



 

hidden myself out of sight. We were practically convinced 
that the shrinckeeper would not get up to receive a beggar at 
night. We knew our Tibet and Tibetans well enough to 
risk the trick, being certain of its result. When he had waited 
long enough, Yongden went away, lamenting aloud: Oh, 
how unkind to leave a poor sick pilgrim out in the cold! How 
pitiless!” and so on. His plaintive voice faded gradually away, 
as at the opera in songs of supposed passers by behind the 
scenes. It was rather a pretty effect amidst natural scenery 
of standing rocks, along a path that led downward to a stream. 
I nearly applauded. 

We had passed the shrine all right. Whoever might have 
been staying in it would not, on the morrow, give a single 
thought to the crying beggar of the previous night. But where 
was the village? In the pitch dark we could not see it and, 
had we caught sight of houses, we should not have dared to 
venture in their direction, lest we fall in with dogs of the 
same species as those who watched over the temple. 

Yongden insisted on lying down on the road itself. I preferred to go farther from the temple and find a more comfort 
able place. Discerning, in the shallow water, some stepping 
stones which crossed the stream, I went scouting on the other 
side, where I discovered two caves. We had a house for the 
rest of the night! What a blessing! We should sleep as if 
really at home. I ran to fetch my companion, and we installed 
ourselves in one of the caves, where we ate our supper with 
the clear, fresh water of the stream as beverage (cool, perhaps, 
even too cool), and slept the sound sleep of the tired yet happy 
Tibetan  neskorpas (pilgrims). 

In the morning, when putting on my upper dress, which I 
used at night as a blanket, I discovered that I had lost my 
small compass. This was a most distressing event! First, 
the compass was useful to me, and, although I had another, I 
should miss it. But the worst danger was In leaving a foreign 
object behind us. If it was found, that compass might be 
talked about all over the country and officials would quickly 
realize that a foreigner had been staying in that locality. I 

47 



 


spent some really unpleasant minutes searching in the 'dark 
for the lost article, which, fortunately, I found before long. 

Anyhow, we had lost some extremely precious time. At 
daybreak a servant of the shrine came to fetch water at the 
stream, and we started in haste. We could now see the village 
quite near the place where we had slept. The country folk 
were already awake and busy with their early work, reciting, as they moved to and fro, those various mystic formulae 
which, in lamaist lands, take the place which prayers occupy 
in other countries. Kindling the fire, giving fodder to the 
cattle, leading horses to drink at the stream, they went on 
with their muttering. A humming, like that from a hundred 
beehives, enveloped the village. 

People looked at us from the top of their windows or from 
their flat roofs. We went along with our heads bent, humming 
like everybody else. Yongden enquired about the road from 
a man near the stream. A few minutes later we were out in 
the fields. 

Some peasants, carrying ploughs, followed us on the way 
to their work; others were already occupied in distributing 
water in the Irrigation canals. Although it was November, 
the temperature was mild. A winter crop grows in these valleys, so different in every respect from the bleak and icy 
transHimalayan Tibet. Here is a country where life is 
pleasant and easy, and nothing would interfere with the joviality of Its inhabitants, if the taxes levied by the authorities 
did not increase every year. 

We chatted with several people on our way till we reached 
the forest. Going through it, we ascended a pass called 
Tondola, the height of which is approximately 11,200 feet. 
Here, for the first time since leaving Yunnan, we pitched our 
tent. We had climbed down from the pass without finding 
any water on the road. At last I discovered a small spring in 
a narrow ravine and decided to stop there. It was extremely 
damp; I feared that we would both get sore eyes if we slept 
unsheltered, and thought that the tent might also afford U8 
protection against wild animals who might carry off a part of 
our food supply during the night. However, we pitched it 
only long after nightfall and took it down before daybreak. 

In the morning, we saw for the first time the river Nu, which 
flowed swiftly in a deep gorge to join the Giamo nu chu. We 
crossed it on a good bridge. At that time a large party of 
pilgrims overtook us and begged my companion to tell their 
fortunes. It is regarded as an unpardonable sin for a lama to 
refuse such a request. A ‘Red Hat” sect lamas, in particular, 
who are credited with a profound knowledge of occult lore, 
can only with difficulty avoid acting as fortunetellers, astrologers, exorcists, and the like. My companion endeavoured to 
combine each of his consultations with some simple words about 
the true Buddhist doctrine which might lead his hearers away 
from their deeprooted superstition. He also added, according 
to circumstances, some advice about cleanliness , as far as 
hygiene can be understood by Tibetans. 

On this occasion I had to remain for more than half an hour 
seated beneath a scorching sun which struck the yellowish 
barren cliff behind me. Yongden could not get rid of the exact 
ing devotees. One consulted him about the way his cattle 
were prospering during his absence; another, desirous of adding a few carved stones in remembrance of his pilgrimage to 
the mendong which stood in his village, wished to know what 
would be the most meritorious and lucky sentence to inscribe 
on them. An overtired girl suffered from sore feet andfeared 
to be left behind. She anxiously wanted to know if she would 
be able to walk in a few days’ time, and her mother insisted 
upon knowing the name of the demon who had caused the 
swelling of the girl’s feet and had stiffened her legs! That it 
could be the natural effect of long tramps neither she nor her 
daughter nor their companions would ever have admitted. 

Faithful to a method which, for some years, had allowed us 
to relieve and cure many suffering Tibetans, Yongden, with 
impressive gravity, counted the beads of his rosary, threw some 
pebbles in the air, caught them again in his hand before they 
touched the ground, and performed a few; other ceremonies 

49 



 

accompanied by an unintelligible muttering in broken Sanskrit. 
My adopted son is really gifted, for such ritualistic work and, 
had he continued his life in a lamasery, he might have be 
come quite famous as an oracle or exorcist. But he had preferred an orthodox form of Buddhism which prohibits all 
superstitions. 

“I see,” he said, after some time, “there Is a way to get rid 
of that demon, who is of a wicked kind. Listen well, all of 
you, so as to remember what I am about to tell you.” The 
pilgrims immediately surrounded the lama, some squatting at 
his feet, some standing motionless with their backs against 
the cliff, straining their minds In a mighty effort to understand 
what the nonshes a would order , a picturesque group, of which 
I felt sorry not to be able to take a snapshot. 

“You will find a chorten on your way,” declared Yongden , 
a prophecy that could not but be fulfilled, for chorten are 
numerous in Tibet. “You will stop at that place, and the 
sick girl will lie down next the chorten for three days, well sheltered, so that the sun’s rays do not touch her head. Thrice 
each day, at sunrise, noon, and sunset, you will all assemble 
and chant Dolma? Those who do not know Dolma, will recite 
Manx. The girl will go round the chorten three times while 
you are chanting, and, save for that short walk, she shall not 
move during the three days. After having walked round the 
chorten, the girl shall be each time well fed. Her feet and legs 
shall then be massaged in hot water, wherein you will put a 
pinch of the holy sand of the most sacred Samye monastery, 
which I will give you. After this has been done, the earth 
that has been wetted by the water shall be removed, thrown 
far away in a hole, and carefully covered with stones or earth, 
for the power of the demon will be washed away with that 
holy water and fall on the ground next the chorten. Should 
the demon fail to depart, this will show that you have made 
some mistake In performing the rite and you must do it again 
at the second chorten you see on your way. 

“Now, listen again. None of you must leave his companions until you have all reached your country together, for I 
see that the demon would immediately follow those wao part 
from the girl, since he was not allowed to have his way with 
her, and would torment them in her stead. I will teach her 
mother a zunga and it will be a protection for her daughter 
and all of you, as long as you remain together. 

The poor fellows felt as if in Heaven. The lama had spoken 
long, and what he had said they could neither well under 
stand nor remember, which meant that he was exceedingly 
learned. Then Yongden commanded them to go on their way, 
and kept only the old mother, to impart to her the secret spell. 

Trembling, yet overjoyed at the thought that she had now 
nothing to fear from the evil spirits, the old woman bowed 
down with the utmost gratitude and went up the path, trying 
sotto voce to imitate the intonation of her initiator. 

“Bhhah! bhhah! bhaaa!” she muttered, and soon a 
turned into ea, into e, and finally seemed to stabilize itself in 
a sort of bleating: “Beaaa! beaaa!” I pretended to tie my 
garters, which had become loose, so as to remain behind and 
laugh at leisure, my head hidden in my large thick sleeves. 

“What does it matter?” said Yongden, smiling. “The girl 
will get three days’ rest, a little massage, and good food, and 
as the mother has the precious zung and will not leave her 
daughter, the other people will not abandon her, either. That 
is good honest work, and, moreover, I learned such tricks from 
you.” 

I could not reply. He was rights and I, too, thought that 
we had done a kind service to the afflicted and suffering maid. 

When we reached the top of the cliff, we saw fields in all 
directions and a village before us, which we subsequently 
learned was called Ke. Most of the neskorpas had already 
reached it, and some were running back toward us. 

“Oh, Lama!” they said, “what a learned nonsheschen you 
are! You told us rightly that we would quickly see a chorten. 
There it is, and the girl is already lying down. Please accept 
tea from us.” 

A chorten was indeed there, and also a small monastery 
whose few inmates, before long, heard about their wonderful 
colleague. The pilgrims, who were not beggars, but villagers 
of some means, had already bought several pots of spirit and 
drunk them, and they were now telling about strange miracles 
performed by my innocent companion. Each had contemplated a greater wonder than his friends. One asserted that, 
when crossing the river Nu, he had clearly perceived that the 
lama had not walked on the bridge, but alongside it, in midair! 

Although he had not drunk any spirit, being a strict teetotaler, Yongden felt somewhat infected by their excitement. 
He told stories of far-off countries where he had been on pilgrimages.

I began to think that the fun was going too far. The whole 
village and the local trapas a had congregated round him, and 
he went oil making telling fortunes and the like. People 
brought presents, which he graciously accepted. I did not like 
such a compromising fame, but perhaps I was wrong, for who 
could have supposed that the mother of such a brilliant sorcerer was a foreign lady? 

I managed, nevertheless, to attract the attention of my son, 
and with perhaps somewhat stern fervour I ejaculated, Karma 



Perhaps a triae vexed at aving up his triumph, Yongden declared that he would now ask leave to go on his way. People exclaimed that it was not possible, for the next willage was 
far, we could not reach it before night, and not a drop of water 
was to be found on the way. Better, they added, it was to 
spend the night amongst them; they would give us a good 
room. My companion felt tempted , I understood it, but to 
the shy imploring glance he cast in my direction I replied with 
a still more fervid “Karma pa kien no” which moved some of 
the people around me, who repeated devoutly, “Karma pa 
kien no. Karma pa kien no. 

Thus we went, and happy I felt to find myself again in 
silence and solitude. I scolded Yongden for the way in which 
he made himself conspicuous and told him a lot of things 
which made him sulky. 

We climbed a pass which was about 7,500 feet high, and 
from there descended a dusty path cut into a range of white 
hills that reminded me of Kansu in northern China. Of 
water, truly, there was none, and the prospect of getting' 
nothing to drink, either that evening or the next morning, added 
to the bad humour of the lama. The new moon, lighted our 
way, and if we had not been tired we could easily have walked 
a part of the night. But at the sight of a small cave perched 
high above the road the desire to sleep overpowered us and 
we yielded to it all the more easily, since we had left behind 
two passes and' a river, the dreaded Thana, and feared nothing 
from the next village. How wrong we were.

Picturesque indeed was our hostelry, with a small platform  
in front, but roc and terrad were both so diminutive in size 
that we were, fearful of rolling Out of them in our sleep, and 
breaking our necks on the rocks below. 

The morrow wap to be the first of a series of eventful days, 
well qualified to prostrate with nervous breakdown one less 
strong than myself. 

We arrived at the village, which is called Wabo, in the middle of the morning, hungry and more especially thirsty. This 
was quite natural, as we had taken no refreshment whatsoever 
in  our midday stay with the pilgrims near the chorten. 

We had laughed so much at the demons the day before, that 
maybe a little one amongst them wished to play us a trick and 
suggested to us the idea (which we ought never to have conceived of stopping to make tea near a place where water 
had been brought through a rustic wooden aqueduct for the 
villagers. 

A little snow had fallen during the night. I collected what 
twigs and dry cow dung I could find around the spot, while 
Yongden began to light the fire. The water was very long in 
boiling, my companion very slow in eating and drinking, and, 
as a result, a number of villagers , a first two or three, then a 
dozen, and finally perhaps twice that number , gathered round 
us. A good woman, seeing how little wood I was able to pick 
up on the road, brought me some from her house. All would 
have gone smoothly had Yongden only spoken the tenth part 
of the “winged words” by means of which, like the divine 
Ulysses, he had delighted and bewitched the natives of Ke on 
the previous day. But an image could not have been more 
silent than the orator of yesterday. He did not utter a word 
or make a gesture. He only ate and drank and drank and ate 
alternately and endlessly. People looked at us with deep 
astonishment. Tibetans are a talkative lot, and Yongden’s 
attitude upset all their notions concerning arjopas. 

“Who are these people?” asked a woman, doubtless in the 
hope that we would answer the question. But the lama pre 
served the same stern silence. 

What a pity! In my carefully devised secret code of for 
mute for all emergencies I had not provided for the order, 
“Talk!” And now I was powerless, drinking my tea humbly 
behind the lama, who was seated on an old sack I had spread 

54 



 

for him. I thought it prudent to accentuate my respect and 
to serve Yongden in all ways to avoid any suspicion about my 
personality. Alas! that, too, nearly turned to my loss. 

I ha4 taken away’ the empty kettle, at present used as a 
teapot, and proceeded to wash it, but the contact of the water 
with my hands had the natural result of cleaning them, and 
with that beginning of cleanliness appeared the whiteness of 
my skin. I had not noticed this, so distressed was I by the 
strange danger fraught behaviour of Yongden, when a woman, 
in a low voice, said to another near her: 

Had she ever seen foreigners? That was doubtful, unless 
she had been at Bhatang, or elsewhere in Chinese Tibet, or 
again in Gyantze, in the extreme south of the country. But 
every Tibetan  is imbued with a strong conviction about the 
cast of the foreigner’s features. He or she is tall, fairhaired, 
with white skin, rosy cheeks, and white eyes, which may be 
understood to be the colour of any iris that is not black or 
dark brown. 

So the colour of my skin betrayed miy nationality. I did 
not show in any way that I had heard the remark, and quickly 
rubbed my hands on the bottom of the greasy, smoked kitchen 
utensil. 

Amongst the villagers there were now three soldiers. Good 
Heavens. There was a “post” in that village, and very likely 
there was none in Thana, which we had passed with such pre 
cautions, What would become of us! I beard a rumour 
spreading, “Are they phUings?” And that petrified lama still 
continued to masticate some tsampo! I did not dare even to 
pronounce the “Karma pa kieno translated by “Let us be 
quickly off,” lest my voice, in that awkward silence, should 
attract more attention to me. 

At last Yongden rose and a allager ventured to ask him 
where he was going. What a ‘terror! It was here, before all 
these prying eyes, that we were to leave the pilgrim’s road, 
since we were exactly at the junction of the road entering the 
Nu chu Valley and of the one going to China by way of the 
Kaha Karpo range. That is, we had to Confess openly that we 
intended to proceed toward the centre of Tibet! 

Yongden calmly told them that we had made the pilgrim 
age, circumambulating the Kha Karpo, that it was now over, 
and that we were going back to our own country. 

'He did not add anything more. He put his load on his 
back. I imitated him, and we started off among the people, 
on the very road they all take when going to Lhasa. 

And then the miracle happened , the little mischievous spirit 
who had enjoyed himself at our expense gave up the joke and 
began another one to our advantage. 

The strain that was felt by everyone relaxed. L heard some 
men saying, jestingly: 

Pilgrims going on a pilgrimage!” 

This idea seemed extremely funny, and they all laughed. 

We climbed toward a pass known as the Tong la. Travelling in Tibet is a continual going up and down; a single 
days march leads one through considerable differences of level. 
This peculiarity adds greatly to the fatigue of the pedestrian, 
especially when he carries , as we did, a load on his back. 
But it also greatly enhances the charm of walking because of 
the great diversity of scenery which one sees each day. 

After having crossed the ridge, we found a good straight path 
through the forest which led to a valley in which, to my great 
astonishment, I saw a river flowing toward China. At that 
time I had not yet read the accounts of the few explorers who, 
years ago, had trodden that same path when this part of 
Tibet had not yet been taken away from its old rulers and 
when , as I have already mentioned , foreigners were allowed 
to visit it. ' 
Like me, they had all been puzzled by the mysterious river 
which seems to run toward the Mekong, whereas it is known 
that a gigantic range, crowned with everlasting snow, separates 
its watershed from that of the Salween. But as my information told me of but a single river, namely the Nu chu, which 
I was to follow upstream, I concluded that it took a bend round 
the range I had just crossed. A man whom I met down in 
the valley confirmed the fact : the river I had crossed two days 
before, which was then flowing toward the Salween, was the 
very same that I now saw before me. 

The man explained to us that we should cross a bridge 
nearby and proceed upward to the monastery of Pedo, where 
we could purchase food. He also told us that the road following the stream led to Atunze (in Chinese territory) across several passes. 

The country looked pretty. It was well cultivated and the 
upper part of the hills was woody and green, although it 
was winter. 

A little farther from the bridge, a rounded spur divided the 
valley into two parts; the river flowed to the right, and a wide 
slope on which several villages were perched occupied the 
left. Behind the villages was a path leading to the mountains. 
For a little while, I felt tempted to take that road, thinking 
that it was a short cut to the Salween side. But reflection 
convinced me that I was still too near Chinese territory to 
attract attention by following a route of my own. Prudence 
demanded that I should continue for a time along the path 
trodden by arjopasa where we would pass unnoticed. Exploration, and its joys, would come later. 

The sun set after we had crossed, the bridge. I meant to 
pass the monastery at night, and to hide myself early in the 
morning at some distance from it, leaving to Yongden the task 
of going alone to purchase some food. 

I would gladly have camped near the river where there 
was a charming natural grove with rivulets of clear water. 
But the lamasery was still far away, and it was better for the 
success of my scheme to stop only, when we were close to it. 
 

For the first time we made use of one of the rubber bottles 
we had carried with us, which were ordinary hotwater bottles. 
When I decided to add two of them to our extremely reduced 
luggage, I thought that they might help travellers devoid of 
blankets, as we were, to bear the cold of the winter nights 
in high altitudes. They could also be used to carry water 
across the dry regions. Yet, on account of their foreign aspect 
we dared not fill them before Tibetans, and for that reason 
we suffered thirst more than once when we could have easily 
carried with us enough water to make our tea. 

We had, however, disguised our bottles in a style akin to 
that of their owners. Covered with a case of thick nambua 
plain red for one, and red and yellow for the other, they had 
become shabluks , that is to say, water pouches worn by lamas 
of yore, whose sham patterns continue to form part of the 
ecclesiastic garb of present day lamaist monks. Though clothed 
in that fashion, there was considerable difference between our 
bottles, which came directly from a big American firm, and 
the purely conventional and useless simulacra that hang on the 
lama’s shamthabs. However, as we did not mean to exhibit 
them freely, from a distance they could create a sufficient 
illusion. 

Moreover, any article of our outfit which attracted the atten 
tion of the natives was immediately represented to them as hav 
ing been purchased at Lhasa, and this gave us an opportunity 
of relating the wonders of the great city where so many foreign 
goods are offered for sale. People listened to Yongden, or to 
myself, if the audience happened to be mostly women. We 
cleverly spoke of other objects much more wonderful, that 
easily made them forget those found in our bags, and these 
were prudently hidden again. 

Before the beginning of our journey I had settled with the 
lama that in any story we might invent, according to circumstances, we should never appear as people coming from outside 
Tibet, but that, on the contrary, those whom we should meet 
should be made to believe that we had travelled from Lhasa 
to the border, and were now on our way home. This gave us 
a certificate of Tibetan  nationality and did away with the 
curiosity and the suspicion which fastens upon newcomers in 
the country. This was much safer in every way and allowed 
us also to speak as having bought at Lhasa the few foreign 
articles we carried with us. 

We filled one of our bottles at the stream and left the pretty 
grove behind. The gompa, (monastery), was situated a good 
distance from the bridge and night came before we had even 
discovered it. We followed a path cut in a woody slope above 
the river Nu. As it curved, we saw several fires burning higher 
up, which reminded us of those which had frightened us 
the second night after our departure. Most likely travellers 
camped there whom we should meet if we proceeded, which 
prospect displeased us greatly. Yet to wait until they had 
started next morning would have upset our scheme and forced 
us to pass the gompa in the middle of the morning, which we 
disliked even more. An official was established there, we had 
been told, and in any case I did not wish in the least to meet 
the “trapas” of the place. The monks were much more to be 
feared by us than ordinary villagers, for whereas the latter 
seldom leave their homes and know but little of the world 
beyond them, the enterprising clerical fellows travel all over 
Tibet in China, India, Mongolia, and even in faraway 
Siberia. They see a lot of things and a lot of men, pilgrims 
included, and are as a rule much 'more alert than their lay 
countrymen. We walked again for a while and reached the 
border of the woods. The ground had been cleared for cultivation, and our path, which had become very narrow, kept 
skirting the fences that enclosed the fields. On our left side, 
its edge ended abruptly above the river bank. The fires bad 
ceased to flare and were luckily far from the road. We proceeded quickly and in the utmost silence. The new moon had 
set.  We vaguely discerned some black form which might have 
been the walls of the monastery, and deemed it wise to wait 
until dawn, lest we should mistake our way hear the lamasery, 
where several village paths probably crossed one another, and 
where dogs would bark if we wandered about. 

A cold wind swept the cliff, no shelter was at hand. The best 
place we discovered was next a stone which screened us a little. 
I had carried the rubber bottle under my dress to prevent the 
water from freezing on the way; still, it was far from being 
even tepid when we drank a draught of it with a handful of 
dry tsampa for our supper. Then I lay down on the ground, 
keeping in my arm, as well covered as a child, the bottle containing the remainder of the water to drink when we should 
awake. Small heads of rocks piercing through the earth made 
a really painful couch, even for me, who from youth upwards 
had been accustomed to the bare boards affected by the Greek 
stoics. 

When we got up, at the first rays of dawn, we saw the monastery standing a few steps before us and not at all in the 
direction we had thought it to be when arriving at night. 

We passed along the walls and made haste to be out of 
sight. A welldressed native chief passed us on horseback, 
coming from the road that leads toward Bhatang. He threw 
us an indifferent glance without stopping. 

We could now see that there was no suitable place near the 
gompa where I could wait safely while Yongden made his purchases. Our way descended a narrow valley in which flowed 
a small tributary of the river Nu. Several farms and mills 
had been built on its banks. We met also an important traders’ 
caravan coming from Lhasa. People were to be seen every 
where. I thought for A while that I could stay higher up in 
the woods, but already a girl was driving cattle in that direc 
tion. We continued to walk, exceedingly annoyed at moving 
away from the gompa, for we urgently needed fresh supplies 
of food. Healthy pedestrians like us have good appetites, and, 
at the risk of appearing a character devoid of all poetry, I 
confess that I ate a large quantity of barleymeal butter, and 
bread, when fortunate enough to get wheat fleur to make it. 
And in that respect the lama was very like lus adopted mother. 
After crossing the small valley, I discovered some large 
fields which were not to be cultivated before spring. I remained here a few hours, seated behind bushes, reading a Thibetan philosophical treatise, until Yongden, who had gone back 
to the gompa, returned, loaded like a mule. We then enjoyed 
an exceptional meal , a broth thickened with wheatflour. 
Filling our breast pockets with dried apricots, we started off 
cheerfully. In the afternoon we again entered a wild region. 
We met some pilgrims walking leisurely, who belonged to a 
large party, numbering at least fifty people, whose vanguard 
we found farther along, already camped, boiling tea in cauldrons 
the size of tubs. 

Yongden was delayed a long time. Some asked him to tell 
their fortunes, others to foresee happenings of Importance for 
them or their families. Many came forward to be blessed. 

Seated on the ground, I watched with amusement the various 
performances In which lama and believers played their parts 
with the utmost gravity, tinged, however, by that special good 
humour and overflowing gaiety which makes life among Thibetans so pleasant. 


I delightedly forgot Western lands, that I belonged to them, 
and that they would probably take me again in the clutches of 
their sorrowful civilization. 

I felt myself a simple dokpa of the Koko nor. I chatted 
with the 'vaomen about my imaginary black tent in the Desert 
of Grass, my cattle, and the feast days when the menfolk 
race on horseback and show their cleverness as marksmen. 
I knew by heart the region I described, for I had lived there 
long, and my enthusiasm for my sostyled mother country 
was so genuinely sincere that no one could have guessed my 
lie. After all, was it entirely a lie? I am one of the 
Genghis Khan race who, by mistake and perhaps for her sins, 
was born in the Occident. So I was once told by a lama. ' 

At sunset we again found the dark forest with huge trees. 
The traok was good, and as we had wasted so much time with 
the pilgrims, we wished to continue walking as long as possible. 

Going down toward a ravine in which flowed ,a small stream, 
I noticed something lying on the ground, and on nearing it, I 
saw that the object was an old furlined bonnet, such as is 
worn by the women of Kham. Yongden lifted it with the iron 
end of his pilgrim's staff and threw it off the road. The bonnet 
did not go far, nor did it fall on the ground. It flew rather 
like a bird, and alighted, if I may use that word, on the broken 
trunk of an enormous tree. 

A strange intuition warned me that the uglylooking, dirty 
article was to be of great use to me , athat, indeed, it had been 
sent to me , and in obedience to this occult suggestion I went 
down the track to fetch it. 

Yongden did not like to carry it. Tibetans, when on a 
journey, never pick up even their own hats if they happen 
to fall from their heads to the ground, and would think still 
less of taking anyone else’s they found on the road. They 
think that it would bring them bad luck. On the contrary, to 
find a boot on the road is a good omen and often travellers 
lift it, worn out and dirty as it may be, and place it for one 
second on their heads! My companion was free from such 
superstitions, but the greasy fur disgusted him and he could see 
nothing wonderful in such a find. A pilgrim, he said, had 
put it on the top of the load he carried on his back, and the 
bonnet had fallen off without its owner being aware of it. 
Either that, or the pilgrim, on account of the prevalent super 
stition, had preferred to abandon it. 

“I do not go so far,” I replied, ‘as to believe that some milli 
ner goddess has sewn it for me seated on a lotus in Paradise. 
No doubt, a mere human being has lost it, but why has he or 
she lost it just there?” 

‘Well,” rejoined my young companion, jokingly, “let us 
think, then, that an invisible friend of yours has pulled it off 
in order that it may fall on your way toaay. A most precious 
gift, indeed.” 

I said nothing more, but I carefully fastened the bonnet on 
my load and we proceeded. 

It had snowed in the forest some days before; white patches 
remained everywhere. Tired, we stopped at the entrance of a 
transversal valley from which descended a large torrent flowing toward the river Nu. After a search, Yongden discov 
ered a campingground out of sight of the road. But the cold 
wind swept that leafless spot. We therefore found a second 
place, lower down and near the track. 

Until now our tent had been of little use to us as a tent. 
Since our departure, we had pitched it only once. But it was 
precious as a blanket. We used to lie down, in Tibetan  
fashion, with our luggage between us, so that nothing could 
be taken without awakening us. We both had our revolvers 
at hand.  Our inner belts, containing silver and gold, were 
often hidden near us between stones or buried under dry 
leaves, or, if the country seemed safe, we placed them next 
us. The tent was then spread over the luggage and ourselves 
as well. When snow had fallen, that white tent spread on the 
ground, with a few dry leaves and twigs strewn on it, looked 
absolutely like a patch of snow amongst other patches, and we 
felt quite safe under it. 

So we slept that night under our favourite imitation of ‘apatch 
of snow” laid near the road. We were really overconfideift 
about the illusion that we created. The trick was no doubt 
excellent; still, it could not work if we were under the very 
feet of the passersby. Before daybreak, some traders passed, 
and one of them noticed something strange about our snow 
patch.” 

Ts that men or snow?” he asked one of his companions. 

“Snow,” answered the fellow, who probably had not even 
looked our way, but saw snow all over the wood. The first 
who had spoken uttered a sound denoting doubt. We were 
laughing silently under our tent; but as the man could have 
thrown a stone at us to ascertain our living or inanimate nature , a Yongden in a deep, sepulchral voice affirmed, “It is snow.” 
The loaded mules of the caravan started at the noise and 
the men laughed heartily. The lama then emerged from the 
cloth, leaving me under it, and chatted a few minutes with the 
traders, who were going to Atunze in Chinese Tibet. 
“Are you alone?” they asked Yongden. 
Yes,” he answered. 
And they went their way. 
That morning we passed a village and reached a small table 
land from which we discovered, far iii front of us, a steep hill 
on which could be seen a threadlike path that could be none 
other than that over the “To la,” which we were to cross. 

Those who wished to avoid the tiring climb and a second pass, 
the “Ku la,” farther off, could fellow a narrow path along the 
river, Arjopas, we were told, went that way. But I had heard 
that some parts of this path were exceedingly difficult, and 
that one had to cling to the rocks, walk on allfours, and 
generally perform a series of feats which I did not feel tempted 
to undertake with a heavy load on my back. Better for us to 
follow the tiring but safer road. I did not yet know that the 
days would come when I could not avoid playing the equilibrist 
on rocks overlooking precipices! 

I lacked another and much more useful piece of information. 
When looking at the hill and the perpendicular, narrow yellow ribbon which crossed it, I thought only of the fatigue 
of the climbing, and did not suspect that the whole success of 
my journey would be in jeopardy before our ascent began. I 
did not know, and so walked gaily down to the bottom of the 
valley. 

We found a pleasant place next a stream, and feeling some 
what lazy, rested there for the remainder of the afternoon and 
the night. We were even imprudent enough to pitch our tent 
to make ourselves more comfortable, although we knew that a 
village was near us, beyond the stream. 

Next morning, contrary to our custom, we did not make 
haste to start. A man came and talked a long time with Yongden, who invited him to drink a bowl of soup. And then we learned that we were loitering just in front of a Lhasa official’s 
house! 

We could only curse our folly, but what was done 
could not be undone. The man who had spoken with my 
young friend was a soldier, a' retainer of the official. Thus, if 
any suspicion had. arisen in his mind, and he reported It to his 
chief, we could not escape our fate. 

I suppose that, when we left the place to proceed through 
the dreaded village, there' was something In our mien of people 
sentenced to death and walking toward the scaffold. 

On and on we went. The track skirted the fields and led 
rather far from the houses. We reached a chorten, around 
which I walked thrice with an edifying countenance, touching 
it with my forehead. 

Higher and higher we were going; the official’s dwelling was 
now far behind us and nobody had stopped us. Near by was 
the border of the wooded zone. 

“Lha gycdo!” a We would shout it loudly when reaching 
the summit above the village. What joy would then be ours.
Once more we were to escape! 

"Oi! oir 

A villager was running after us across the fields. 

“You must come before the ponpo [chief],” he said. 

These were the very same words with which I had been 
stopped in Kham, after my hard journey through the snows, 
and the crossing of the “Iron Bridge.” 

With perfect composure, Yongden immediately mastered 
the situation. He put his load down on the ground, in order 
to avoid the curiosity of the ponpo and his servants, who, had 
they seen it, would most likely have wanted to look at its con 
tents. He did not even give me a glance, as if the thought 
never occurred to him that an insignificant. old woman like 
me could be worth the attention of a kudak (nobleman)! 

“Let us go,” he said to the man, and the two went off, chat 
ting together. 

I humbly squatted on the path, near our baggage. Taking 
my Tibetan  rosary from my neck, I made a pretence of tell 
ing the beads. 
The words I had heard took me back to my previous adventure. Very likely the end, now, would be the same. Once again, all the hardships endured would have been in vain. I saw 
ourselves escorted back to the nearest Chinese frontier, passing 
through the villages, a prey to the curiosity of the country folk. 
Not for one minute did I consider the idea of giving up the 
game. I had sworn that a woman should pass, and I would. 
But when, and how, if it was not today?  

Some time elapsed. Presently I heard a voice. The 
sound grew louder. Yongden was returning, chanting a Thi 
betan liturgy. If he came alone and singing. It was a 
sudden hope, nay, a certainty, which flashed across my mind! 

The young lama was before me, a mocking smile on his lips. 
He opened his hand and showed me a silver coin. 

“He has given me a rupee as alms,” he said. “Now let us 
be off quickly.” 

Yongden had learned that the ponpo was stationed there 
specially to watch over the road and see that no traveller 
crossing the pass should escape investigation. We could con 
gratulate ourselves on our good luck, but we were far from 
having finished with incidents of that kind. We had not long 
to wait before our nerves received a still greater shock. 

The very same morning, a little farther on our way, we again 
heard about a ponpo from a soldier who came hurriedly down 
hill to attend to some relay business. 

This one was crossing the range which we had just begun 
to mount. The news terrified us. No escape was possible. 
The path lay along a steep slope that did not offer any hiding 
place. The coming official would see us both. No doubt he 
would question us. 

These Lhasa men, of whom a large number go to the English 
stations in the Himalayas and even to India, have many oppor 
tunities of seeing white people, and are much cleverer than 
the common folk of eastern or northern Tibet in detecting 
them. Anyhow, we could not escape the meeting. 
We spent a few hours of terrible mental agony, listening, 
for a noise to warn us of the dreaded apparition, looking des 
perately to the right and to the left in the hope that, as in 
the old tales, a rock or a tree would open suddenly and shelter 
us till the danger was over. But, alas, no miracle happened! 
Fairies and gods left us apparently unaided. 

In the middle of the afternoon we suddenly heard the jingling of bells. Just above our heads, on the winding path, 
appeared a welldressed, sturdy man followed by soldiers and 
servants leading horses. He stopped, astonished at the sight 
of us. According to Tibetan  custom, we threw ourselves 
hurriedly on the low side of the road, to show our respect. 
The official proceeded downward and stopped again before us, 
surrounded by his followers. 

Now began the questions about our mother country, about 
our journey and other things. When all had been said, the 
ponpo still remained looking silently at us, as did all who were 
behind him. 

I felt as if needles were piercing my brain, so awful was the 
tension of my nerves. Did these men doubt us? That silence 
must be broken or something bad would come of It. What 
could I do? Yes, I knew. 

With the chanting tone of the Tibetan  beggars, only a little moderated by reverence, I Implored a charity. 

My voice broke the concentration of the group. Even physically I felt the relaxation. The Tibetans had lost their, suspicious manner. Some laughed. The good official took a coin 
from his purse and handed it to my companion. 

“Mother!” exclaimed Yongden, simulating a most happy 
surprise, “look what the ponpo gives us!” 

I manifested my joy In a way befitting my assumed person 
ality, with a wish , avery sincere, and coming from the bottom 
of my heart , for the prosperity and long life of my benefactor. 
The latter smiled at me and I answered the favour of his smile 
with the most respectful of Tibetan  salutes. I put out my 
tongue as far as I could extend it. 

Jetsunma, means reverend lady,” said Yongden, a few minutes 
later, “you spake truth indeed when you told me, in the forests 
of Kha Karpo, that ‘you would make them dream and see 
visions/ No doubt that fat fellow and his retainers, who 
looked so long at you, have been bewitched.” 

Standing at the top of the pass, we shouted, loudly and 
heartily. 
Lha gyalo! De tamche pham. Means, The gods win; the demons 
are defeated!” 

But I did not allude to the two kind ponpos In mentioning 
demons; quite the contrary. May happiness befall them till 
the last of their earthly days, and thereafter. 









CHAPTER 3. 

The joy which our double victory had left us was not 
devoid of nervousness. We were now on the alert and 
expected to confront a ponpo at each turning of the path. On 
our way down, the jingling of a bell that we heard coming 
in our direction gave us a terrible fright. The bell, however, 
was attached to the neck of a goat, which soon appeared, 
carrying some baggage belonging to an aged couple going on a 
pilgrimage to the Kha Karpo. 

The husband was a lean, tall khampa with bright eyes in a 
bold wrinkled face suitable to a retired robber chieftain, and 
the wife’s slightly stooping figure still allowed one to guess what 
an energetic matron she had been. Together, with the goat bear 
ing its queer head haughtily as if in utter disgust of the masters 
who had enslaved her frail body but had not tamed her wild 
little mind, they formed a most picturesque group. 

The vivacious animal took the opportunity of our arrival to 
turn its back and run away. The old peqple tried to run after 
it, but they were not a match for that little demon, which 
trotted a few steps, then stopped and looked at them mock 
ingly, and then started off again. It looked really intelligent 
and w'orthy of a better lot than that of a beast of burden. 
Yongden succeeded in catching it and leading it upward again. 
The pilgrim pair thanked him profusely. Beholding the goat 
which now waited patiently for them, the lama addressed the 
two villagers seriously. 

“Be careful,” he said, “to be very kind to that beast. It has 
been related to you in a previous life when it was a human 
being. On account of some bad deeds it has been reborn in 
the sorrowful animal kingdom. On account, also, of previous 
good actions, it has now got the happy chance of genng to the 
holy Kha Karpo. Owing to the merit of that pilgrimage, it 
a will be once more a man in its next life, and you three will 
meet again, so do your best in order that feelings of friendship 
may be cultivated between you which will bear good fruits in 
the future.” 

The red hat of my companion, perhaps also the dark forest 
that surrounded us and the first shadow of the evening that 
spread all around, imparted a peculiar solemnity to that aston 
ishing oracular pronouncemenL The old peasants looked 
deeply impressed and expressed their gratitude to the seer 
lama who had revealed to them such an important mystery. 

Before we started I saw the woman taking a few packages 
out of the goat’s load to lighten it, while the old man patted it. 

“The little thing will be happy now,” Yongden told me, as 
we continued to walk down the hill. “They will treat it kindly 
and allow it to die a natural death. 

“Why did I invent that story? Really, I could not tell; it 
came by itself.” 

“Could it not be,” I suggested, “that you yourself in a pre 
vious life were related to the goat?” 

My prophet friend stopped, gazing at me, trying to guess 
if I was joking or speaking seriously. He did not appear to 
appreciate that relationship much, even in a remote past. 

I laughed. 

“Well, well,” said Yongden, “after all, a good beast deserves 
much more esteem than many men who are but scoundrels. 
Let me be the aku. a of the goat, if you like. I do not mind. 
It was a nice little thing.” 

The incidents of the day had put a great strain on our 
nerves, and in spite of the little fun we had just enjoyed we 
felt really tired and not in a mood either to walk the whole 
night or to stay amongst talkative people in a village, even if 
we could have reached one, which was rather doubtful. Our 
road lay on the side of the range, which remained most of the 
time in the shade, so that the streams were scalloped with ice 
and the ground deeply.frozen. That circumstance did not 
promise an agreeable camping; nevertheless, we decided to 
stay in a melancholy valley which crossed our path. Most 
luckily, wood was lying on the ground in large quantities, but 
even before a big fire we remained shivering, and the desolate 
landscape seemed to add to the sensation of icy cold which 
pervaded us. 

To sleep unsheltered in such a spot seemed decidedly miser 
able, I thought that, although in pitching the tent we lost 
the benefit of our blanket, we should be more comfortable 
with a roof over our heads. We therefore filled two rubber 
bottles with boiling water and slept with them under our 
dresses, in the wellclosed tent, whose thin cloth, however, 
was a very feeble barrier against the cold. 

We did not reach the village situated at the foot of the Ku la 
until the middle of the afternoon, Yongden visited a few houses 
to purchase food, and the good people pressed him to stay over 
night because, they said, it was too late to cross the pass that 
day. We knew It, but we had travelled so slowly during the 
last week that we wished to push a little ahead. Moreover, 
I had not yet slept amongst Tibetans since leaving Yunnan, 
and I deemed it prudent to delay until we should be farther 
in the interior of Tibet before venturing on intimate contact 
with the people of the country, thus giving them the oppor 
tunity of observing us at close quarters. 

So Yongden, taking advantage of the fact that I had continued to walk while he was busy making his purchases, 
pointed me out, already high on the winding path, and declared 
that we should have thankfully accepted their kind hospitality 
had we been together, but that he could not now call his old 
mother back. 
We cooked some soup for our supper by the roadside, and 
crossed the pass at about midnight. It was covered with 
forests, and a grassy slope free of trees rose from the path 
itself. Perhaps in daytime one could get a view of the sur 
rounding country from its summit, but it was of course impos 
sible to ascertain it at night. 

The climbing had warmed us, and tired us as well, so that 
I felt tempted to pitch our tent among the evergreens that 
grew in clusters on the small flat piece of ground forming 
the top of the pass. We were neither thirsty nor hungry, and 
could have waited to drink tea until we had found water lower 
down on the next day. But Yongden objected that a traveller 
never spent the night on the summit of a pass, and that we 
should be frozen to death if we were foolish enough to stop 
and sleep. It was nonsense; we should obviously have been 
cold, after the heat produced by our walk had cooled down, but 
there was no fear of freezing. Be that as it may, it is difficult, 
even for one who has had a partly foreign education from 
childhood, to give up entirely the ancestral notions of his native 
land. True Tibetans never spend the night on the top of the 
pass, and the height of their mountains sufficiently explains 
that custom, but I suppose that even in the middle of the 
summer, and in a warmer country, most of them would still 
strongly hesitate to depart from their timehonoured rule. 

As my companion appeared so reluctant to halt, I did not 
want to press him. We continued on our way. About an 
hour later we reached a partly level, wide ground sheltered 
by huge trees but free from undergrowth. In the night it 
appeared extraordinarily majestic; a mountain stream roared 
near by against a wall of whitish rocks and added greatly to 
the impression caused by the site itself. This was an ideal 
campingplace and we were not the only ones to appreciate it 
as such, for, after having wandered about a little, Yongden 
and I discovered several primitive hearths marking the spots 
where travellers were in the habit of stopping to make tea. 
Near one of them we slept without pitching our tent. We had 
heard about brigands rambling between the two passes, waiting 
for travellers, and did not want to attract their attention. Still, 
we lighted a small fire to boil some tea. 

I had seldom had a more sumptuous bedroom than that natu 
ral and immense hall whose talLpillars supported a roof of thick 
foliage. It reminded me of the templelike glade where I had 
halted one night while rounding the Kha Karpo. But this 
place was much larger and less gloomy. 

The next day, I enjoyed a lazy morning to compensate for 
our nocturnal tramp. We were eating a flour broth which my 
naturally excellent appetite, much increased by the pure air 
and long daily walks, made me find delicious, when a man 
appeared. He was one of the villagers who had accompanied 
the baggage of the ponpo whom we met on the road, and had 
Witnessed the generosity of the gentleman. To such a man we 
could not be suspect, and moreover the smell of the broth kept 
warm on the embers was an attraction sufficient in itself. He 
came straight to us, sat himself near the fire, and a talk fol 
lowed our invitation to take his bowl out of his amphag'a and 
to share our meal. This is never refused by Tibetans, who 
are capable of eating any amount at any time. 

As was to be expected, Yongden had to cast lots and the 
man went away, after having invited us to his house in the 
next village, called Gyatong. 

We again crossed a minor pass during the morning. Thence 
a steady descent on a good path led us to a cultivated area. 
On reaching it, we met a large party of pilgrims, who certainly 
numbered more than one hundred, mostly lay people, men and 
women. Some of them stopped my companion for the inev 
itable business of casting lots. This time, however, the monot 
ony of that work was relieved by the subject proposed to the 
science of the seer by one of the enquirers. This man had 
brought with him from his home a small ass which carried his 
luggage. The object of the mo was to know if it was good, 
or not, to let the animal go round the Kha Karpo with his 
owner. If it were foreseen that the journey would turn out 
badly, the beast would be left at Pedo gompa and the adllager 
would take it home on his way back at the end of his 
pilgrimage.'

The little’ longeared fellow was not to be consulted, but its 
good luck had led it to a compassionate friend. Yongden after 
ward told me that he picture4|aato himself all the steep climb 
ing that would be hard on the tiny feet of the poor donkey, 
the high passes, now covered with deep snow, the frosty nights 
to be passed in the open, and all the other troubles which would 
befall the little slave. How much happier it would be to get 
a month’s rest in the pleasant grazing grounds of the Pedo 
Valley! 

So, after appropriate gestures and recitations, the oracle de 
clared that without the least doubt the beast would die if it 
only came in sight of the Kha Karpo, and that such a death 
happening during a pilgrimage would greatly diminish the 
merits and blessed results which each pilgrim expected from 
his pious journey! 

That community of interests was created to insure that not 
only the master of the animal, but all his companions would 
look carefully to it that the latter be left behind at Pedo! 

Yongden was profusely thanked for his remarkable and most 
valuable advice, and a few presents entered our provision bags 
in gratitude. While the young man was delivering his oracle, 
a welldressed lama came into sight, accompanied by a few 
retainers, all riding beautiful horses. As he proceeded I 
noticed that he was looking at my son. Perhaps he too har 
boured in his mind some disquieting thoughts and would like 
to learn the future from the “Red Cap nonsheaa whose air, I 
must admit, announced a high degree of proficiency. But 
his rank did not allow him to humble his fine travelling robe 
of brlghtayellow brocade by alighting on the dusty road. Per 
haps he sighed when the ragged seer, who had by then fin 
ished lecturing his pilgrims, passed near him without asking 
his blessing or showing any special mark of respect. Twice he 
looked backward at him, but seeing me and being probably 
ashamed to be caught paying attention to a mere arjopa, he 
quickly turned his head, and I saw only his shining yellow back 
and his large gilded travelling hat of wood which was almost 
the same shape as the roof of the monastery of which he was 
the lord.  
As it was still early, we did not wish to halt, and preferred 
to dispense with the invitation we had received. So, instead 
of looking for the house of our wouldbe host, we endeavoured 

to cross the village speedily. We had nearly reached the end 
of the inhabited zone when, passing by a farm, a door opened 
in the enclosure of a courtyard, and, lo! the man whom we 
had already met several times appeared as if out of the wall, 
like a hobgoblin. I suppose that he must have been waiting 
for us. Yongden tried vainly to parley with him, but the 
farmer would not listen. Why did we wish to proceed, since 
we were certain not to reach the next village before night? 
The astonished villager put the question to us and we did not 
know what answer to give him, for authentic arjopas sleep in 
the jungle only when they cannot possibly avoid it. As a rule 
they halt near some building, and when happy enough to be 
called inside they never think of refusing the good luck, I 
was very much annoyed, but feared to seem strange in pre 
ferring the jungle to the hospitality of a farm of comfortable 
appearance. We therefore stepped in, uttering thanks and 
blessings, and were shown to the top story, where lived the 
family, the ground floor being, as usual, occupied by stables. 

This was the first time I had been the guest of Tibetans 
in my role of a beggar. A Tibetan  house had nothing new 
for me, but my present disguise made things very different 
from what they had been in the course of my previous journeys. 
Although on those I did not indulge in Western customs, the 
servants who followed me, my fine beasts, and my good 
lamaist attire kept my hosts respectful and distant. enjoyed 
all the privileges of quietness and privacy, or as much privacy 
as there is in the East. And the life of a lama of rank is far 
from being unpleasant. On the contrary, I could not now 
expect much attention, but only, at the best, the condescending 
kindness of these coarse and common folk who would include 
me in Yongden’s train, his dress as a member of the rdigious 
order commanding a certain respect. 
I was to experience various things which until then I had 
only observed from afar. I should be sitting on the rough 
floor of the kitchen, which was dirty with the grease of the 
soup, the butter of the tea, and the spit of the inmates. Well 
meaning women would offer me a scrap of a piece of meat 
they had cut on the lap of their dress which had been 
used, maybe for years, as a handkerchief and a kitchen towel. 
I should have to eat in the way of the poor, dipping my un 
washed fingers in the soup and in the tea, to knead the tsampa, 
and to do any number of things which disgusted me. Yet 
I knew that such penance would not be without reward, and 
that under cover of my inconspicuous garb of a poor pilgrim 
I should gather a quantity of observations which would never 
have come within reach of a foreigner, or even, perhaps, of a 
Tibetan  of the upper classes. I was to live near the very 
soul and heart of the masses of that unknown land, near those 
of its womenfolk whom no outsider had ever approached. To 
the knowledge I had already acquired about the religious 
people of the country I would add another and quite intimate 
one, concerning its humblest sons and daughters. For this it 
was certainly worth while overlooking my disgust and making 
the even more difficult sacrifice of delightful hours of solitude 
in the enchanting jungle. 

The man who received us was a rather wealthy villager. 
Nevertheless, he allowed us to cook our own food, a broth of 
which he took his share, thinking, perhaps, that it was his due 
for having supplied a few turnips which he cut without peeling 
or washing and threw in the pot. In any other country, the 
sand would have been noticeable in the soup, but I cannot 
say often enough that Tibet is a land of wonder which 
changes everything for the best. At least it has always been 
so for me. The broth was delicious. 

Some neighbours called In the evening. They were all 
informed by our host of the two Lhasa officials’ generosity 
toward us, and Yongden declared boldly that these good gen 
tlemen of O and Tsang were religiousminded and that he was 
accustomed to receive such bounties. 

I profited by the opportunity to enquire about places where 
we could expect to meet other officials. I said that we had 
exhausted our money and we would want to beg from them 
food or silver on our way back home. I had invented that 
story so as to inform myself as minutely as possible about the 
ponposa residences. The peasants would think my eagerness 
to know the smallest details of the situation of the zongs a was 
due to the necessity of securing food. People who sought with 
such earnestness to meet officials could not but appear honest 
and respectable travellers who had nothing to fear from the 
authorities. Had the Tibetans whom I met during my journey 
conceived the least doubt about my origin, such enquiry, and 
the reason given for it, would have immediately dispelled their 
suspicion. 
That evening I heard that the military rolls were filled in 
the Nu Valley in the very same way as in the north of Kham. 
A number of villagers were enlisted who could remain at home 
and continue their ordinary work, but had to join the troops 
as soon as they were ordered. As wages they enjoyed several 
advantages , exemption of taxes or of statute labour and some 
times a small salary paid generally in kind. 

A thing which had surprised me very much, two years before, 
in Kham, had been to hear the reports about the uncommonly 
large number of soldiers stationed at the new ThlbetoChlnese 
border. One spoke of three hundred men in such a monastery, 
three hundred in such another, three hundred again in a third, 
and so on. The repetition of that number “three hundred” 
first attracted my attention. I was accustomed to find such 
repetitions in the sacred Scriptures of the Orient. It was a 
question, in some books, of five hundred followers, five hundred 
chariots, five hundred sheep, five hundred no matter what. 
One had to understand that the conventional expression in 
reality meant merely an indefinitely large number. In later 
literature the modest five hundred grew to be five thousand, 
eight thousand, till they reached the eighty thousand of the 
Mahayanist Buddhist treatises, to which the good Tibetan  
translators have still added a few thousands and hundreds of 
their own. Now, the Tibetan  staff seemed to apply the same 
methods to the reckoning of its regiments. I went to the bot 
tom of the mystery and learned that strict orders were given 
along: originally a fort, but, by extension, nowadays any building that 
is the seat of an official or of a local chief of tribes 

to the people all along the SinoTibetan  border to speak of 
powerful troops stationed in the watch posts. Then, when I 
myself went to investigate on the spot, and discovered half a 
dozen or ten warriors where three hundred were said to have 
their abode, I was told that the remainder were aaat home.” 
That meant that the fifty or hundred which made up the 
mythical three hundred were but villagers who would be pro 
vided with a gun and sent to fight if the Lhasa government 
deemed it wise. In the meantime the actual rulers do not 
appear to trust their countrymen newly ‘liberated” from the 
Chinese rule. Several times I asked regular soldiers why they 
were all men from central Tibet, and the answer was always 
the same: “If the Khampas had good guns they would fire at 
us.” On one occasion some of the regulars from Tsang told 
me that a few years before, when they fought against the 
Chinese in western Szetchuan, some of the Tibetan  villagers 
had fled away and, at night, when the Lhasa troops were 
camped in the conquered place, they returned with Chinese 
soldiers and fell on them with their swords. In view of this, 
when it is considered indispensable to arm the reserve soldiers 
who remain at home, the government supplies them only with 
oldpattern Tibetan  or Chinese guns. Men who held them in 
their hands smiled when I asked the reason for it. “Those 
from Lhasa,” they said, “do not wish us to be able to match 
their own soldiers. They know what some of us might do.” 

The hatred of the new Lhasa masters did not seem to have 
reached that degree in the Tsarong and Tsawarong valleys; 
but even though they are patiently accepted, it is easy to under 
stand that they are not much liked. 

We left the hospitable farmers at dawn, and proceeded on 
our way along the valley. 

Few landscapes in the world can compete with the graceful 
yet majestic scenery of the Nu Valley. We crossed large 
meadows strewn with rocks of different sizes and shapes, where 
trees of various species grew, here, isolated, there in clusters, 
yonder forming groves, as if they had been trimmed and 
planted where they stood by some artistic gardener. An air 

of gentle mystery, of pristine purity, spread over everything. 
I seemed to be walking across a picture out of an old book of 
legends, and would not have been very startled had I sud 
denly surprised some elfs seated on sun rays, or come upon 
the Enchanted Palace of the Sleeping Beauty. 

The weather continued to be glorious, and, strangely enough, 
though shallow ponds and rivulets were frozen, the night was 
not really cold. 

The queer glimmers of hidden fires that had puzzled us in 
the Kha Karpo forest reappeared in the darkest recesses of this 
natural park. They became so much a part of the nocturnal 
landscape that we did not trouble any more about them, what 
ever their cause may have been. 

Every day we met groups of pilgrims journeying toward 
the holy Kha Karpo. Villages were near enough to allow them 
to spend the nights in shelter. For my part, I preferred to 
sleep under the trees, shrouded in silence and serenity. 

Wild animals seemed scarce in the valley. Once, when I 
remained awake longer than usual, I saw a wolf passing near 
us. It trotted by with the busy yet calm gait of a serious 
gentleman going to attend to some affair of importance. 
Although it was well aware of our presence, it did not show 
the least curiosity or fear, but went its way with the utmost 
indifference, as if intent on affairs of its own. 

I have said that, when putting on my Tibetan  disguise I 
used Chinese ink to blacken my hair. It did not prove a very 
fast dye; a great part of the stuff came off on the turban 
which I wore after the Lutzekiang fashion. I therefore revived 
the jetblack colour of my plaits from time to time. Needless 
to say, during this work my fingers got their share of dye! 
But this did not matter much, for the personality of the old 
beggar mother which I had assumed required me to be as 
dirty as possible, and I frequently used to rub my hands on 
the smoky bottom of our kettle to match the colour of these 
of the country womenfolk. So ink could not be conspicuous. 
On one occasion when I begged in a village of the Nu Valley, 
this dye gave birth to a comical, although rather unpleasant, 
Incident. 

I had gone from door to door, reciting prayers according to 
the custom of needy pilgrims. A good housewife called Yong 
den and me inside for a meal, and poured In our bowls curd 
and tsampa. The custom is to use one’s fingers to mix them. 
So, forgetting all about the hair and ink business to which I 
had attended a few hours before, I dipped my fingers in my 
bowl and began to knead the flour. 

But what Is this? It becomes black; dirty streaks appear 
and grow wider on the milky meal. Oh, I see! The dye 
on my fingers comes off. What is to be done? 

Yongden, who has just glanced at me, sees the catastrophe. 
Comic as it is, the situation is nevertheless serious. It could 
provoke embarrassing questions, lead to the discovery of my 
identity. 

"Eat quickly!” the lama advises in a suppressed but most 
imperative tone. I try. What a nasty taste! 

“Eat, eat quickly!” urges my young companion desperately; 
“the nemo [hostess] Is coming back to us.” And shutting my 
eyes, I hastily swallow the contents of the bowl. 

We proceeded through this beautiful country toward the 
monastery of Dayul. Though previous meetings with ponpos 
had all ended nicely for me, I had not the least desire to 
take willingly more chances of that kind. So, knowing that 
an official resided at Dayul, I had decided to pass the place 
at night. 

The thing appeared plain enough. Yet for us who did not 
know the region, who had no milestones as guides and who 
moved in a dense forest, it was rather difficult to regulate our 
gait in order to arrive at the monastery at the time chosen. 
One morning some villagers told us: “You will reach Dayul 
today.” This was news, but how vague! Was one to make 
haste, or to take It leisurely so as to arrive during the 
day? We could not guess. The Tibetans, like most 
country people, except the Chinese, have no precise idea of 

distance. The latter can at any moment on any road tell you 
how many miles it is from one place to another. 

Out of fear of emerging from the woods in front of the 
gompa before night had fallen, we spent a part of the day hid 
den under the trees near the river, eating and musing, with the 
result that, the monastery being farther than we had supposed, 
we tramped for a long time at night before discovering it. 

Through the Edenlike valley, even more romantic in the 
darkness, we proceeded in complete silence, straining our eyes 
in vain in an endeavour to discern shapes of buildings on the 
opposite shore of the river on which, we knew, stood the monastery. We had nearly become convinced that, having delayed too long on the way, we should not reach it before daybreak. 

As the time passed my anxiety increased. I walked nervously ahead when I saw white forms, like walls, in the middle 
of the widening path. We had arrived near two mendongs separated by chortens and surrounded by a large number of mystic 
flags. We could still see no houses on the opposite bank, but 
I was too well acquainted with Tibet to have the least doubt 
that we were in front of the monastery. A few minutes later 
we reached the bridge spanning the river in front of the gompa 
about which we had been told. We knew that we did not need 
to cross it, although in addition to an important track going 
to Dowa and other places, several bypaths existed, on the right 
bank of the river Nu, which we could have followed: But I 
had decided to continue on the left bank, in order to avoid 
the monastery completely. 

The night was clear, stars shone in the sky without a cloud, 
yet their dim light did not allow us to see far ahead. The path 
we had followed for many days seemed to end near a second 
bridge, about which I had heard nothing. Anyhow, no other 
passage appeared possible and we were in a great hurry to be 
far from the gompa. 

The bridge once crossed, we found ourselves walking on 
stones amongst which water streamed everywhere. We pushed 
on for some distance; then I became convinced that we had 
missed the way. We went back, crossed the bridge again, and, 
while nearing its end, we heard a feeble noise. In no time 
we hid ourselves behind a wall close to the river. Then I 
looked around me. Heavens! We were in a small courtyard! 
A tew steps away people were probably sleeping who might 
awaken and discover us. 

Taking the utmost care to avoid being heard, we went out 
and walked toward the mendong to look for another way. 
But except for the two bridges, it really seemed that there was 
none. 

We hardly knew what to think. We might have been misinformed or have misunderstood the directions that had been 
aven to us, but we could not remain there to ponder over the 
matter. We must make haste to leave the vicinity of the monastery and go wherever we could, at the risk of trying to find the right way again on the morrow, if we had missed it, or 
even of being compelled to change our itinerary. 

Then Yongden went to scout beyond the bridge which was 
in front of the gompa. At length I vaguely discerned the 
whitish mass of the monastery outlined in a recess of the 
hillside. It reminded me of the chagzam  and of my last 
failure and at. this particular moment such a memory 
had nothing pleasing in it! Under the feet of the lama 
the planks of the bridge made an awful noise. Then silence 
fell for a long time, until finally I heard the noise made 
by the young man in returning. It is impossible, I thought, 
that nobody has been awakened. Soldiers or servants 
will come. I awaited a shout calling the night traveller, 
commanding him to come forward, show himself and tell why 
he was roaming at that hour. I feared even worse; shots in 
the night; a bullet which, perchance, might hit Yongden. 

The report of the scout was not encouraging. He had seen 
but one path leading from the shore to the gompa; the tracks 
probably started from behind the buildings. 

Whatever it might be, we did not want to risk ourselves 
near the monastery. 

The noise made by my companion had rendered a quick 
flight still more urgent. We ran toward the first bridge we had 
crossed, passed again through the water and amongst the 
stones and reached a small shrine built under a tree. There 
our path divided in two. We turned to the left without know 
ing why, climbed a steep winding path, and arrived at a 
village. Beyond it, higher up, we lost ourselves amongst 
irrigation canals and fields built terrace upon terrace. Where 
were we to go? 

Once more Yongden put his load down beside me and 
started scouting. I sat on crumbling stones, fearing, each time 
that I moved, to slide down the slope. A cold wind arose; I 
shivered, crouched amongst the baggage. Suddenly a dog 
barked above me and continued for a long time, tiring my 
overstrained nerves. Was the lama in that direction? Would 
he find the road? He did not come back. Several hours went 
by, as I could see by the radium dial of my small watch which 
I consulted again and again. What had happened to him? 

Far away big stones began to roll down. What was 
that? A small landslide only, or an accident? J. In the 
dark, a slip caused by a shadow is enough to send the wan 
derer rolling down to break his neck on the rocks or be 
drowned in the river. I stood in readiness to go and look 
for the young man. He stayed too long; something bad must 
have happened. I went a few steps; all was darkness around 
me. How could I discover him? And if he came back while 
I was away, how frightened he would be at the sight of the 
loads abandoned and myself gone. And would either he or I 
be able in the darkness to find the place where we had left 
the luggage? If no one remained there, who could signal as 
faintly as possible to the one who came back? Prudence 
commanded me to stay, and my inactivity added to the anxiety 
which tormented me. 

The scout appeared at last. I had guessed right. He had 
fallen and been carried down with sliding stones. Happily, 
he had stopped on a small platform, while a boulder jumped 
near him and continued its course down. He was a little 
excited, as well he might be, after such a narrow escape, but 
his main thought was about the road. He had found none. 
The situation was critical. We could not think of remaining 
perched on that bare slope where we could be seen from all 
sides at the first gleam of dawn. 

We must go down,. I said, if need be, as far as the mendong 
in front of the gompa. In that way, if people see us in the 
early morning we will not appear strange, and can pretend 
that we have slept at the monastery or near it. There was 
nothing else to do. We once more crossed the village, but 
the night faded as we wandered. As soon as we had reached 
the last house it was daybreak. 

It was necessary, now, to go farther down. If asked 
whence we were coming, we could answer quite plausibly that 
we were coming from the monastery. There remained only to 
ascertain if the path on which we were was the right one. 

Yongden left me seated against the fence around a field, 
and, going up again to the farms, he knocked at a door. A 
halfawakened man opened a window of the upper story, and 
from him, the lama learned that we had but to climb again 
to about the place where I had spent a part of the night, and 
keep on to another village. 

I quickly took up my load, and I for the third time, and 
Yongdeh for the fifth, together crossed that tiresome village. 
We proceeded as silently and as quickly as we could, deeming 
it prudent to avoid the inhabitants. As for the man of whom 
my son had asked his way, he could speak of but one lonely 
lama pilgrim, for he had not seen me. 

We arrived at the top of the hill, where we found several 
big houses. One of them looked particularly large and well 
built. Most likely it was.the abode of one of those petty 
princes who, before the Lhasa government had annexed east 
ern Tibet, were independent rulers,, each one on his own 
small territory. Or it might have been that the Lhasa official 
lived there, and not in the monastery, as we had understood.
From there we could easily see Dayul beneath us. 

People were already afoot. A woman appeared and I went 
piously round a chorten, as the proper thing for a pilgrim to do at the beginning of the day. There was a cross 
road here, but my young friend did not see it. He thought that 
my wanderings meant that I had found no path on the other 
side and disappeared at full speed up a road opening on his 
right. I followed hastily to tell him that he was turning his 
back to the river Nu, but before I could join him a man barred 
his way and politely, yet with an inquisitive look which 
turned my blood cold, asked him several questions about his 
country, his journey, and the liae; but to my astonishment he 
did not look at me. Nervous, overtired by his exertion during 
the previous night, Yongden answered blunderingly. I was 
dying of fear! 

We learned that we had made a mistake, and had taken the 
Chiamdo road, instead of that of Zogong. We retraced our 
steps, but now we had been seen and that villager with his 
suspicious look and his inquisitive questions knew which way 
we had gone. 
What a result for all the trouble we had taken during a 
whole night! 
At sunrise we saw once more Dayul gompUy all white in its 
nest of green woods. I feared the man would inform the ponpo. 
I calculated the time he would take in going down to the mon 
astery, seeing the official, saddling a horse, and for a rider to 
catch up with us. It could not have taken very long. Yet 
nobody appeared behind us. But yes, there is a peasant! 
He carries a bag; he is on foot. The ponpo would 
not send a man after us with a load on his shoulders.

He overtakes us; he is gone. The path is empty behind us. 
We continue our walk. 

A jingling of bells makes us start. A horseman approaches. 
I straighten my back. I do not want to faint, but I feel the 
blood leaving my brain, everything around me jifrims and 
darkens. I have just the time to move to the side of the path 
to avoid being knocked down by the horse. The man has 
passed us; the tinkling grows fainter and finally ceases. 

We are still far from being completely reassured, but emo 
tion and a long tramp have exhausted our strength. Below 
the road, cut high on the hill, a series of large natural terraces 
descends in steps down to the river. 

They, also, in the rosy light of the early morning, remind 
me of fairyland gardens. Autumn leaves blaze in their golden 
and purple tints around the dark greens of the fir trees. 
Strewn on the grass, sprinkled in places with a fine snow, they 
make a carpet such as no emperor has ever seen in his throne 
room. 

I tell Yongden to follow me down. We quickly boil our 
tea and eat some tsampa with a ferocious appetite. Emotions 
may tire me, but can never prevent me from eating or sleeping. 
Sleep is especially needed. And now the sun is shining and 
will keep us warm. 

We continued on our way in the afternoon and reached a 
hot spring. There are quite a number of them all over Tibet, 
but we had not yet come across any since we left Yunnan. I 
felt delighted at the prospect of a warm bath. A rustic basin 
had been built with stones for that purpose, near a rocky wall 
which sheltered it. I had only to wait until night to enter the 
water without any fear of allowing the colour of my skin to 
be seen by occasional passers-by! 

Judge of my annoyance when a family of pilgrims , father, 
mother, and three children , came and pitched their camp next 
us! I had not the least doubt that they would all sit in the 
basin, for Tibetans are very fond of hot natural baths, and 
as they had not the same reasons as I for waiting until night, 
I would get the water in which they had already bathed! 
Although the spring bubbling at the bottom of it sent a con 
tinual stream through the small artificial pool which overflowed 
through a specially built canal, I did not like that idea at all. 
But, of course, all happened as I had foreseen. Yongden, 
whom I told to hurry to enjoy the clean water, reported to me 
when he returned that his bath had been shortened by the 
entrance of the father and three sons into the water! 

I could but wait, and I waited long. The happy sensation 
produced by the hot water in that cold country kept the four 
Tibetans under its spell for more than one hour. Night had 
fallen and a cold wind promised little comfort for the moment, 
since on coming out of the bath I should have to dry myself 
in the open with my root-mean-square towel! Still more delay 
was caused by my desire to allow time for the water of the 
bath to be changed, but I started at last for the spring, after 
having been earnestly entreated by Yongden to avoid washing 
my face, which had now become nearly the orthodox colour 
of a Tibetan countrywoman. 

A few days later, on a sunny morning, we were walking 
leisurely on the bank of the river when two lamas dressed in 
lay clothes reached us, coming up from behind. They asked 
about our country and many other details for a rather long 
time, and one of them stared at me with peculiar insistence. 
They said that they were in the service of the Governor of 
Menkong and carried a message from him to the officer residing 
at Zogong. 

We both noticed the way one of them had looked at me, and, 
as anybody in our circumstances would have done, we began 
to fancy the worst. Maybe some rumours had spread after 
our leaving Menkong and had only recently reached the Gov 
ernor, who had dispatched these two to inform his colleague 
and order him to ascertain who we were. 

Previous disquieting meetings had come to a quick end. But 
this one left a lasting terror in its wake. Zogong, where we 
should know our fate, was still far away, and each day brought 
the same question. Were we not walking toward our doom? 

We reverted to our nocturnal tramps. We had become ' 
again the scared game dreaming of the hunter. One morning 
at dawn a party of pilgrims met us and stopped to exchange 
a few words. According to my custom, I continued to walk 
slowly ahead while Yongden was talking with the men. When 
he rejoined me he was more frightened than I had ever seen 
him. 

“They are people from Riwoche, he said. “Who knows if 
they have not seen you when you went there with Thobgyal? 
You are quite famous in that reason.” 
Riwoche is the site of a once celebrated monastery, now half 
ruined. I had stayed there twice during a previous journey in 
Tibet after having entered the forbidden zone through the 
Iron Bridge. 

Our fears grew. Hour by hour they became greater. 
At the sight of each group of men or women who happened 
to pass us we trembled, thinking of the catastrophe that 
awaited us. Truly, this way madness lay. 

In that mood we reached a bridge on the river Nu, near a 
big village called Porang. 

“Let us take a chance,” I said to my companion. “On this 
side of the stream we run the risk of meeting old acquaintances 
from the province of Kham, because that is the way by which 
they go to Kha Karpo. We shall also have to cross Zogong, 
where these lamas have perhaps spoken about us, even if they 
have not been sent to catch us. Here is a bridge , athere are 
few in Tibet , showing that there is a trail of some impor 
tance on the other bank. The Giamo Nu River flows in that 
direction. Let us try to reach it and we will then see what can 
be done.” 

We therefore crossed the bridge and bravely climbed the 
trail beyond it, without knowing where it W'ould lead us. 

That evening we slept at an isolated farm, and on the mor 
row, continuing through wild forests, we crossed the Ra Pass. 
We had been told at the farm that the region beyond was com 
pletely uninhabited except for a few dokpas, who moved with 
their cattle along the valleys enclosed between two high ranges. 

Our good luck brought us on the second day near to an 
encampment of cowmen. They gave us some butter and 
tsampa, but did not allow us to sleep in their hut. There were 
about forty armed men assembled around it, and I guessed 
that they were preparing a robbing expedition, so they naturally 
did not wish to discuss their plans before unknown travellers. 
We begged from other camps near by and were given a good 
deal of cheese, butter, and tsampa. After a night spent in the 
open, we started, heavily loaded, but certain that starvation 
was not imminent! 

The country we were crossing had none of the charms of 
the Nu Valley. It was colder and often barren. The trails 
were difficult to find. 

In the morning, after having set out from the dokpasa camp, 
we crossed a clear river, climbed a very steep path, and then 
missed our way. We had already wandered about two hours 
when some sharpeyed cowboys discovered us on the slope of 
the mountain. They themselves had wandered far from their 
camp with their cattle, and now were almost beneath us, but 
at a considerable distance. Their shouts arrived faint and 
indistinct, and at first we did not understand that they were 
addressed to us. By straining our ears we succeeded in catching some words. We were to turn back, and then to proceed upwards.
From the Pangla, an endless descent through forests led to 
large rocky caves inhabited in the summer by cowmen. At 
that time of the year a torrent near by supplied them with 
water, but It was now quite dry, so that in the absence of 
water we continued our way, although the shelter of these 
roomy caves tempted us. Farther down we reached at dusk a 
hamlet composed of three farms. The looks of the men who 
came out to examine us and enquired about our beasts and 
luggage were not very reassuring, but, though they were a 
rough lot, they treated us well in the end. 

In the evening, as we were seated with them near the fire, 
some one spoke about Lhasa, and, incidentally, uttered the 
dreaded word “philings.
Footnote.
 Besides being prompted by their natural kindheartedness, Tibetans 
are always ready to direct a wayfarer because such an act is considered 
by them as highly meritorious and bearing good fruits in this life and 
the next one. On the contrary, to mislead any traveller is believed to 
have serious results; the aaconsciousness”  of one who has done 
so will roam painfully in the Bardo, after its separation from the body, 
at death, being unable to find the road leading to a new rebirth. 
End of this footnote.

 They had heard about their existence from some of their relatives and friends, who had been 
to Lhasa or in China, but they had never seen any and none 
had ever visited their country. Yongden boasted of having 
met two of them in northern Tibet, but for my part I humbly 
confessed that I had never caught sight of any! 

Two days later, from the summit of a sandy hill, we discov 
ered, several thousand feet below us, a narrow glittering ribbon. 
It was the Giamo nu chu, the upper course of the Salween. 

We had heard that somewhere in that region there was a 
place called Tsawa, where the river could be crossed by a cable 
stretched from one bank to the other. But as passengers were 
very few on that out-of-phase path, the ferrymen lived far 
from the river and came there only when they were informed 
that a number of people meant to cross. We poor lone pil 
grims might have remained for weeks In front of the rope but 
for the happy circumstance that a lama had performed some 
religious ceremonies at the house of the very farmer whose 
guests we had just been, and was returning to his monastery 
on the other side of the Giamo nu chu, with a dozen of his 
followers. 

We waited only one day for his arrival in a pretty, sheltered 
place between picturesque red rocks. The weather was gloriously bright and the temperature mild. 

To cross a river hanging to a cable was not new to us. We 
had done it in other places. But at these other places, two 
different cables, one for each direction, were used to carry the 
passengers, who, starting from a point much higher than the 
landingplace, glided swiftly, as if on a switchback. 

Here there was but a single cable fastened to poles fixed at 
the same level on either bank, and it sagged terrifyingly. 

Only the strongest of the countrymen dared to venture to 
cross by it unaided, for the climbing up from the bottom of 
the sag by the sheer strength of one’s wrists was rather a feat. 
Most of them were therefore hauled up by ferrymen, as were 
the animals and baggage. 


When my turn came, a Tibetan  girl and I were bound with 
rough straps, and tied together to a wooden hook that would 
glide on the leather cable. Dressed up in that way, a push 
sent us swinging in the vbid, like two pitiable puppets. 

In less than one minute we were down in the middle of the 
dip, and then, from the other bank, the ferrymen began their 
work. Each jerk they gave at the long towing rope caused us 
to dance in the air a most unpleasant kind of jig. 

This went on for a little while; then we felt a shock, heard 
a splash below us, and slipped back at full speed into the 
sagging dip of the cable. 

The towing rope had broken! 

The accident in itself did not endanger our lives. Men would 
come to fasten the rope that they were drawing out of the 
water. But giddiness might overcome us, suspended as wo 
were two or three hundred feet above the swift current. 

The way in which we were trussed up afforded security for 
a conscious passenger in an erect position whose hands had a 
strong grip on the strap under the hook. But this was not to 
be depended upon in the case of anyone who collapsed or 
dropped backward. My nerves are solid. I had no doubt I 
could stand there even for hours. 

But what of my companion? She was rather pale and looked 
with frightened eyes at the point where the strap to which we 
were suspended was fastened to the hook. 

“What is the matter with you?” I said. “I have called my 
Tsawai lama a to protect us. You need not fear.” 

With a slight motion of the head she indicated the hook. 
“The strap is coming loose,” she said, trembling. 

If the strap came loose then we would fall In the deep 
river. Tied as we were, swimming was out of the ques 
tion. Even could I disentangle myself and drag the girl for 
awhile, there was no landing in that gorge where the river 
flowed between gigantic walls of rocks. I looked attentively 
at the knots, but could notice nothing wrong. 

Spiritual father. 

‘Shut your eyes ” I said to the girl. You are giddy. Nothing is loose. We are quite safe.” 

“It is loosening,” she repeated, with such a convinced tone 
that I began to doubt. This Thibkan lass who had often 
crossed rivers in that way naturally knew more than I did 
about knots, straps and hooks. 

It was, therefore, only a question of time. Would the men 
have repaired the towing rope and taken us on land before all 
the knots gave? It might have been the subject of a bet. I 
thought it over, and smiled inwardly. The slow way in which 
the ferrymen were working was rather irritating. At last one 
of them proceeded toward us, hands and feet up, the way 
flies walk on the ceiling. We swung again, and more than ever. 

“She says that the knots of the straps are coming loose,” I 
told him as soon as he reached us. 

'Larna kieno, a he exclaimed. He gave a nasty look in the 
direction of the hook. “I cannot see it well,” he said. “I 
hope it will hold fast till you arrive at the bank.” 
He hoped! 
Bless the fellow! I also “hoped.” 
He went away, working with his hands and feet, just as 
he had come. When he had joined his companions they began 
to haul us again. Would the knots bear these repeated jerks? 
We continued to “hope” they would. 

At last we had safely landed on a projecting rock of the 
cliff. Half a dozen women took hold of us, expressing their 
sympathy In loud exclamations. The ferryman who had untied 
us had ascertained that the knots had never loosened, and 
were cursing the girl whose notion had given them such a 
fright. The poor thing did not need that addition to her 
nervousness. She became hysterical, weeping and shrieking. 
It was a scene of picturesque confusion. 

Yongden seized the chance of this general commotion to beg 
for “his aged mother, who had suffered such agony while 
'Know it, O Lama!” a call asking one’s spiritual father to cast his 
look on one who stands in distress and needs protection, but the habit of 
repeating it frequently has made it a mere interjection. 


I had already noticed that my headgear, arranged after the 
Lutzekiang fashion, attracted a good deal of notice. VVe began 
to be rather far from the country where it was worn. It now 
looked conspicuous, and people questioned me about my 
native land. The day after the crossing of the Glamo nu chu 
at Tsawa, the nemo of a farm where we had slept, and other 
people there, made several embarrassing observations about 
the way in which my hair was dressed and my turban fixed. 
At any rate, I needed a Tibetan  hat, but none could be 
bought in the villages which were on my road, men and women 
countryfolk going bareheaded. The time had truly come for 
the plain bonnet of Kham, of a shape known and worn all 
over Tibet. I had done well to have washed it and kept it 
carefully in my luggage. As soon as I began to wear it all 
questions and curiosity were at an end. Later on I had 
another reason to bless it. When I crossed high passes 
amongst glaciers and snow, and when the blizzard raged around 
me, then the poor furlined bonnet kept my head and ears 
warm and protected me against frost and wind. 

Who could still doubt that it had been sent to me, as I felt 
on the day we found it in the forest? I often asked Yongden 
this question and we both smiled in answer. But I would not 
dare to affirm that at the bottom of my heart, after having 
experienced the various kinds of protection which it offered 
me, I did not feel still more inclined to believe that it had truly 
been sent to me by some mysterious friend. 

At any rate, I like to fancy It. 

We were now in a more populated region. The whole of 
the low ground was cultivated, and the higher part of the hills 
completely bare. Our road crossed a large number of minor 
ranges which cut across the Giamo nu chu valley. Each day 
we had to climb up and down several thousand feet, and some 
times that drill was even performed twice in the course of the 
same day. 

A new subject of anxiety agitated our minds. We had heard 
that the Lhasa government had sent officials in remote parts 
of the country to establish a new system of taxation. These 
ponpos, moving across the country with hosts of retainers, 
each more inquisitive and arrogant than his master, con 
stituted a real danger to us. We devoted nearly all our time 
to discussions as to the best way of escaping unwelcome meet 
ings. It did not seem easy, though, to reach the Po country 
which we had decided to cross on our way to Lhasa. We had 
the choice of two roads. We could go to Sangnachoszong a or 
wind a long way northward through the Sepo Khang Pass. 
But Sangnachoszong was the residence of a ponpo, and on the 
other road the envoys of the Tibetan  exchequer were 
reported to be wandering in the neighbourhood of Ubes. The 
gentleman seated in his house appeared more easy to avoid 
than his colleagues, who might be met on the road unexpectedly. 
This ought to have decided me to turn in that direction, all 
the more because the way was direct and saved us a long 
march in rounding a range. But I knew that Sangnachoszong 
had been visited by some foreigners, while I had never heard 
that any had ever crossed the Sepo Khang la and the 
neighbourhood,a and this decided me to prefer the latter. 

In a country so little known as Tibet it seems better to 
avoid following tracks that have already been trod, every time 
one has the chance to do so. 

Anyhow, I was still undecided when, after having slept at 
Yu, I ascended the pass which led to the junction of the roads 
of Sangnachoszong and of Lankazong. Evening came while 
we were crossing a cold slope whose streams were but thick 
blocks of ice. Happily we found, a little out of the way, an 
abandoned dokpas camp and we spent the night in one of the 

huts near a blazing fire. The morrow we crossed the pass. A 
terrible storm rose in the evening and raged throughout the 
night. In the darkness we failed to discover the road to the 
village which we knew was near, as we had heard dogs barking. 

The violence of the wind did not allow us to open our loads 
to get out our tentblanket and throw it over us. We remained 
squatted, shivering till daybreak, when the wind gradually 
abated. Then we saw that we were less than half an hour’s 
walk from the village, near the gorge in which ran the road 
to Sangnachoszong. 

We had now to make a decision. I turned again toward 
the Giamo nu chu. The country and its people interested 
me. I did not want to miss the unique opportunity to see 
some more of it and them, or to cut my journey short. As for 
the Ubes ponpos, I would take my chance. 

Since landing on the right bank of the Giamo nu chu our 
existence had become that of true Tibetan  wayfarers. We 
no longer hid ourselves in the forest. On the contrary, 
lingering in the villages had become a pleasure to us. Each 
stage brought us amongst the countryfolk, and we stayed all 
night with them, witnessing their customs close at hand, and 
listening to their talk about the events happening in Tibet. 
No traveller other than one who was really believed by them 
to belong to the same peasant stock could have gathered the 
same treasure of observations that I collected. 

Such a life could not be lived without bringing adventures 
in its train, and they were often adventures of a most unex 
pected kind. Nearly every day supplied its contribution, 
pleasant or otherwise, but always full of humour. I have 
amassed in that region a store of fun sufficient to keep erne 
merry for years. It would be quite impossible to relate in 
extenso all these incidents, but the account of a few will give 
the reader some picture of country life in Tibet. 

One morning while kneeling on the pebbles, filling my 
wooden bowl at the river, I hear a voice behind me. 

“Where do you come from, Lama?” 
I turn my head and see that a peasant has approached my 
adopted son. A few words are exchanged, and these are 
always the same at every encounter: “What country do you 
come from? Where are you going to? Have you anything 
to sell?” 

But this time, after having satisfied his curiosity with the 
answers given to him, the man does not go away. He remains 
silent for a few seconds, spits, and then begins: 

“Lama, do you know how to tell fortunes?” 

Good! Here is another of them! Telling fortunes, we are 
doing it all the time, and at any rate we cannot complain, 
for if our role of prophet is somewhat monotonous, it certainly 
yields a useful profit and admirably conceals our identity. 

Yongden allows himself to be entreated. Yes, he does know 
the art of mo, hut he has no time; he is in a hurry, 

The peasant persists, exclaiming: “Lama, three days ago 
one of my cows disappeared. We have been looking for it in 
vain. Has it fallen down a precipice? Has it been stolen?” 

He sighs and, lowering his voice, continues, “The people on 
the other side of the river are awful brigands.” 

For my part, I cannot help thinking that “the people on the 
other side” may have the same flattering opinion of their com 
patriots opposite, and that both parties have undoubtedly very 
good reasons for their views. 

“They are quite capable,” the man continued, “of having 
killed and cut my cow In pieces, and taken it away to eat. 

Lama, consult the oracle! Tell me what has become of 
my cow and whether I shall find it again. I have nothing 
to offer you just now, but if you will go to my house I will 
give you and your mother something to eat, and you can both 
sleep there tonight.” 

I am the mother. The people of this country are astonish 
ingly clearsighted! It is useless to lie to them. They invent 
many more wonderful stories about us than any we could possibly concoct ourselves. 

Mendicant pilgrims, such as we appear to be, never refuse 
an invitation of the kind just Issued to us. I have no desire 
to appear a suspect, especially since I have learned of the 
presence of the two officials who are retaking the census of 
the villages In the district. 

I sign to Yongden to accept the fellowas offer. He puts his 
load down upon a flat rock, saying with a condescending air, 
“Well, I suppose I must grant your request, since it is the duty 
of a lama to be compassionate.” 
Many edifying phrases follow, and then the ceremony begins. 
Muttering the sacred formulae, but shortening them as much 
as possible, my young companion counts and recounts the beads 
of his rosary. I can follow his thought. He is asking himself : 
“Where is this unlucky cow to be found? I know nothing 
about it. That is not the question, however. What is the 
best thing to say to the poor fool who is asking me?” 

The old Tibetan  is squatting there, silent and attentive, 
awaiting the verdict of fate. At last the oracle is pronounced. 

“Your cow,” the lama says, “has not been eaten. It is still 
alive, but runs the risk of an accident. If you start looking 
for it at once, going down the river, you will find it, but 
everything depends upon your cleverness.” 

The vagueness of the last two sentences affords a wide 
margin for different interpretations. A prophet should never 
be too precise. The day is not far off when we are to have 
an amusing proof of this. 

Somewhat reassured, the peasant describes his dwelling 
minutely. We shall find it, he says, on the river bank. We 
start off upstream, while he hastens in the opposite direction. 
About half an hour later we see the house indicated. 

A painter would have found a charming subject for a land 
scape in this Tibetan  farm, resting against a high back 
ground of greyish rocks, in the midst of a wood of golden 
leaves. In front of it flowed the low, wintry waters of the 
Salween, translucid and peaceful, scalloped with ice. In all 
probability, no white traveller had yet seen it in this part of 
its course, winding between barefaced gigantic cliffs whose 
sharp crests point high toward the open sky, 

I would gladly have rested there upon the sunbaked stones, 
to savour the beauty of the surroundings, the joy of the passing 
hour and the intoxication of adventure which had led me 
hither. But it was not the time to indulge in revery. The 
personality of a decrepit beggar, which I had assumed, does 
not go well with poetic fancy. 

Attracted by my companion’s shouts, some women show 
themselves on the flat roof of clay. They listen rather distrust 
fully to the account of our meeting with the master of the 
house, and how he was led to offer us hospitality. However, 
after lengthy explanations they allow themselves to be con 
vinced. We are led first of all into the yard, and after a fresh 
examination of our faces and some more questions we are per 
mitted to climb the ladder leading to the roofterrace on which 
the family apartment is situated, the ground floor being 
occupied by stables. 

A ragged cushion is brought for Yongden, the lama. As for 
me, the old and unimportant mother, I simply seat myself on 
the ground. We have to tell the women around us the names 
of all the holy places we have visited or are about to visit 
 and assure them that we have no merchandise to sell, not possessing so 
much as a blanket, which is on this occasion nothing but the 
truth. 

The weather is line but cold, and, being seated motionless 
in the open air, I begin to shiver. As for our hostesses, they 
do not appear to feel the touch of the cold north wind which 
has arisen. In order to work the more easily, they draw their 
right arms out of the sheepskin coat, their only garment, 
which is held to the waist by a girdle, displaying dirty 
breasts which no ablutions have ever touched! 

After having been there for about two hours, something hap 
pens. The master of the house reappears, driving the recov 
ered cow in front of him. There is general excitement. 

Oh, Lama,” exclaims the peasant as soon as he has joined 
us on the terrace,  true, a great nonshecken!  All your words, without exception, have come true. The cow 
was found in a very dangerous position. She was stuck fast 
in a narrow path cut by a landslide. She could neither go on, 
nor turn back, nor climb up to the top of the cliff.  It was 
all I could do to get her out. Just as you said. Yes, you 
are undoubtedly a learned nonshes lama!” 

We enjoy this unexpected triumph. A good meal will prob 
ably follow to feast the recovery of the lost cow and pay hon 
our to the seer who has brought about this happy result. In 
the meantime a woman brings some tea, that buttered and 
salted Tibetan  tea, a soup, maybe, rather than a beverage, 
but so truly refreshing to the tired and benumbed traveller! 
A bag of tsampa is put down beside us, and we can dip into 
it at will. I eat as much as I can. 

Our host remains thoughtful. He asks Yongden; “Lama, 
can you read?” 

“Certainly,” answers the latter, proudly, “I can read, and 
write, too.” 

“Oh! Oh! You are indeed learned. Perhaps you are a 
gcashes? I thought you might be.” 

He rises, goes into the combined oratory and storeroom , athe 
usual arrangement in Tibetan  farmhouses , and brings out an 
enormous volume which he places with deep respect upon a 
low table in front of my companion. 

“Lama,” he says, “look at this book. It is a book tha( 
brings the most wonderful blessings and ail sorts of prosperity 
to those for whom it is read. You shall read it for my benefit.” 

Yongden turns his head toward me with' a disturbed glance. 
What have we fallen upon now? The task to be imposed 
upon him offers no attractions. He is tired and in great need 
of rest and sleep. Nevertheless, he must answer the old fellow, 
whose eyes are fixed beseechingly upon him. 
“It is a big volume,” he says. “The reading of it would 
require several days, and I must leave tomorrow, but I can 
open it.a The blessing will be quite as efficacious.” 

As this is a current practice in Tibet, nobody makes any 
objection. The book is opened ceremoniously, incense burned 
a fresh supply of hot tea poured into our bowls, and Yongden 
begins to read in a very loud voice, after having ordered me 
imperatively : "Mother, recite Dolmala,
I obediently intone a psalmody bearing no relation to the 
words read by my adopted son, the aim of which is, merely to 
keep me occupied so that the woijaen cannot worry me with 
their questions. It is by injunctions of this kind that the young 
man habitually spares me the fatiguing experience of long use 
less conversations,a in the course of which either my pronuncia 
tion, or the literary turn of my speech might excite the wonder 
of the villagers. 

At the sound of the noise we are making, some neighbours 
appear and wag their heads comprehendingly and approvingly. 
I must have repeated Dolma at least twenty times, and the 
Kyapdoa about five hundred times. The sense of the words 
I am repeating arrests my thoughts. 

"In order that you may awaken to the supreme deliverace, 
free from fear and grief, turn your steps toward Knowledge!” 

I ponder, and my pious murmurs cease. The lama notices 
this, turns his head toward me, and thunders out the words : 

"Just as, in the sky, the clouds form and melt away, without 
our knowing whence they come or whither they go, and without 
there being anywhere a dwellingplace for the clouds, so do 
phenomena appear through i: combination of causes and 
vanish through the operation of other causes, without our 
being able to assign any of them a place where it may dwell. 

Fleeting in their essence, impermanent, are all these components of elements.” 

It is by the reading of such treatises as these, although, be 
it understood, they do not comprehend a single word of themr 
that the country folk of Tibet expect their cattle to multiply, 
their sick to be cured, and their commercial enterprises to 
succeed. Strange people and strange country! 

I start, aroused from my revery by the martial tone with 
which the reader has pronounced the declarations of the Sacred 
Writings, and I resume my chanting with, “Aum mani padvie 
hum!” My ears are tingling. I feel exhausted. If only I 
might sleep! 
Night approaches. We have been reciting this sort of office 
for several hours. The head of the family reappears, bringing 
a plate of barley and a bowl of clear water, which he puts 
down near the book. 

“Lama,” he begins, “it is not light enough to read any more. 
I beg you to bless my house and my goods so that they may 
prosper, and to give us all holy water that we may be preserved 
from sickness.” 

He is really tenacious, this worthy farmer! The recovery 
of the cow must have inspired him with a blind confidence in 
the magic power of Yongden. Now, faith in a lama is always 
shown in Tibet by the donation of gifts, and the latter vary 
in value according to the extent of this faith. The old farmer 
is well off; that is to be seen by the number of cattle he has 
just had brought in from his pastures. Undoubtedly we shall 
be liberally provided with food for our journey, and a few 
coins will be added to the present. 

I see by the expression on my companion’s face that he enters 
into the spirit of the joke and is slyly rejoicing over the wind 
fall which awaits 'us. 

Behold hin), grave as an archbishop, patrolling the different 
rooms of the dwelling, reciting words of benison from the 
liturgy. Sometimes he pauses for a moment, and I know that 
during the brief silence he is breathing an earnest wish for 
the material and spiritual welfare of our hosts, for if he smiles  
at the childish credulity of his unlettered compatriots, Yongden 
is profoundly religious and a member of a mystic sect in his 
country. When the tour of the house is finished, the peasant 
points the way to the stables. They extend far and are never 
cleaned out, and this prolonged circuit in the sticky mud at 
last proves irritating to the officiating priest. The adventure 
has ceased to be amusing. He throws the grain broadcast upon 
the heads of sheep and goats that are startled, horses that 
prance, and cows that remain stolidly indifferent as if disdain 
ful of all religious rites. Then, believing he has finished, he 
approaches the ladder and mounts a step or two. But the 
proprietor, who has accompanied him as incense bearer, hurries 
up behind him, seizes him by one ankle, and points out that 
the pigs have not had their share of blessing. He has to go 
down again. The unfortunate lama finishes as soon as he 
possibly can with the foulsmelling animals, which utter weird 
sounds as he angrily throws forth a hail of barley at them. 
With muddy shoes and cold wet feet he at last attains the roof. 
Now it is the turn of the human beings! The water in the 
bowl is blessed according to the orthodox rite. Then the 
family, headed by the father, advances in line to receive a few 
drops in their hollowed palms. The water is swallowed, and 
the moisture left in the hand is used to wet the head. The 
neighbours join in this procession. 

When the devotions are at an end the evening meal is served. 
It is a soup of dried nettles without any meat. We are far 
from obtaining the feast we had anticipated, and it augurs 
badly for the present that will be offered on our departure. 
One may well fear that it will be no more substantial than 
the soup.  Nevertheless, one never knows. Tibetan  peasants 
have strange ideas. My concern about the alms we will or will 
not receive amuses me. I have developed the true beggar’s 
mentality since I began to play the part of a povertystricken 
wanderer! But our begging is not, after all, wholly a sport. 
It has a serious side, for the offerings which fill our wallets 
relieve us of the necessity of buying food and showing that we 
possess money, and therefore help to preserve our incognito. 

Finally, we are allowed to go to sleep. In the room which 
we are now permitted to enter there is a scrap of tattered sack 
ing upon the earthen floor. It is about as large as a towel, 
and this is the bed destined for me! Yongden, by virtue of 
his clerical dignity, is treated somewhat better. He will have 
the use of a ragged carpet which will preserve him, as far 
as his knees, from contact with the bare earth. As to the 
legs, they do not matter. The lower classes in Tibet always 
sleep doubled up, like dogs, almost in the form of a ball, and 
they never possess carpets or cushions as long as their own 
bodies. To sleep with the body fully extended is regarded as 
a luxury pertaining to aathe Quality” alone. 

I lay down after having merely unfastened the girdle of my 
thick robe. In Tibet the poor do not undress when they go 
to bed, especially when they are guests in a strange house in 
the course of a journey. Shortly afterwards my son joined 
me, and with as little toilet preparations as myself he stretched 
himself upon his bit of carpet. We were both asleep when a 
noise and a bright light awakened us. 

But are we really awake? The picturesque spectacle which 
we perceive between our halfclosed eyelids almost makes us 
doubt it. The room we are In is that in which the two daugh 
ters of the house and the maidservant sleep. They have all 
three just come In, and, to light themselves (lamps and candles 
are unknown In this part of the country), they have thrown 
shavings of resinous wood into the brazier in the middle of the 
floor. I see them unfasten their girdles, shake their black 
ened arms out of their sleeves, drag hither and thither the 
greasy and matted sheepskins which are to serve them for bed 
and blankets. They move about, chattering, their silver neck 
laces tinkling upon their bare breasts. The flames which first 
gleam and dance and then darken to mere glowing embers, 
surround them with a weird light. They look like three young 
witches preparing for their Sabbath. 

Before the day has dawned I nudge Yongden quietly to 
awaken him. We must complete our toilet before the light 
permits the others to notice too many details about us. For 
me, this consists first in darkening my face with the black I 
procure by rubbing the bottom of our only saucepan with my 
hand. This precaution prevents my too fair skin from aston 
ishing the natives. Then, beneath our robes we must arrange 
the belts containing our gold and silver, our maps, thermometer, miniature compasses, watches, and other objects which 
must on no account be perceived. 

We have scarcely finished when the mistress appears. She 
calls her daughters and the servant; the fire is rekindled, the 
saucepan containing the remains of last nightas soup placed on 
the brazier, and a few moments later we are invited to hold 
out our bowls for its distribution. The bowls were not washed 
last night; it is not the custom amongst Tibetan  villagers. 
Each one possesses a special bowl which he never lends. He 
licks it carefully after every meal and that is the cleansing 
process. Poor me! I lack practice in the art of licking my 
bowl; it is still smeared over with a layer of soup and of tea 
which has frozen during the night. But protesting nerves 
must be subdued and the rising gorge swallowed, for the suc 
cess of my journey depends upon it. Let us shut our eyes 
and drink off our soup though it is even more nauseating 
than last nighPs, because of the water added to make it go 
further. 

Our packages are soon tied up. No present is forthcoming, 
and I regard with a look of amusement the discomfited coun 
tenance of my lama who has poured forth so many blessings, 
chants, and official ministrations of all kinds. It is useless to 
delay any longer. The whole family comes for one more bless 
ing by the imposition of hands, and I can guess that Yongden 
would willingly administer a sound cuffing to the old miser 
upon whose shock of hair he lays his hands. 

We go down the ladder again, pass in front of the horses 
which eye us curiously, the goats whose odd and diabolical gaze 
seems to jeer at the. crestfallen lama, and the ever placid cows. 
Once outside, we walk for a while in silence. Then, out of 
sight and earshot, Yongden turns suddenly and, having made 
some cabalistic signs in the direction of our host, he bursts 
forth : 

“Oh, you rogue, you base deceiver, in whose service I toiled 
a whole day long! Telling me to go down the ladder 
again to bless his pigs, forsooth! I take back all my blessings, 
unworthy old miser! May the wool never grow on your 
sheep’s back, your cattle prove barren, and your fruit trees 
be blighted!” 

His comical Indignation, which was only half feigned, amused 
me very much. For, after all, my companion was a real lama, 
and he had been cheated of dues that were justly his. But he 
himself could not long withstand the funny side of the adven 
ture, and we both burst out laughing in the face of the wintry 
Salween, which seemed to be singing as It wended its way over 
its pebbly bed: “That’s the way things are done in the fine 
country of Tibet, my adventurous little strangers; you will 
see many more such!” 

That very day, after having again crossed a pass, we reached 
the vicinity of the dreaded Ubes. We delayed our walk through 
the village until dusk, and then, leaving behind a group of 
houses in one of which we supposed that the Big Man was 
sleeping, we allowed ourselves a short rest in a narrow crevice 
of the hill, the dry bed of a summer stream. 

At dawn the first rays of light revealed a decorated building 
which was doubtlessly the present abode of the official. As 
it was still early, we were lucky enough to meet no one in the 
vicinity. 

We made great haste, and when the sun rose we had already 
put about two miles between us and the dangerous spot. We 
joyfully congratulated each other on our escape. 

In the middle of the afternoon, while we were still in this? 
gay mood, we were told that the ponpo had moved three days 
ago from Ubes to aYiother village situated farther on. 

We tramped on again at night till we had passed the place. 
Perfectly convinced, this time, that our troubles were over, 
we slept happily in a chaos of rocks and thorns. The following morning, after ten minutes’ walk, we reached a large 
house sheltered in a recess of the mountain. About thirty 
good horses were tethered outside. Country people were 
already crowding in, bringing grain, grass, butter, meat, and 
so forth. 

This was the place where the official had actually put up! 
A stalwart head servant supervised the entrance of the things 
brought by the villagers. He stopped Yongden, and after a 
talk which appeared to me endless, he ordered a man to give 
us a meal of tea and tsampa. We could not refuse this kind 
olFer. Beggars like us could but rejoice at this piece of good 
luck. We made a pretense of it, seated on the steps of the 
kitchen, smiling, laughing, and joking with the attendants of 
the gentleman, but all the while we felt rather inclined to take 
to our heels! 

The thing which proved most tiresome, and even at times 
became excessively difficult in the life I was now leading, was 
the part that I was always obliged to play in order to preserve 
my incognito. In a country where everything is done in 
public, down to the most intimate personal acts, I was forced 
to affect peculiar local customs which embarrassed me terribly. 
Happily, our way lay at times through large tracts of un 
inhabited land, and the greater freedom which I enjoyed there 
somewhat relieved my painful nervous tension. There, espe 
cially, I was able to avoid the indescribable soups which the 
kindly but povertystricken fellows, our hosts, bestowed upon 
us, and which we had to swallow down with a smile, for fear 
of suspicious comments. Once only did I depart from my 
accustomed attitude of the beggar to whom everything tastes 
good, but that day. 

We have arrived toward nightfall in a little village. It was 
very cold and the stark surroundings afforded no shelter. We 
had already been refused hospitality at several houses, when 
a woman opened her door to us , athe rickety door of an 
exceedingly miserable dwelling. We entered; a fire burned on 
the hearth, and in this frosty weather this in itself afforded 
comfort. The husband of the woman came back shordy after 
wards, bringing out some handfuls of tsampa from the bottom 

of a beggar’s wallet, and we realised that no supper could be 
expected from people who had nothing to eat themselves. 
After a few words of praise for the generosity of an imaginary 
chief who has given hini a rupee, Yongden declares that he 
will buy some meat, if there is any to be had in the village." 

‘T know of a good place,” said our host at once, scenting 
a windfall. From the corner where I was crouching, I insisted 
that it should be of good quality. Most Tibetans eat without 
any repugnance the putrefied flesh of animals which have died 
of disease. 

not bring back the flesh of an animal which has died, 
nor a piece which is decayed,” I said. 

“No, no,” said the man. “I know what I am about. You 
shall have something good.” 

About ten minutes passed. The village is not large, and 
the peasant soon returned. 

“There,” he said, triumphantly, drawing a large parcel of 
some kind from beneath his sheepskin robe. 

What can this be?. The room Is lighted only by the 
embers of the fire, and I cannot clearly distinguish anything. 
. The man seems to be opening something, probably a 
cloth which he has wrapped round his purchase. 

Ugh!  A most fearsome odour suddenly fills the room, 
the smell of a charnelhouse. It is sickening. 

“Oh,” says Yongden, in a voice that trembles slightly, concealing the nausea that he is obliged to repress. “Oh, it is a stomach!” 

I understand now. The Tibetans, when they kill a beast, 
have a horrible habit of enclosing in the stomach, the kidneys, 
heart, liver, and entrails of the animal. They then sew up this 
kind of bag, and its contents go on decaying inside for days, 
weeks, and even longer. 

“Yes, it is a stomach,” repeats its purchaser, whose voice also 
trembles somewhat, but with joy, seeing the mass of foodstuff 
falling out of the now opened bag. “It is full,” he exclaims, 
“quite full! Oh, what a lot!” 
He has placed the horror on the floor, is plunging his bands 
into It, taking out the gelatinous entrails. Three children who 
were asleep on a heap of tatters have awakened, and are now squatting in front of their father, watching him eagerly 
with covetous eyes. 

“Yes yes, a stomach!” repeats Yongden, in consternation. 
“Here, mother, here is a saucepan,” says the woman, kindly, 
addressing me: “You can prepare your supper.” 
What! Am I to handle this filth? I whisper hastily to my 
son, “Tell them that I am ill.” 

“It always seems your turn to be 111 when something unpleas 
ant befalls us,” Yongden growls, under his breath. But the boy 
is resourceful; he has already regained his selfpossession. 

“The old mother is ill,” he announces. “Why do you not 
make the tupa [thick soup] yourselves? I want everybody to 
have a share.” 

The two peasants do not wait to be Invited a second time, 
and the youngsters, realizing that a feast is in course of prepa 
ration, stay quietly by the fire, having no desire to go to sleep 
again. The mother takes up a chopper and a rustic chopping 
block made out of a log, on which she cuts the carrion Into 
small pieces. From time to time one of these drops upon the 
floor, and then the children fall upon It like young puppies and 
devour it raw. 

Now this foul soup is boiling, and a little barley meal is 
added. Finally the supper Is ready. 

“Take some, mother; it will do you good,” say the husband 
and wife. I confine myself to groaning, in the corner where I 
have stretched myself. 

“Let her sleep,” says Yongden. 

He cannot himself be excused. Arjopas who spend a rupee 
on meat and do not touch it do not exist. Tomorrow the 
whole village would be talking about it. He has to swallow 
down a full bowl of the evilsmelling liquid, but beyond that 
he cannot go, and he declares that he, too, is not feeling very 
well. I do not wonder at it. The others feast long and 
gluttonously upon the broth, smacking their lips In silence, 
overcome with joy at this unexpected bonne bouche, and I am 
overtaken by sleep whilst the family is still masticating noisily. 

We travelled across more hills and more valleys; we passed 
by more gompas. We sat with more peasants, and met two 
ponpos on the road, one of whom bestowed on us most useful 
presents of food. Thus we progressed In the direction of the 
Sepo Khang la. 

At the foot of the pass one of those mysterious and inexplicable incidents was to befall us, such as sometimes bewilder the traveller in Tibet. A long tramp had brought us to a 
gorge in which a clear stream flowed toward the invisible 
Salween, which we were again approaching for the last time. 

It was scarcely noorT, and we felt reluctant to waste a whole 
afternoon in a village house when we could still have gone on 
for several hours. We had been informed that It was impossible 
to cross the range in one day, even if we started before dawn, 
so that we were bound in any case to spend the night on the 
hills. We therefore thought it wiser to continue on our way, and 
if the cold prevented us from camping, we could walk on 
through the night, as we had often done. But before starting 
on this long tramp I wished to eat a good meal. Water was 
now at our feet, and we could not guess when we should 
again run across a stream. Yongden gladly agreed to make a 
halt, and as soon as we had reached the bank we put our loads 
on the shingle, and my companion began to light a fire with 
the few twigs that I had gathered under some trees which 
grew at the end of the fields, 

A little boy whom I had noticed on the other side of the 
river then crossed the bridge and ran toward Yongden. He 
bowed down three times before him as Tibetans do in their 
greetings to great lamas. We were most astonished. What 
could have made that child give such a deep token of reverence 
to a mere beggar pilgrim. Without giving us time to put any 
question, the boy addressed Yongden. 

'My grandfather, who Is very ill,” he said, “has told us all, 
this morning, that a lama coming down that hill, was to make 
tea in the dry part of the river bed and that he wanted to see 
him. Since the sun has risen my brother and I have watched 
in turn at the bridge to invite the lama to our house. Now 
that you have come, please follow me.” 

‘Tt is not my son whom your grandfather expects,” I told 
the boy. “We are people from a faroff country. He does 
not know us.” 

“He said the lama who would make tea on the stones/a in 
sisted the child; and as we did not comply with his request he 
crossed the river again and disappeared between the fences of 
the fields. 

We had just begun to drink our tea when the boy reappeared, 
accompanied by a young trapa. 

“Lama,” the latter said to Yongden, “be kind enough to 
come to see my father. He Is very ill and says that he is 
about to die. He only waits for a lama who will arrive today 
and who Is the one and only person who can direct him to a 
happy place of rebirth In the next world. He told us all this 
morning that you would come down that hill and make tea, 
here on the stones, near the river. All has happened as he 
said. Now please be kind to us and come.” 

Neither Yongden nor I knew what to think about thia queer 
affair. We persisted in believing that the sufferer meant some 
lama whom he knew and had some reason to expect on this 
road. Nevertheless, seeing the trapa weeping, I advised my 
companion to pay a visit to the sick villager. So he promised 
to go as soon as we had finished our meal. 

The boy and the young trapa , ahis unde, I understood , 
went to report our answer to the; farmer. But presently I saw 
another boy seated near the bridge observing us. These people 
were certainly afraid that Yongden would fail to keep his 
promise, and therefore kept him in sight. No escape was 
possible, and why indeed should Yongden have disappointed 
an old invalid? The latter would evidently see that my son 
was not the one he expected, and all would end with no more 
than ten minutes delay. 

All the family had assembled at the door of the farm. They 
greeted Yongden with the greatest respect. My companion 
was then led into the room, and while he went toward the 
cushions on which the farmer lay I remained near the threshold 
with the women of the house. 

The old man did not really appear as one who is near 
death. His voice was firm and his intelligent eyes showed that 
his mental faculties were in no way dimmed. He wished to rise 
and bow down to my son, but the latter prevented him from 
moving out of his blankets, saying that sick people need only 
mean the respectful salute. 

“Lama,” the farmer said, “I have been longing for your 
coming, but I knew that you were to come and I waited for 
you, to die. You are my true tsawai lama; a no one but you 
alone can lead me to the ‘Land of Bliss.’ Have compassion 
on me, bless me, do not refuse me your help.” 

What the old man wished was for Yongden to utter for his 
benefit the mystic words called Powa which are pronounced 
at the deathbed of a lay lamaist or of any monk who is not an 
initiate, when the latter Is quite beyond all hope of recovery. 

As I have said, the old Tibetan  did not seem to be near to 
death, and for religious reasons whose explanations would be 
out of place here, my companion hesitated to yield to his 
wishes. He tried in vain to hearten the sick man, assuring 
him that he would not die, and oifering to recite the spells 
which “mend” life and give it new strength. This the farmer, 
however, obstinately refused, maintaining that he knew his 
hour to be at hand and had only awaited the spiritual aid of 
his lama to take his departure. 

He then began to weep and order those present to entreat 
the lama on his behalf. The family did so, sobbing and weep 
ing, with repeated prostrations, until, overpowered, Yongden 
finally gave in. Then, deep moved he recited the ritual words 
which loosen the ties of the dead, and lead them safely 
through the labyrinthine paths of the other worlds. 

When we left him the old farmeras face expressed a perfect 
serenity, a complete detachment from all earthly concerns, hav 
ing, It seemed, entered the true Blissful Paradise which, being 
nowhere and everywhere, lies in the mind of each one of us. 

I shall not venture to offer any explanation of this peculiar 
incident. I have related the fact thinking that It might interest 
those who pursue psychic researches, but I would feel exceedingly sorry if my account provoked commentaries disrespectful to the memory of the departed Tibetan. Death and the dying 
are never to be made a subject of raillery. Last word means kidding.

Those who had told us that the road across the Sepo Khang 
hills was a long one, were certainly right. We walked on from 
the dawn, meeting nobody and mistaking our way on several 
occasions at the intersection of trails leading to dokpasa sum 
mer camps. At dusk we were still far from the pass. A 
blizzard then rose, as we climbed a steep and waterless slope. 
There was no campingplace in the vicinity, and we had almost 
decided to retrace our steps and shelter ourselves much lower 
down at a place where we had seen some empty huts, when 
we heard the tinkling of horsesa bells and three men appeared 
on the way up like ourselves. They were traders, and told 
us that a little farther along on the road there was a farm 
wherein we could get shelter. 

It was pitch dark when we arrived. I understood from 
the large stables, that the place was a kind of inn for the 
use of travellers crossing the pass at a season when camping 
in the open is rather dangerous. We were admitted to the 
kitchen with the merchants who fed us with soup, tea, tsampa 
and dried fruits. These men belonged to a village in the 
same neighbourhood as the sick farmer. Passing there in 
the morning, they had heard all about Yongden, and brought 
us the sad news that at dawn, when we ourselves had left 
the village, the old man had smiled and died. I'he traders 
had been deeply impressed by the account of their friend’s last 
hours. The thoughts of all being turned toward religion, they 
begged Yongden to preach them a sermon, which he did. 

The kitchen, the only living room of the farm, was very 
small, and with the blazing fire that burned quite near us, 
we were half roasted. Then, when the time came to sleep, 
we understood that the owner and his wife wished to remain 
alone. The traders went down the ladder to the stable, where 
they slept near their beasts. As for us, we were told to accom 
modate ourselves on the flat roof. What a change from that 
ovenlike kitchen to the cold air of a frosty night, with a bliz 
zard raging, at fifteen or sixteen thousand feet above sea level! 
It was not the first time that I had experienced this kind of 
hospitality. More than once villagers had invited us, treated 
us to a good supper, and then sent us on the roof or into the 
courtyard. Nobody apparently thought much of it in Tibet! 

But that night I lacked the courage to lie down in the open 
air, and I begged permission (which was granted) to sleep next 
the kitchen in a shelter shut in on three sides. 

The next day we crossed the pass and descended to the 
Sepo monastery, beautifully situated in a lonely spot with an 
extended view in front of it. The traders were on horseback, 
and had reached the gompa long before us. They had stayed 
there for a while and had told the lamas about Yongden, so 
that when he arrived, meaning to purchase some food, he 
was cordially welcomed and invited to remain a few days to 
discuss matters concerning the Buddhist doctrine with some of 
the monastery’s learned inmates. As for myself, I could also 
get lodging in a guest house. But as I had not accompanied 
my adopted son to the monastery, and had continued my way, 

I was already out of sight amongst the hills, so Yongden de 
clined the kind invitation. I regretted it afterwards; but as 
niy role of a lay woman would very likely have kept me 
away from the place where the literati of the monastery would 

hold their meetings with Yongden, I consoled myself with no 
great difficulty. 

A little later in the evening, we met a woman going to the 
gompa who told us that we could 'find a shelter in a partly 
ruined house that was easily seen from the road. The country 
was once more a complete desert, and we could not hope 
to reach the lower valley on the same day. It proved more 
and more true that the crossing of the Sepo Khang la was a 
long one. We walked about an hour longer without discovering the house, but at last reached it when it was nearly dark. 

It had been a really large and wellbuilt farm with a good 
number of stables, sheds, storerooms, servants’ quarters, and 
a pretty apartment upstairs for the owners. Everything was 
now in a dilapidated condition, but with a little work it would 
have been quite possible to make the necessary repairs, for no 
essential parts of the building were ruined. 

We had nearly finished our meal when the woman who had 
told us about that house arrived with a young boy, her son. 
She was the owner of the farm and had left it, though there 
were good fields around it, after a terrible drama. 

A few years before, a gang of robbers from the Po country 
had attacked this isolated farm and there had been a terrific 
struggle. Four of the masters, the woman’s husband, her two 
brothers, another relative, and a few servants had been killed, 
while others were wounded. The robbers also had left several 
dead on the ground. Since then the unhappy housewife and 
her family lived in the village near the monastery. The fear 
that a similar outrage would happen again, naturally kept her 
away from her farm, which gradually fell into ruins. 
But another and still stronger fear prevented her from 
returning to her former house. The farm was believed to be 
haunted by evil spirits. The violent death of so many men 
had attracted them, and, with the ghosts of the murderers 
and their victims, they roamed about the buildings. For this 
reason the woman had come back from the gompa to ask the 
lama to spend the night in her house, to exorcise it. 

She could have requested the services of the lamas of Sepo, 
and most likely some of them had already performed the 
required rites on her behalf; but, as I have already men 
tioned, “Red Cap” lamas are deemed more powerful exorcists 
than their colleagues of the yellow sect. Moreover, Yongden, 
for. obvious reasons, had a real success as a lama “Holder of 
the Secret Spells.” Had he established himself somewhere, 
clients would have flocked to his residence. But he hated that 
kind of trade; he had seen it from too near. 

Nevertheless, kindness compelled him to comply with the 
wishes of the woman. He told her that if she wished to cultivate her property again, she could do so without fear of any denizen of another world, but that serious precautions were to 
be taken against robbers. 

The following day we arrived in the Dainshin province, and 
here again, as along the Salween, I was the guest of many. I 
never regretted my roundabout tour in that country. It is 
out of the way of the great trade routes, and absolutely 
unknown to foreigners. Yet it is a wellcultivated area. Large 
and prosperous monasteries are seen in several places, the 
villages seem to be well built, and the people are agreeable. I 
saw some interesting soda fields from which Tibetans get the 
stuff they mix with their tea when boiling it. 

Once we passed a rich traveller on the road, carrying pres 
ents to a gompa. He gave us two rupees each, without our 
asking for money. We were naturally most astonished at this 
unexpected windfall. 

We did not always take our disguise as beggars very seri 
ously. Once in the heart of Tibet, we preferred to save time 
by purchasing our supplies. Nevertheless, unsolicited alms 
came our way several times. Never in my life have I made 
so economical a journey. We used to laugh as we tramped 
along the road, recalling all the stories we had read of travellers 
who started out with many camels laden with heavy and expen 
sive stores and luggage only to meet with failure more or less 
near their goal. 
I could have done the whole journey without any money in 
my pocket, but as we were extravagant beggars, indulging in 
molasses cakes, dried fruits, the best tea, and plenty of butter, 
we succeeded in spending one hundred rupees in our four 
months’ journey from Yunnan to Lhasa. One need not be 
rolling in riches to travel in the blessed lands of Asia! 



CHAPTER IV.


I HAD been told at Tashi Tse: “To go to Po yul you can 
choose between two roads. One follows the valley, the 
other cuts through the hills. The first one crosses many vil 
lages and passes near several monasteries. Robbers are not 
much to be feared on that side; at the worst the traveller may 
meet some petty thieves , three or four men roaming together 
at night, who do not generally kill those whom they attack. It 
is also easy, on that road, to get food either by begging or by 
purchasing it. The second is a mountain track, and, although 
fairly good, it runs through a wilderness. Until the first villages 
of the Po yul a are reached, you will tramp in a desert prob 
ably without meeting a single soul. And this is the best that 
can happen to you, for those you meet might be highwaymen 
from the Po country, coming and going on some looting expe 
dition. They would certainly not trouble about the contents 
of your beggars’ bags, but might possibly kill you, vexed to 
have been seen and anxious to avoid any further talk. You 
will also have to pass two very high passes, and a large tract 
of land between. Snow has not yet fallen heavily this year. 
You may succeed in crossing the range, but you must be 
ready to face the worst, for snow might close the road of the 
first pass, after your passage, so that, if you found the second 
closed also, you would be caught in a trap. If you risk the 
adventure, you must take a large supply of food with you. 
You may possibly meet a few dokpas camped between the two 
ranges, but they will neither give nor sell any food. They have 
scarcely enough for themselves to last until next spring.” 

I did not give much time to pondering over this news. The 
valley road was marked on all the maps, but that does not 
necessarily mean, where Tibet is concerned, that any foreigner has followed it. It often happens that the line marked on the map by the mapmaker is traced, not from his actual 
knowledge, but according to information received from natives, 
and Tibetans are rather vague. If not quite fanciful, in 
describing the roads and the country which they cross. Any 
how the rong lam a in question was, I could well believe, 
rather well known by the Chinese. The other one, on the 
contrary, was unexplored; maps Ignored it completely, as well 
as the passes which it crossed. These passes were, no doubt, 
those at the foot of which sprang the river Po, referred to by 
the English general who, strange as it might appear, had a 
good deal of responsibility in the choice of my present itinerary. 

His name was Sir George Pereira. We often spoke of him, 
Yongden and I, and we meant to relate to him our prowess on 
our return. We were far from thinking that he would die on 
a road of the Chinese Far East, about the time we entered 
that Po yul which we had looked at together on the map. 

General Pereira had arrived at Jakyendo when I had just 
returned there after a tour in that part of Kham that extends 
from the grassy desert to the southern trade road , athe pne 
going from Chiamdo to Lhasa. That trip, during which I had 
gathered most interesting information, ended suddenly, a$ I 
have.related. I was stopped and prevented from proceeding 
southwards toward the Salween, No doubt the general had 
learned this from the servants or other people, but, as I did 
not take him into my confidence as to my unpleasant adven 
ture, he never alluded to it in our talks. 

He spent a fortnight in an apartment situated opposite to 
mine in the same courtyard, and we often met to take tea or 
to visit some place of interest. He was a wellbred, elderly 
gentleman, a charming scholar, a geographer, and a tireless 
globetrotter. He was suspected at Jakyendo of being charged 
with a secret mission by his government. Many things were 
rumoured of which I cannot say whether they were true or 
not. It was a matter of indifference to me. 

General Pereira was on his way to Lhasa by the northern 
Valley road, trade route, and he openly spoke of it. Although a Danish 
traveller had been stopped but a few weeks before on that very 
same road, the general was certain that orders had been sent 
to the Tibetans to receive him with due regard, and thus it 
turned out. 
He carried with him a quantity of maps, and himself sur 
veyed the country through which he went, working strenuously 
a part of the night to put his notes in order, and taking but 
little interest in the picturesque aspect of the customs, feasts, 
and the like of the country. 

Very kindly he put his maps and some of his notes at my 
disposal. I copied from them a number of useful points for 
the future journey I had already planned. Some of these 
rough map sketches have accompanied me to Lhasa, hidden in 
my boots, and, thanks to them, I have been able to verify on 
my way how incomplete the geographical knowledge of that 
part of the world still is. 

One afternoon, after having had tea together, we were speaking about Tibet. A map remained open on a table, and with the tip of his finger Sir George Pereira followed the thin line marking the supposed course of the Po. 
“Nobody has ever been there,” he said. “There may be several accessible passes above the spring of the river. It 
would be an interesting way to Lhasa.” 

Did he speak on purpose to give me a hint, or had his words 
no special meaning? I never knew. 

More than once I had considered the idea of crossing the 
Po country. It was an old idea of mine, for I had discussed 
it with Yongden three years before, in the Kum Bum Monas 
tery, but the vague facts I had gathered about Po yul from 
traders of central Tibet or the people of Kham had been 
rather discouraging. Many maintained that the Popas were 
cannibals. Others, more moderate in their opinions, left this 
question unsettled. But all united in affirming that anyone 
foreign to the Po tribes, who entered their country, was never 
seen again. 
So I hesitated a little before risking this adventure, when 
the words of the general decided me , “Nobody has ever been 
there. All right. I would see these ranges and these 
passes! Truly it would be “an interesting road to Lhasa”! 
Hearty thanks to you, sir, who on purpose or by chance did 
me a real service. 

I was now at the foot of the hills about which I had dreamed 
for years. Hesitation was impossible. 

Tashi Tse, where I chose the road which was to lead to so 
many adventures, is an important village situated in a wide 
valley near a zong a built on an isolated hillock. 

Tashi Tse means the prosperous summit, or the summit of 
prosperity. Both translations can be justified on the score 
of grammar. Since the bottom of the valley does not in the 
least correspond to one's geographical notion of a summit, one 
is compelled to look to the other translation, which, alas! 
appears as inexact as the first one. The poor countryfolk of 
the region are, I have heard, far from having reached the height 
of prosperity. 

Taxes, statute labour, and a number of other ways of plundering them, which the villagers lament, fill the strong box of the ponpo perched on his hillock, and it is very likely that it 
is to his paltry citadel we must look to find the “prosperous summit.” 

I reached the place rather early in the afternoon and had 
time to go round abegging, the purpose of which was to 
deceive the official or his men if they happened to hear about 
my presence. The poor peasants, to whom my apparent pov 
erty and my beggarly attire gave confidence, described their 
distress in that country where the soil does not produce every 
year enough grain to pay the tax in kind. 

To leave the country, to look for better land or less exacting 
lords, is not permitted. A few ventured the flight and established themselves in neighbouring provinces. Having been discovered, they were taken away from the new home they had 
created and led back to Tashi Tse, where they were beaten and 
heavily fined. 

Now many who had thought to imitate them, too frightened by the fate of their friends, remain resigned, all energy 
destroyed, growing poorer each year, expecting no deliverance 
in this life. Others looked toward China. “We were not ill 
treated in this way when the Chinese were the masters,” they 
said. “Will they come back? Maybe but when? We 
may die before. 

And so, in the evenings, around small fires in their miserable 
huts, these women, whose tears have reddened their eyes, gaze 
before them in the dark, picturing the range after range of hills 
between them and the land where the Lhasa troops have driven 
away their old suzerains. 
The distance which separates their country from that certainly not perfect, but more hospitable, land, is not great, but how is it possible to travel quickly without being detected, 
if one must take the grandmother who walks so slowly, the 
little ones so soon tired, and the infants who must be carried? 
And then, what of the ass and of the only cow, whose loss 
would mean utter ruin for those who would already be com 
pelled to leave so many things behind? 

How sorrowful was this “prosperous summit”! 

I spent the night in a house where thoughts such as I have 
mentioned haunted the minds of my hosts. The husband and 
his wife were rather illassorted as to their age, and my foolish 
companion repented bitterly for days having mistaken the 
rather young man for the son of the housewife, whereas he 
was her husband. The grandmother knew that, once she were 
dead, the couple would try to escape with the children from 
their jail..The poor old thing, in other circumstances, would 
certainly have liked to live longer, but now she wished to die, 
so that her children might be free to start toward happiness, 
or at least a lesser misery. She wished to die, but she, too, 
dreamed of happiness, and as she was not to know the earthly 
one which perhaps awaited her family, she begged the lama 
at night, when the others had retired to sleep, to perform the 
rite which would bring her a happy rebirth in Nub devoa chen, 
the Western Paradise. Her daughter was a kindhearted 
woman. She did not, of course, desire the end of the tottering, 
whitehaired grandmother, nor did the good young husband. 
Yet, with the increasing poverty and the taxes and 
and! I could have wept. 

How heartrending was the sorrow of these humble folk! 
It is on such occasions that one would like to be a God and 
to have at one’s command an Inexhaustible treasure of welfare 
and happiness to pour out to all alike: intelligent and simple 
minded ones, socalled good and socalled bad ones, so that 
all should smile and rejoice! Why could I not flood with 
true felicity that melancholic Tashi Tse, “the prosperous 
summit.” 

I started a little before daybreak, missed the road in the 
darkness, and did not cross the river as I ought to have done. 
When I became aware of it the bridge was far behind. To 
retrace my steps might have attracted the notice of some 
servants of the zong. I did not like to risk it, and so one , way 
only remained , to cross in the water. The stream flowed 
rapidly; it was large and deep but clear. One could see the 
bottom, and did not risk losing unexpectedly one’s footing, 
as happened to me in the upper course of the Mekong during 
a previous journey. On the whole, the crossing had nothing 
that could frighten Yongden or myself, who had many times, 
on horseback or on foot, forded foaming torrents. But the 
banks were widely scalloped with thick ice which told of the 
temperature of the morning bath with which the deity of 
Tashi Tse meant to increase our comfort. 
I went upstream looking for a ford, and reached a fork 
of the river. The small branch was shallow, nearly frozen 
over, but, for that very reason, the passage was still more 
painful. In several places the frozen sheet broke under me 
and I fell amongst splinters of ice which cruelly cut my bare 
feet. Then followed the real bath, with dress lifted up and 
the water just a little lower than my hips. 

How welcome would have been a warm Turkish towel when 
we reached the stony shore! Such luxury, of course, was quite 
far out of reach. True I had in my bag a root-mean-square 
towel, but I used it only when in hiding. Tibetans do not 
dry themselves after crossing a river, or, if they do, they use 
a flap of their wide robes. I tried to imitate them, but as 
soon as it became wet my thick dress of coarse wool stiffened 
and froze. 

We went along the river till noon; we then felt hungry and 
deemed it wise to have a meal before leaving the valley, for 
we could not guess if water would be found soon on the hills. 
Previous experiences had taught us the torment of remaining 
thirtysix hours without drinking. We preferred to avoid risks 
of that kind. 

A torrent crossed our road. Once upon a time, in a dread 
ful rush, it had rent and carried down a mountain and covered 
the plain, far away, with countless rocks and boulders. Now, 
at its winter lowwater level, it divided in several rivulets 
which went winding among the obstacles accumulated in the 
days of its strength. 

I hastily collected whatever dry twigs or cow dung I could 
find among the stones, and Yongden lit a fire. Foreseeing 
greater hardships than ever on the desert road of the high 
passes, we decided that day that a specially good meal was 
required: first the soup, then the tea. As a rule we had only 
one course, either soup or tea. The ordering of the menu was 
mine. Tibetans begin with tea and end with soup. 

The soup? Under what name could it appear on a bill of 
fare? Would “potage Vatel” do? I disclose the receipt. From 
a bag of the most orthodox local fashion , that is to say, 
greasy and black with dirt , I take out a small piece of dry 
bacon, the gift of a kindhearted householder. My young 
companion cuts it into a dozen tiny bits, which he throws in 
the pot full of boiling water. Then a pinch of salt, and a 
sigh: "Ah! if we had a radish or a turnip!” But we lack these 
delicacies and the minute slices of bacon dance alone a lively 
jig in the boiling broth, a turbid liquid the smell of which 
reminds one of dishwater. Nevertheless, that scent is not un 
pleasant to the needy vagrants which we have become. Pure 
air and long tramps are the best appetizers, and we have eaten 
nothing since the meagre soup, with turnips but without bacon, 
that our host had given us the day before. 

Now a few handfuls of flour beaten up in cold water are 
thrown in the pot. A few minutes later we begin to eat. 
‘How particularly good is the soup today! Really delicious!” 
But as, in spite of my long stay amongst Tibetans, I still keep 
a vague remembrance of French cooking, I add, “My fatheras 
dogs would never have eaten such a thing.” I laugh and extend 
my bowl to have it filled again. 

Now it is the turn of the tea. I tear a small piece of the 
hard compressed brick made as much of branches of wood as 
of tea leaves. It is crushed into the water; salt and butter are 
added. It is like a second soup, all the more because we 
add tsampa in our bowls. Now the lunch is ended and we 
feel perfectly refreshed, capable of climbing as high as the sky. 
We look boldly to the first range silhouetted against the horizon 
and behind which we shall meet so many others. 

We have loaded our bags upon our backs and hold in our 
hands our long pilgrim staffs. Let us go! I am entering a 
virgin country and only a few natives have ever contemplated 
the scenery yonder, which I shall see this very evening. 

We found a hamlet higher up, in an immense upper valley 
that ascended slowly toward distant ranges, where it became 
a desert covered only with grass and shrubs. At first we could 
see trails followed by cattlekeepers in the summer, but soon 
they disappeared under the grass or in the stony patches, and 
we were left to our own cleverness to find our way. 

Once we discovered, far away at the foot of the hills, an 
Intermittent smoke. It might be dokpas encamped there for the 
winter; or, as the smoke looked so white, perhaps it was the 
vapour of sofhe hot spring, as there are a goa number of these 
in Tibet. To go to that place would have taken several hours, 
and I could not afford this. Although the weather was fine, 
snow seemed to be expected before long by the people of the 
country, and I was anxious, to be quickly over the first high pass 
at least. I therefore pushed on, going straight toward the 
ridge I could see before me. 

The slight slope over which we were proceeding was not flat 
ground, for hillocks, miniature ranges, and ravine springs cut 
it here and there. We plunged into one of the latter, and 
found its bottom filled with the frozen water of a torrent whose 
slippery surface made our progress difficult. When we emerged 
we saw that the large valley turned aside. We had been told 
to follow a river, but now we saw twoaone very far down in a 
gorge, and another which wound close to us amongst short 
grass and moss. The information we had gathered mentioned 
also a dokpasa camp, deserted in the winter, where we could 
spend the night in shelter. I was very desirous to reach it, 
for at that height the night would be extremely cold. I de 
cided to follow the more important of the two streams, which 
very likely had its source farther away and probably in the 
main ridge. Thus we continued to walk. The sun set and 
a sharp cold wind arose. We had not found any dokpasa 
huts. We began to think of stopping and making a fire in 
some sheltered place, to spend the night there, for the higher 
up we went the more severe would be the cold. As for water, 
there was none save the river, far, far below us. But we could 
easily do without evening tea after having had such a meal 
as our last lunch. We were discussing the place where we 
might stay, when I noticed a long distance before us, on the 
other bank of the river, a yellowish spot which could not be 
autumnal foliage, because we were above the zone of the 
trees, and which, I felt, was neither a rock nor any natural 
object, but a thing made by man , maybe a thatched roof. 
Curiosity, rather than real hope, prompted us, and we walked 
quickly forward instead of camping. Gradually the spot be 
came bigger, but we still could not see clearly what it was. 
A little later it appeared as thatch raised on beams. It was 
a roof, then, the dokpas camp! When at last we confronted 
it across the stream, we realized that it was not a roof, but 
merely straw that had been put high up on some crossed 
beams to prevent the wild beasts, antelopes, and others, feed 
ing on it during the winter, when the camp was abandoned. 
We felt a little disappointed. 

“No matter,” I said to Yongden. “It is worth while taking 
the trouble to go down to the river and climb up the opposite 
bank. We will get a few bundles of that straw down, build 
a kind of shelter with them and spread some as mattresses on 
the frozen ground. That will keep us warm. We will also 
fill our pot with water when crossing the stream, and make 
some good tea.” 

It was a long way to the bottom of the gorge, and then up 
.again by an exceedingly steep slope to the encampment. But 
we reaped the full reward of our toil, for, to our happy aston 
ishment, we discovered on a small headland a real camp 
with a number of roofed pens for the cattle, and in one of 
them a separate place for the use of the men. It had a 
hearth, and dried cow dung lay in abundance all over the 
camp. We had reached a paradise! 

Most probably we were the only human beings on that hill, 
but not forgetting the warning we had been given about robbers, 
before we slept we set a kind of a trap between ourselves and 
the entrance. A man entering the hut could not have taken 
three steps without catching his feet in one or another of the 
ropes, stretched invisibly near the ground, and on his falling 
the noise would have awakened us. What mattered most was 
to avoid being taken by surprise. Once awakened Well, 
we each had a revolver and that still better weapon, in the 
East , and perhaps everywhere' , athe “winged words” of the di 
vine Ulysses and the artifices of the goddess Juno. I relied more 
on these latter for my safety than on anything else, and the day 
was near when they would justify the confidence I placed in 
them by giving me the victory over a gang of Popas brigands. 

In spite of the cold wind which made me shiver, I remained 
a long time outside,  wandering through that summer resort of 
the wilds, beautifully lighted by an enormous full moon. 
How happy I was to be there, en route for the mystery of 
these unexplored heights, alone in the great silence, “tasting 
the sweets of solitude and tranquillity,” as a passage of the 
Buddhist Scripture has it! ' 
We ought to haveieft the dokpasa camp in the middle of the 
night to cross the pass at noon. But we were tired, and the 
warmth that we felt, lying next to a big fire, kept us sleeping 
longer than we had planned. I shrank also from the idea of 
starting without eating and drinking hot tea, for on the higher 
level we would find no fuel. What would happen? What 
would the road be like? We could not guess. Was the pass, 
even practicable? People had only told us that it might be. 
Yongden, of course, felt reluctant to go so far to fetch water, 
inasmuch as the few places where the stream flowed freely 
in daytime might be covered with ice after dark. Anyhow, 
he went, and we drank our tea. But the day broke before wc 
had left the place. 

Later in the morning we reached a latza, which, from a dis 
tance, we had taken as marking the top of the pass. Behind it 
extended a completely barren valley enclosed between a high 
ridge of crumbling reddish stones on one side, and perpendicu 
lar cliffs of various pretty greyish and mauve shades on the 
other. In the middle of this valley we again saw the river, the 
water of which we had drunk at our breakfast. It fell nearly 
straight down in a narrow gorge from the upper valley to the 
lower one. I looked for traces of dokpas summer encamp 
ments , athose low stone walls forming enclosures in which cat 
tle are penned, but there were none. I could understand from 
the barrenness of the landscape that cattle were probably never 
brought so high. 

A nearly straight reddish line , the sharp summit of a ridge 
It seemed , ablocked the horizon at the end of that desolate 
valley. The distance without  being considerable, appeared 
great enough to peoplte ascending with loads on their backs, 
in the rarefied air of these high altitudea. Still, the hope of 
seeing the end of the climb gave us courage, and we endeavoured to accelerate our pace. One thing, however, made 
me uneasy , I did not discover any latza on that ridge, and 
Tibetans never fail to erect at least one, at the top of a 
pass. The explanation came when 'we had reached the point 
from which we had supposed that we would descend the oppo 
site side of the mountain. 

How could I express what we felt at that moment? It was 
a mixture of admiration and grief. We were at the same time 
wonderstricken and terrified. Quite suddenly an aweinspiring 
landscape, which had previously been shut from our sight by 
the walls of the valley, burst upon us. 

Think of an immensity of snow, an undulating tableland 
limited far away at our left by a straight wall of bluegreen 
glaciers and peaks wrapped in everlasting, immaculate whiteness. At our right extended a wide valley which ascended 
in a gentle slope until we reached the neighbouring summits 
on the sky line. In front, a similar but wider stretch of gradually sloping ground vanished in the distance,, without our being able to discern whether it led to the pass or to another tableland. Words cannot give an idea of such winter scenery as we saw 
on these heights. It was one of those overpowering spectacled that make believers bend their knees, as before the veil that hides the Supreme Face. 

But Yongden and I, after our first admiration had subsided, 
only looked at each other in silence. No talk was needed; we 
clearly understood the situation. 

Which was the way, we did not know! It could just as 
well be to our right, as ahead of us. The snow did not allow 
one to see any trace of a trail. It was already late in the aft 
ernoon, and to miss the road meant to remain wandering all 
night on these frozen summits. We had a sufificient expe 
rience of mountaineering in Tibet to know what it would 
mean , athe exploration would be ended at its first step, and the 
explorers would never live to tell their tale. 

I looked at my watch; it. was three in the afternoon. We 
had still several hours of daylight before us, and, happily, 
the moon would shine brightly at night. We had not yet cause 
to be really alarmed , the important thing was to avoid miss 
ing the road and to make haste. 

I looked once more at the valley on our right, then decided: 
‘Let us proceed straight forward.” And so we went. 

I grew excited and, although the snow became deeper and 
deeper, I walked rather quickly. We had not been able to 
follow the advice of the Tashi Tse villagers and carry much 
food with us. Our host could only sell us a small quantity of 
tsampa. His neighbours had hardly enough for themselves. 
They informed us that we could buy some from the servants 
of the ponpo. To avoid giving them cause to talk we had 
said that we would go to the zong early the next morning, 
which, of course, we didn’t! My bag was, therefore, rather 
light, whereas Yongden, carrying the tent, its iron pegs, and 
sundries, was much more heavily loaded. 

I forged quickly ahead. Dominated by the idea of reaching 
the top of the pass, or of discovering if we were going in a 
wrong direction, I tramped with the utmost energy through 
the snow that reached my knees. 

Was the lama far behind? I turned to look at him. Never 
shall I forget the sight! Far, far below, amidst the white silent 
immensity, a small black spot, like a tiny Lilliputian insect, 
seemed to be crawling slowly up. The disproportion between 
the giant glacier range, that wild and endless slope, and the 
two puny travellers who had ventured alone in that extraordinarily phantasmagoric land of the heights, impressed me 
as it had never done before. An inexpressible feeling of com 
passion moved me to the bottom of my heart. It could not 
be possible that my young friend, the companion of so many 
of my adventurous travels, should meet his end in a few hours 
on that hill. I would find the pass; it was my duty. I knew 
that I would! 
There was no time for useless emotion. Evening was already 
beginning to dim the shining whiteness of the landscape. We 
ought by then to have been far beyond. and below the pass. 
I strode on, now through the snow field, jumping sometimes 
with the help of my long staff, proceeding I could not say how, 
but progressing quickly. At last I discerned a white mound 
and emerging from it, branches on which hung flags covered 
with snow and fringed with ice. It was the latza, the top of 
the pass! I signalled to Yongden, who appeared still more 
distant and tiny. He did not see me at once, but after a 
while he too waved his staff. He had understood that I had 
arrived. 

There the scenery was grand beyond all description. Be 
hind extended the waste I had crossed. In front of me was 
a precipitous fall of the mountain. Stretching far below, black 
undulating crests vanished into the darkness. The moon rose 
as I looked around in a trance of admiration. Its rays touched 
the glaciers and the high snowrobed peaks, the whole white 
plain, and some silvery unknown valleys toward which I was 
to proceed. The impassive landscape of the day seemed to 
awaken under the blue light which metamorphosed it, sparks 
glittered to and fro, and faint sounds were wafted by the 
wind. Maybe elves of the frozen waterfalls, fairies of the 
snow, and djinkeepers of mysterious caves were to assemble 
and play and feast on the illuminated white tableland; or 
perhaps some grave council was to take place betweeh the 
giants whose heads wore helmets of cold radiance. What mys 
teries could not have been discovered by the inquisitive pil 
grim who, hidden, dared remain there motionless till dawn. 
Not that he could ever have related the wonder of the be 
witching night, for his tongue would soon have been stiffened 
by the frost! 

Tibetans do not shout “lha gyedo” after dark. I complied 
with the custom and threw only in six directions the old 
Sanskrit mantra, “Subham astu sarvajagatam” which means, May all beings 
be happy.” 

Yongden, who, after having understood that he neared the 
latza, had taken courage and quickened his pace, caught up 
with me. We began to descend. Traces of a track were visible 
now and then, for on that side of the mountain the snow was 
not deep and the ground, a yaowish gravel, was often visible. 

What might have been the exact level of the pass we had 
crossed I would not venture to tell, as I could not make any 
observation. Still, from the comparison of the plants and 
various other particulars, ond who has tramped for years 
through many mountain ranges, in the same country, may 
make a rough guess. I had carefully looked at the lichens, 
and observed a few other things; and I felt nearly certain that 
the pass was about 19,000 feet high, even higher perhaps than 
the Dokar la I had crossed about two months before, higher 
than the Nago la and others that reached from 18,299 to 18,500. 
Although we knew that we should have to walk a part of 
the night before we should reach a spot where fuel would 
be available, we rejoiced at having found the pass open and 
at having crossed it safely. In this agreeable mood we reached 
a valley whose bottom was almost entirely covered by a frozen 
stream. There, on the ice, no trace of a track was of course 
visible, and we began again to roam to and fro in search of 
some sign to show us our direction. To follow the course 
of the frozen river was the safest way, if we did not find any 
better one. It would take us to a lower level, no doubt, but 
it could also happen that the stream would disappear into a 
narrow gorge or fall over a cliff. Still, I had decided to con 
tinue on the ice , at least as long as the valley was open. But 
then I found the track again, near the foot of the hill, and we 
had only to follow it down, proceeding slowly. 

The walk was rather agreeable beneath a beautiful moon. 
Here and there we began to see a. few bushes scattered in 
pasture grounds. Otherwise the country was quite barren. 
We could not think of stopping without lighting a fire, for 
motion alone kept us warm. No shelter whatsoever was in 
sight, and the cold wind from the snow rushed through the 
valley, which had now become rather wide. 

We tramped until two o’clock in the morning. For nine 
teen hours we had been walking, without having stopped or 
refreshed ourselves in any way. Strangely enough, I did not 
feel tired, but only sleepy! 

Yongden had gone in the direction of the hills in search of 
fuel, and I found some near the river, in a flat place, which 
must have been a campingplace in the summer, where travellers from the Po country go to the Dainshin pro\nnce, either to trade or on robbery expeditions.  

I called the young man back, gathered as much fuel as I 
' could, and, certain aat nobody was wandering in that wilder 
ness, we decided to pitch our tent in a low place among a few 
bushes. The flint and steel which, according to Tibetan  
custom, Yongden carried attached to his belt in a pouch, had 
become wet during our passage across the snow fields, and now 
it did not work at all. This was a serious matter. Of course 
we were no longer on the top of the range and we had only 
a few hours to wait before the sun would rise; but even if 
we escaped being frozen, we were not at all certain that we 
should not catch pneumonia or some other serious disease. 

“Jetsunma,”a said Yongden, “you are, I know, initiated in 
the thumo reskiang practice. Warm yourself and do not bother 
about me. I shall jump and move to keep my blood moving.” 

True, I had studied under two Tibetan  gompehens the 
strange art of increasing the internal heat. For long I had 
been puzzled by the stories I had heard and read on the 
subject and as I am of a somewhat scientific turn of mind I 
wanted to make the experiment myself. With great difficulties, 
showing an extreme perseverance in my desire to be initiated 
into the secret, and after a number of ordeals, I succeeded in 
reaching my aim. I saw some hermits seated night after 
iiight, motionless on the snow, entirely naked, sunk in medi 
tation, while the terrible winter blizzard whirled and hissed 
around them! I saw under the bright, full moon the test 
given to their disciples who, on the shore of a lake or a river 
in the heart of the winter, dried on their bodies, as on a stove, 
a number of sheets dipped in the icy water! And I learned 
the means of performing these feats. I had inured myself, 
during five months of the cold season, to wearing the single 
thin cotton arment of the students at a 13,000foot level. But 
the experience once over, I felt that a further training would 
have been a waste of time for me, who, as a rule, could choose 
my dwelling in less iavere climates or provide myself with 
heating apparatus, t. had, therefore, returned to fires and, 
warm clothes, and thus could not be taken for an adept in the 
thumo reskiang, as my companion believed! Nevertheless, I 
liked at times to remember the lesson I had learned and to 
sit on some snowy summit in my thin dress of reskiang. But 
the present was not the time to look selfishly after my own 
comfort. I wanted to try to kindle a fire that had nothing 
miraculous about it, but which could warm my adopted son 
as well as myself. 

“Go!” said I to Yongden, “collect as much dry cow dung 
and dry twigs as you can; the exertion will prevent you from 
getting cold. I will see after the fire business.” 

He went, convinced that the fuel was useless; but I had got 
an idea. After all, the flint and steel were wet and cold. What 
if I warmed them on me, as I had dried dripping sheets when a 
student of thumo reskiang? Thumo reskiang is but a way 
devised by the Tibetan  hermits of enabling themselves to 
live without endangering their health on the high hills. It has 
nothing to do with religion, and so it can be used for ordinary 
purposes without lack of reverence. 

I put the flint and steel and a pinch of the moss under my 
clothes, sat down, and began the ritualistic practice. I men 
tioned that I felt sleepy on the road; the exertion while col 
lecting fuel and pitching the tent, the effort to kindle the fire, 
had shaken my torpor, but now, being seated, I began to doze. 
Yet my mind continued to be concentrated on the object of the 
thumo Hte. Soon I saw flames arising around me; they grew 
higher and higher; they enveloped me, curling their tongues 
above my head. I felt deliciously comfortable. 

A loud report awakened me. The ice on the river. The flames suddenly died down as if entering the 
ground. I opened my eyes. The wind was blowing hard 
and my body burned. I made haste. The flint and steel and 



 

moss would work this time; I was convinced of it. I was still 
half dreaming, although I had got up and walked toward the 
tent. I felt fire bursting out of my head, of my fingers. 

I placed on the ground a little dry pice, a small piece of very 
dry cow dung, and I knocked the stone. A spark sprang out 
of it. I knocked again; another sprang out, another 
 miniature fireworks. The fire was 
lighted; it was a little baby flame which wanted to grow, to 
eat, to live. I fed it and it leaped higher and higher. When 
Yongden arrived with a quantity of dry cow dung in the lap 
of his dress and some branches between his arms, he was 
joyfully astonished. 

“How have you done it?” he asked. 
“Well, it is the fire of thumo,” I answered, smiling. 
The lama looked at me. 
“True,” he said. “Your face is quite red and your eyes are 
so bright,” 

“Yes,” I replied, “that is all right. Let me alone now, and 
make a good buttered tea quickly. I need a very hot drink.” 

I feared a little for the morrow, but I awakened in perfect 
health when the sun touched the thin cloth of our tent. 

That very day we reached the end of the valley we had followed from the foot of the Deo la and entered another wider valley, enclosed between high ranges. No trace of human 
being was to be seen; the country was truly what Tibetans 
call s along} The sun shone, although clouds wandered to and 
fro in a sky of a lighter blue than it had previously been. 
That immense space in which we were the only living beings, 
as if we had been the first inhabitants and masters of the 
earth, was extremely pleasant to the eye! We had no fear of 
missing our way, for we had as guide a clear river descending 
from the range that blocked the end of the large valley. 

The ground was neither sandy nor very hard, hnd its imperceptible slope helped our progress. This empty land had a 
very peculiar and refreshing charm. After a few hours’ march 
I observed some black spots scattered over the grass. I was 
far from being certain of their nature, but after what I had 
heard at Tashi Tse about dohpas spending the winter shut in 
between the high ranges, I guessed that these black spots 
were yaks. In the northern desert of grass one meets herds 
of wild yaks, numbering several hundred animals, but such is 
not the case in the' region which we were crossing and I 
looked for the dwellingplace of the beasts’ owners. 

For at least another hour we proceeded without discovering 
any habitation. At last I saw a camp built of stones heaped 
together without any kind of mortar, as is usual in the Thibetan highlands. A few huts were huddled together, with 
enclosures around them to pen the cattle. And a wall, a little higher than the breast, enclosed the hamlet which was sheltered from the winds which swept through the valley. A chorten and a short mendong testified to the religious feelings of the few inhabitants of the place. But in Tibet, as else 
where, external demonstrations of piety are not always accom 
panied by an effective practice of compassion, benevolence, and 
like virtues. When Yongden begged a shelter for the night 
and some food, he was told to pass on his way and to go to the 
next camp. 

The next camp was discovered late in the evening, and the 
answer was still less courteous. However, before reaching it 
I had seen a place where we should have been well protected 
against the wind. It was the place where the dokpas of the 
valley put the bones of their dead. 

When I speak of bones one must not fancy a charnel house. 
There is not such a thing in Tibet. 

i Tibetans prefer cremation to all other ways of disposing 
of dead bodies, and. their great lamas are incinerated in a big 
cauldron filled with butter. But that kind of fuel is far too 
expensive for the common people, so in the barren regions, 
where wood is not available, the dead are placed on the hills 
and abandoned there to the vultures and other wild animals. 
In central Tibet the prevalent custom is to cut the corpse 
into pieces before leaving it on the cemetery ground. When 
the fish has been eaten by the animals and the bones are 
dry, the family collects them, or a part of them, and hands 
them to a lama, who pounds them, mixing their dust with clay, 
and moulds a number of miniature ; called tsatsa. 

It is in this shape that the pulverfzed bones of the ancestors 
are kept in places built for this purpose near the villages, or 
deposited in caves and other clean spots. ’ 

Sufficient room still remained in the tsaatsa hut which I had 
discovered to allow us to lie down, but there was nothing fit 
to burn near it, and as the dokpasa door remained closed we 
had to choose between the night under a roof without fire and 
without meal, or the open air with both. We chose the open 
air, and spent the night in a small rocky place surrounded by 
bushes. 

The next day we continued to follow the river until we 
arrived at a bridge. Bridges are few in that country and I was 
most astonished to see one on that but little trodden summer 
track. Yet you must not fancy a structure such as Western 
ers are accustomed to meet on the roads of their countries. 
Four or five trunks of fir trees, long and thin, resting on two 
piles, a few flat stones placed on them here and there to step 
on , such was the bridge! It was used, I should imagine, 
when the melting snow considerably increased the volume of 
the water. At any other season men and beasts forded the 
stream. 

That bridge, poor as It was, would not have been built with 
out reason. The track certainly passed over it, yet I saw it 
continuing clearly marked on the side where we stood. I 
was puzzled. Should we cross, or not? We decided to cross, 
fell amongst thorny bushes growing in marshy ground, and, 
being tired out, had nearly decided to camp, leaving to the 
morrow the care of looking for a road, when we saw a few 
boys tending cattle. I went toward them and learned that 
some dokpas had a camp on the opposite bank of the river, 
Vhich we had just left. The children told me also that I had 
arrived at the foot of the three passes that led Into the country 
of Po. One of them was blocked by the snow; they were 
certain of it. Regarding the two others they could give no 
Information. It might be that one of them, or both, were still 
open. 

Then a woman who had seen us from a distance joined the 
boys and repeated what ‘they said about the passes. She 
advised us to continue our way as far as we could on the 
track of the Aigni Id, and to rest a part of the night wherever 
we found water and wood, so as to be able to begin to climb 
again before daybreak, for it was a long way to the top of 
the pass, and even if It was open we would find high snow 
toward the summit. The prospect was agreeable indeed for 
people who had just struggled hard to go over one high 
range! Really the woman’s news was not cheerful. 

Yet we were prepared for such news, having been told that a 
second pass, difficult to negotiate, even if it was not entirely 
blocked, lay on our way. We realized the necessity of progressing quickly toward the villages of Po, for we had but 
a small quantity of food left, and our appetites, after daily 
mountaineering, were enormous. Why did we not rejoice to 
near that last range and to think that the next day we should 
very likely climb down into that Po yul of which we had 
spoken and dreamed for years? I could find no reason, except 
for our recent rather trying experience at the Deo la. We 
had not much time, however, to waste in analysis of our feel 
ings; the most important thing was to reach the summit of 
the hill early on the morrow, in order to have as long as pos 
sible to look for the road, if doubt rose about it, or if we were 
hindered and delayed in any other way. So we had decided 
to continue our way and to camp higher up, when a man 
carrying a load of wood emerged from the thickets. 

Yongden was once more compelled to relate the false stories 
of our pilgrimages, native land, and other kindred matters. 
Then, in his turn he questioned the dokpa about the passes. 
The answers he got confirmed what we had successively heard 
from the boys and from the woman. The man also advised 
the passage of the Aigni la. He said that it was longer than 
that across the Gotza la, but much less steep and easier on 
the opposite side of the mountain which we had to climb down. 

We also would find on that side, he continued, some cow 
men’s summer huts, empty at the present season, which would 
afford us shelter. 
I felt most anxious to put some questions about the springs 
of the river flowing all along the Po country; but, as beggar 
pilgrims, unless they have already travelled the road before, 
are not supposed to have any geographical knowledge of what 
exists in the region which lies ahead of them, and as, more 
over, they do not care in the least for such things, it would 
have been imprudent to ask anything directly. I turned the 
difficulty, pretending to be concerned with very material cares. 

“What about water?” I enquired. “Will we get some beyond 
the pass?” 

“Have no fear!” answered the man. “You will follow a 
river to a place where there are pasture grounds. I only know 
so much, I have never been further.” 
“Is there water also on the Gotza la side?” I asked again. 
“Yes, but the stream is much smaller.” 
“And what about the third pass?” 
I was insisting too much, I felt, but as snow and other cir 
cumstances prevented me from wandering at will on the. moun 
tains, I wished to get whatever information possible, and would 
have chosen the Gotza la had I had some reason to believe that 
journey to be more interesting. 

“What?” replied the man, frowning. “You cannot cross 
the Yontsong la. It is blocked by the snow. Dokpas say 
there is a large river on that side. What does that matter 
to you?” 
Yongden quickly interfered. 

“Ah,” he said, laughingly, “you do not know thei old mother. 
She always fears to miss her tea. Her eyes are continually in 
search of water and a plaice to stay to make tea. If I listened 
to her we would spend more than half of the day drinking!” 
The dokpa echoed the lama’s laughter. 
“Ah! ah!” he said. “Truly tea is a good thing, especially 
for women who do not drink as much spirit as we do.” 
But Yongden had a sudden inspiration. 

"Elder brother,” he said to the man, "it is a good thing to 
acquire merits by performing good deeds. It is useful for this 
life and the next. 

"You see, I am a lama and here is an old woman, a nagspa 
yum, my mother. We are both neskorpa? and to help us 
would be, without any doubt, a most meritorious action. Get 
horses for us and lead us to the top of the Aigni la, for we are 
very tired indeed.” 

It was a rather bold attempt. To persuade a dokpa to do 
such a service free is, as a rule, impossible. Hidden in our 
belts we had valuable arguments which could have decided the 
man easily and spared a lot of diplomacy, but we did not deem 
it safe to produce them in that country. Seated on the ground, 
I observed with interest the mental wrestle of the two cunning 
fellows. But the dokpa was not capable of competing with 
my adopted son, who, in some ways could have taught Ulysses 
himself. Yet his victory was not complete; he obtained only 
one horse, which we were to ride in turn, he and I, and the 
dokpa would carry our load on his back. Such a piece of good 
luck, however, seemed wonderful. 

As it would be out of the question to take the horse that 
evening and camp on the road, and as, on the other hand, 
Yongden did not like to part with the dokpa lest the latter 
escape from his influence and break his promise, he asked to 
be allowed to spend the night in the house. The dokpa thought 
a second or two, and granted the request. 

Now we had to recross the river, the cowmen’s camp being 
situated on the bank we had left at the bridge. I feared to 
take off my high felt boots and show my white legs. These 
would, no doubt, be noticed, so, pretending that, on account 
of rheunvatism, I could not tramp in iced water for fear of 
severe pain, I turned my steps toward the bridge, although 
it was rather far. But the good man, who had already had 
a little religious talk with the lama, declared that he would 
take us, one after the other, on his back, and put us down 
on the other side of the stream. 

I was greatly pleased to be relieved from a rather long walk, 
but at the same time I felt embarrassed about my revolver, 
the bag in which I carried our small provision of gold, and 
the belt filled with silver which I wore under my dress. 

When I am on that man’s back, I thought, he will think 
that I am rather heavy for my size and feel that I have hard 
objects on my breast under my robe. If he thinks of 
hidden money that may be our death. Had our future guide 
been alone, I could have more or less easily changed a little 
the place of the various dangerous objects so that they could 
not be so easily detected, but the woman and the boys who 
followed us, chatting, deterred me. 

Anyhow, simulating the gesture familiar to all Tibetans, of 
one who, (I beg your pardon, my readers!) feels uncomfortable 
on account of lice and looks for the unpleasant animals in his 
dress, I succeeded in pushing my automatic pistol under my 
left armpit, the small bag of gold under the right one, and in 
lifting the belt a little higher up. Nobody, of course, had given 
any attention to my actions, the motive of them being clear 
and habitual to all. 

Our arrival at the dokpasa encampment did not excite much 
curiosity. Yongden and I were quite commonplace, poor travellers. A man led us to a small hut which had sheltered 
goats , the ground, covered with a thick layer of rimaa clearly 
told its tale. Maybe the beasts would share it with us next 
night , such familiarity between animals and human beings is 
not rare amongst Tibetan  cowmen. I nearly regretted hav 
ing met these boys and the woman who first delayed us on 
our way. Had they not seen us, we should have camped alone 
amongst the bushes, in a much cleaner place than this goatpen, 
and we could have explored the hills at leisure. Now we 
should be compelled to keep stricdy to our role of destitute 
neskorpa, for the people of those parts have a sinister name 
as robbers. 

In Tibet, unless one is convinced that he has been seen by 
none, it is always safer to stay with the people of the country, 
even if it is certain that they are regular thieves or highway 
men. The reason for it is that Tibetans, unless they are 
drunk, fighting for their own lives, or have some other excep 
tional reason, shrink from killing. That feeling is the result of 
the Buddhist teaching of the respect for life which has perme 
ated the mind of the Tibetans, although only very dim notions 
about the Buddha’s doctrine have spread in their country. 
But if the man whom they have robbed is set free and can 
indicate the scene of the robbery, the robbers run the risk 
of being denounced by him to some chief. Of justice there is 
not much in Tibet and officials do not, as a rule, listen to 
the travellers who have met with misfortune on their way, 
unless they be rich traders from whom valuable presents may 
be expected. Anyhow, villagers or dokpas prefer robberies 
to take place at a distance from their homes, so that they can 
answer all enquiries which may be made with; “We do not 
know about the thing. We are not the thieves. They must 
have been travellers from another country who were on their 
way.” 

The highwaymen of Tibet do not form a special class of 
people exclusively employed in brigandage. In some parts of 
the country all men, without exception, are robbers, even to 
the extent of leaving husbandry entirely to the womenfolk, a 
more profitable work claiming the males of the tribe! This is 
perhaps an uncommon case; but in the outer provinces many 
peasants or cowmen with all the appearance and ways of honest 
folk, occasionally unite in a gang to form a plundering expedi 
tion in a neighbouring district or to attack a caravan, and, in 
any case, are prompt to despoil the travellers who cross their 
path. The terrible or amusing stories I have heard about 
attacks on the hill roads, or in the desert steppes, the number 
of the robbers’ tdctims I have seen, compel me to believe that 
insecurity prevails to a large extent in the fairyland of Tibet; 
but ;I owe it to its inhabitants to testify that personally/ 
though I have had a few disquieting meetings, I have never 
suffered any loss. I may say the same about China, although 
I have travelled in the midst of’ the civil war as well as 
through the wildest regions of the remote Szetchuanese and 
Yunnanese far west. Some will think that I have been uncom 
monly lucky. I shall not disagree; but luck has a cause, like 
anything else and I believe that there exists a mental 
attitude capable of shaping circumstances more or less accord 
ing to oneas wishes. 

Tibetans are simple men. Brigandage is for them merely 
an adventurous sport, in which they do not discover anything 
fundamentally wicked so long as it does not cause death. No 
one is ashamed to practise it. The shame is for the one who 
has been robbed, who has not been able to defend himself by 
sheer strength or by cleverness. 
Elder brothers, give me a man to accompany me for a 
few days to the shore of the lake, and I said once, when spending the summer amongst the famous Gologs robber tribes, “and, during my absence, look after my camp, my luggage, and 
my horses. You old brigands know the tricks of the trade! 
Shame on you if some one is able to take away what is around 
your tents.” 

They laughed heartily, not offended in the least, but rather 
proud of my appreciation of their valour as bandits. After 
all, they may have unconsciously felt the power of my sympathy, and my love for their land and for themselves , wild children of the wild heights! 

To return to our dokpasa camp. We knew that we would 
be safer in their midst than isolated at some distance, and we 
hoped also to be able to go round abegging and get some food 
as alms, for to show money in such a place would have been 
unwise. However much one may trust in oneas good luck, 
one must not forget to be sensible. 

I asked for some burning pieces of cow dung to kindle a 
fire, and enquired about the dogs. Might I safely go to the 
river to fetch water? But a woman brought us curd and tea, 
and I delayed lighting the fire until I had refreshed myself. 
During that time the chief of the family had come and talked 
with Yongden. Feeling satisfied with what he had learned 
about us, he deemed us worthy to be shown into his own 
dwelling. We were told that we did not need to worry about 
fire and water, for We should get our meals in the house of 
the master. 

The large kitchen we entered was like villagers’ kitchens 
all over Tibet. The hearth occupied a large place on the 
bottom of it. All around, the walls and shelves, some in wood, 
others in stone, supported various household utensils, big store 
boxes, bags of wool to be spun, sheepskins, and sundries, all 
covered with a thick layer of dust and blackened by the smoke. 
Windows there were none, the smoke hole being at the same 
time the light hole. But between the roof and the top of the 
wall there was a gap which allowed a certain amount of light 
to enter the room. Moreover, with the exception of the upper 
classes living in towns, Tibetans are accustomed to dark 
dwellings. 

The sun had already set when we entered the kitchen. A 
big fire was burning, and on a large iron tripod something 
boiled in a huge cauldron, which was evidently of great inter 
est to the inmates of the house, for they all eyed it with 
the greatest attention. 

We were received rather politely. The head of the family 
spread a ragged carpet for the lama in the most honourable 
place, next the hearth, and the women who spun at the lower 
end of it told me to sit on the floor next them. 

Then began the tiresome talk, always the same, about our 
country, our pilgrimages, and the like. Moreover, the master 
of the house and the other members of the family wished, as 
usual, to take the opportunity of a lama’s presence to get 
from him an amount of ecclesiastic service at least equal to the 
value of the hospitality they gave him. 
Again Yongden had to pay in prophetic oracles, blessings, 
and the like for the tea, the tsampa, and the shelter we both 
enjoyed. 
 
He did not like, he told me later on, the look of his host, 
thinking that he had all the features and the ways of a robber. 
Partlja because, as I have said, we really needed some provisions, and partly to impress upon the minds of the dokpas that we were real paupers, he asked leave for a time to go 
on a begging round through the encampment. Such being the 
current practice of arjopas, nobody showed any astonishment. 

“My mother is tired,” he told the people of the house. “She 
will sleep now, because we must start at night for the pass, and 
she needs rest.” And addressing me, “Come here, mother!” 
he said. “Lie down! I shall not be away very long.” 

He went and I took his place on the carpet, my head resting on my own bag which was placed against my son’s in such a way that It was not possible to move one of them without shaking the other one. Travellers in Tibet become experts in such devices, for, unless they spend the night at the house of relatives 
or wellknown friends, they must always fear petty thefts. 

I made a pretence of sleeping, but remained, of course, 
fully awake, observing the doings of our hosts, listening to 
their talk, ready for any event. I did not move when I 
heard the head of the family saying to the others in a low, 
subdued tone, “What can they be carrying in their bags?” 
Maybe he was prompted by mere curiosity, but it was doubt 
ful. Would things turn out badly?  I waited. 

He spoke again with those next him, but his voice was so 
low that I could not understand what he said, and through 
my lowered eyelashes I saw the tall fellow coming slowly, 
noiselessly toward me. I noticed also that he had no arms 
upon im. As for myself, my revolver was at hand under my 
dress, but it would have been of no use in a camp full of 
cowmen. Strategy would be a better weapon and I wondered 
what trick I could Invent if the situation required It, when the 
man extended his large hand and cautiously felt the bag which 
I had used as a pillow. 

I moved a litde and he drew back his hand immediatelya 
saying, with a vexed intonation: 

“She is waking up!” 
 



 

But I had found my stratagem. 
LagSy lags, Gelong lags, Yes, yes, reverend monk!” I said, 
imitating the voice of one who speaks half in dreams. I then 
opened my eyes widely, looked around as if bewildered, and 
asked in a natural way: “Is my son, the lama, not here? Oh, 
strange! I have just heard him telling me: aAwake mother! 
Awake quickly!  I am coming!” 

“He has not yet come back,” answered the nepoa who 
looked rather frightened. “Do you wish me to send for him?” 

“No, no,” I replied. “I do not want him. I would not dare 
to trouble him. He is a learned and saintly gelong? He will 
come soon, I know. I am all right here with you all, near 
that good fire.” 

“Have a cup of tea,” said a woman. 

“Yes, I will. Most kind of you,” I answered, politely, producing my bowl. 

Yongden entered the room. His arrival, coming on top of 
this incident, caused a sort of sensation. 

“I heard you well, Gelong lagsaa I said, “when you told me 
to awaken, and I did so. I really thought you were in the 
room. Is it not so, nepo? 

“It is so, it is so,” grumbled the nepo, whose mind was very 
likely a little agitated. 

Yongden understood that something had happened that he 
could not guess, but which he must follow up with me. 

“Good! good!” he said in the deep voice of the lamas when 
they chant in the choir. “Be awakened! Be awak 
ened! •. His eyes turned in all directions, and seeing 
nothing in particular to justify that order, he looked rather 
comical. He had collected some butter and a little tsampa, 
and even a small piece of silver that he could not refuse 
without arousing suspicion. 

The story behind it was a sad one. The only son of a cow 
man had died some months ago, and a lama belonging to a 
monastery situated far beyond the passes had performed 
rites for the dead. Nevertheless, the sorrowful parents were 
not satisfied, and still entertained some doubt about the situa 
tion of their little one. The boy was. about eleven years old 
when he departed to the next world, and they begged Yong 
den to stay a few days to perform a supplementary ceremony. 
As he declined, explaining that for various reasons he must 
proceed quickly, they had instantly begged him to utter at 
least the mystic sentence that lights the lost wanderer through 
the various roads of the beyond and, as if taking him by the 
hand, leads him to the Western Paradise, the Land of Bliss. 

Who could refuse these simpleminded ones the innocent 
illusion that meant so much to them? And so, accompanying 
his religious performance with a sermon on morality addressed 
to a number of dokpas, men and women, Yongden had seated 
the little cowboy on a lotus in the Heaven of Chenreszigs. 

The nepo, now even more conwnced of the greatness of the 
lama, drove me away from the carpet where I had remained 
seated, listening to the story of the dead boy. 

“Go, go, mother! Sit behind now. Let the lama be com 
fortable!” 

I moved back to the bare floor, in obedience to custom, 
casting on Yongden a glance which ordered him to say nothing 
and to be seated on the carpet. 

The mystery of the cauldron was now revealed. The cover 
was removed and a long iron hook was dipped into the boiling 
broth. It brought out the heart, the lungs, and the liver of 
a yak, together with its stomach and bowels, which had been 
filled with meat and tsampa to make a kind of sausage. The 
whole flabby mass was placed on a large wooden tray, care 
fully covered with a piece of sacking and put aside. 

Then tsampa was poured into the broth, and ten minutes 
afterwards, the lama first, then the nepo, and I amongst the 
last, filled our Bowls. In view of the effort which I should 
have to make to climb the pass, I endeavoured to feed myself 
as much as possible, and drank off three full bowls. 

a After the meal the nepo, evidently pleased to chat with a 
traveller who could tell of so many distant places of pilgrimage, 
began an endless and most uninteresting talk. hardly listened to it, thinking of the country of Po, from which I was separated only by a single range, and recollecting various 
observations made during the day, when a few words made me start as if I had been struck. 
have heard,” said the nepoa aathat some phUings have been to the Kha Karpo.” 

Philings?  to Kha Karpo! Was it possible that 
rumours had spread about us? Or could it be that the official 
had searched for us on the direct roads to Lhasa, and that we 
owed our liberty solely to the devious route we had chosen? 
Who could tell? But if such was the case, they would be 
on the lookout around Lhasa, and would perhaps catch us 
near our goal. 

Yongden tried to gather where the news came from. As 
usual in Tibet, the man did not know. He had heard it from 
some travellers, who might themselves have heard it from 
others. News hawked in such a way might well be several years 
old and have no connection whatsoever with us. An English 
consul and his Tibetan  wife had toured the Kha Karpo three 
or four years ago. Perhaps they were these phUings, Or had 
the American naturalist, whom we had left in the Lutzekiang, 
attempted to pursue his researches in the now forbidden zone? 
We could not guess, and the unpleasant feeling of hunted 
game, from which we had been freed for a few weeks, troubled 
us once more. 

Yongden was no longer in the mood to continue entertaining 
the nepo with stories of remote places of pilgrimage. He 
declared that he wanted to sleep. 

But the nepo, without appearing to have heard him, pro 
duced a request. dokpas, he said, felt much anxiety about 
the snow which had fallen in but small quantity that year. 
The ground remained dry and would not store sufficient mois 
ture to ensure a full growth of the grass on the pasture land. 
And what of the cattle which needed abundant food, after the 
halfstarving period of winter? Would the snow fall soon? 

The lama could tell. He could also, by his art in the 
secret spells, c&use it to come down from the sky and cover 
the earth. Would he not do what was required to bring 
about that happy result?. 

Yongden was tired out, but it was unsafe either to displease 
the dokpas or to let aem believe that he was not a quite 
capable lama. 

“Several days are needed,” he answered, “to perform these 
rites, and as I must proceed to Po yul, I cannot call down the 
snow that will block the very passes which I must cross. What 
you ask is rather a complicated piece of business.” 

All those present agreed that it was. 

“Let us see,” continued my young friend. “Yes. in 
that way.” 

He produced a small piece of paper out of a sack and 
asked that barley be brought to him, if they had some. He 
then placed a few grains on the paper and holding it out 
stretched on his open palms, lapsed into a deep meditation. 
A chanting followed whose slow rhythm and whispering sound 
gradually grew louder and louder until it rolled like thunder 
beneath the low, ramshakle roof of the large kitchen. 

The dokpas looked really terrified. 

Yongden stopped abruptly, which caused everybody, includ 
ing myself, to start up. 

Then he divided the grains that had been used for the per 
formance of the rite into two parts, putting one half aside in a 
corner of his handkerchief, and leaving thd remaining part in 
the paper which was folded in a peculiar and complicated way. 
“Here, take it,” he ordered the nepo, “and listen! You 
will open that paper tomorrow at sunset, and throw the grain 
it contains toward the sky in the four directions. I myself 
will at the same time recite the ngags [spells] needed to make 
an abundant fall of snow. Now, if you open the paper before 
sunset, before I have uttered the ngags; the deities, not being 
propitiated in the proper way, null feel irritated and revenge 
themselves upon you all. So be careful!” 
The man promised to follow ezaay the orders he had received, and at last the thought arose in his mind that he had 
perhaps exacted from the lama more than the value of the 
meagre hospitality he had shown us. So he told his wife to 
fetch a piece of meat that lire might carry as provision on the 
road The woman brought a quite excellent piece, but her 
husband snatched it out of her hand before she had time to 
present it to the lama, hung it up again, and carefully chose a 
skinny bit which he gave with the utmost gravity to my companion. We were hard put to it not to laugh aloud, so much had we enjoyed the fun. 

cannot,” declared Yongden, who is perfectly conversant with the religious monastic rules, "thank you for a gift of 
meat, which is an impure thing, the result of the great sin of 
killing; It would be ajs if I rejoiced at the slaughter of that 
animal, because I have a piea of its flesh to eat. But give 
me some tsampa and I will bless your home.” 

The words of the lama were most edifying and strictly ortho 
dox, but they had still another quality, in that they were to 
provide us with some barely flour, which, however small in 
quantity, would prove very useful. " 

A big bowl heaped high with tsampa was placed before him. 
Yongden threw a few pinches of it in various directions, called 
health and prosperity on the host, hisafamily, and his belong 
ings. And before the nepo had time to take back the flour, 
which he had only lent for ritualistic purposes, my son poured 
the contents of the bowl into our bag, which I had promptly 
extended toward him, kneeling in a most devout attitude. 

We now hoped that the old miser, who looked rather astonished at the sight of his empty bowl, would allow the lama to rest. We were anxious to sleep a few hours before starting 
on a new tiring march whose end we could not foresee. The 
pass might be blocked, or other obstacles might arise on our 
way. Who could ever tell? As for dokpasa we felt safe. 
I had very well understood the cunning of Yongden, who 
wished to prevent any of the cowmen froni following us. The 
next morning the stony of the grain would spread, and «vela 
one would feel far too interested in its uselessness to attempt 
anything that could hinder the magic work which was to bring 
the desired snow. Then, when the grain had been thrown 
toward the sky, the dokpas would wait for the result for at 
least another full day. We should be far away by that time, 
amongst other people. At least, so we believed, but events 
were to take a very different turn. 

Two women arranged the couch of the nepo for the night. 
I cannot say the “bed,” for Tibetans, as well as a large number 
of Asiatics, including Japanese, have no bed. Rich Tibetans 
sleep on thick cushions covered with line tapestry; poor ones 
on the bare floor or ground. Between these two extremes there 
exist countless degrees of thickness and beauty in the cushions, 
until one comes to a single piece of ragged sackcloth or of 
greasy sheepskin. But in any case, the blankets, or whatever 
takes their place, are put aside during the day and brought 
out when they are needed for the night. 

When all was ready, the old dokpa took off his robe, keeping on his trousers, according to the general custom of Tibet, where women as well as men sleep with the upper part of 
the body naked. Then he slipped between the sheepskins which 
were spread at the best and warmest place near the hearth. A 
bucket was placed in the middle of the room to spata the 
people of the house the trouble of going out at night. I had 
never seen such a thing elsewhere. Village people, as a rule, 
have regular closets, pardy for cleanliness’ sake, but especially 
to accumulate manure for the field, that supplied by the cows, 
sheep, and goats being reserved as fuel. Dokpas in the soli 
tude, who have large spaces before them and no agriculture 
whatever, do not feel the need of special accommodation and 
as a rule retire outside their tents at night as well as in 
daytime. 

Most of the men and women had not waited for the master 
to lie down. Young married couples rolled themselves in a 
large blanket with their children between them; elder people 
or bachelors rested alone; and the youngsters heaped them 
selves together like so many puppies, laughing and fighting for 
their share of the covering rags, till sleep silenced them. 


CHAPTER V.


HOW many hours have I slept? I cannot guess. I felt as if I had shut my eyes only a few minutes before. 
“It is time to start,” repeats the man whose voice has awakened me. He throws a few branches amongst the smouldering embers; the flame illumines the sleepers, some of whom 
grumble and roll up more tighdy in their blankets. We are 
quickly ready. Dressing consists merely of tying our belts 
and our garters, for our loads have not been opened. We are 
off in no time. 

"Kale pheba lama!” says the nepo from between his sheep 
skin covering as we pass the door. 

The moon, screened by a high peak, sheds but a dim light 
upon the valley. The wind blows hard. I feel exceedingly 
cold and my fingers freeze. Even wrapped as they are in the 
long sleeves of my thick dress, I have difficulty in gripping 
my staff. The shallow river which was flowing the day before 
at the place we crossed it is here covered with thick ice. On 
the opposite bank the narrow trail winds between thickets. It 
branches several times, and other tracks cross it. We should 
very likely have wasted a good deal of time in that labyrinth, 
had we not been guided. I decline, as does Yongden, the invitation to ride. It is too dreadfully cold. I prefer to keep on walking until the sun rises. 

The landscape, as much as I can see of it, is very different 
from that which extends between Tashi Tse and the summit of 
the Deo la. The latter was truly majestic, whereas the narrow valley which we now follow breathes occult hostility and treachery. 

After a few hours’ walk, a palegreen dawn breaks and rather adds to the uncomfortable impression praced by 
the landscape. There is but little snow on the track we are 
following, but enormous quantites are heaped in the gorges 
which score its sides. 

The sun rises shyly amidst the clouds. We cross small 
pastures covered with wet grass, wintry and yellowish. I ride 
for a while, but soon get off and linger behind, leaving the 
horse to Yongden. The dokpa who walks at his prth annoys 
me with his uninterrupted twaddle. I like silence when wan 
dering across the hills. So many voices may be heard there by 
trained ears and an attentive mind. 

A little later, snow begins to appear on the path and grows 
deeper as we continue. A gigantic white mound marks the 
beginning, says our guide, of a summer track leading to another 
pass. Seeing it, I understand that I must give up all idea 
of roaming about on the range, as I should have liked to do. 
Explorations in those regions ought to take place during the 
very short period between the time when the mud caused by 
the melting of the snow and the summer rains is somewhat 
dried, and that of the first important snowfall, an interval of 
scarcely six weeks. 

That year, owing to that scarcity of snow which alarms the 
dokpas, the Aigni la is easily practicable. We reach ita latza 
before noon. 

Our guide has laid down the lama’s load, which he had 
carried until then. He is about to leave us and take his 
horse back to the camp. 

Although our disguise and our care for our safety did not 
allow us to be overgenerous, I had always meant to give a 
little present to the good man. Yongden’s sermon on the 
merits inherent in the services rendered gratis to lama pilgrims 
was aimed only at convincing the dokpas of our poverty. The 
night before, when all had been asleep, I whispered in my 
young companion’s ear what he was to do. And now he obeys 
my instructions. 

Slowly he produces two coins from his purse and, wrapped 
in a piece of paper, a pinch of dried cypress leaves. 

‘This money,” he declares, solemnly, “is all that I have got. 
I have received it from the ponpo of Tashi Tse, for the welfare 
of whom I read the Sacred Scripture at the zong. You have 
helped us both, my mother and me. I therefore give it to you 
as well as that sang a which comes from the far distant holy 
place of pilgrimage, called Kha Karpo.” 

Though the price we give for the hiring of a horse with its 
driver is small, money is so rare amongst dokpas that the 
man cannot but be satisfied. We are confident, also, that he 
will hide the silver and keep silent about it, lest some one 
should rob him of it. Thus do we mingle prudence and 
righteousness. 

Yongden adds some words meant to impress the man and 
his friends, to whom he will doubtless repeat them, and to let 
tfiem know that we are not devoid of protection in the country 
we are entering. This detail may easily influence the dokpas 
and prevent them from following us. 

“Take the money, elder brother,” insists the lama. “We 
have arrived on the territory of the Po gyalpo [king]; his 
anchos [chaplain] is an old friend of mine. We both belong 
to the Sera monastery at Lhasa, so, if I am in need, he will 
ask the king to help me.” 

“Of course he will, kusho [sir],” agrees the man, in a 
respectful tone which shows how much the poor travellers have 
progressed in his esteem. “But I prefer to take the sang 
alone. It is most precious. As for the money, if I accepted it 
I would lose the merit of having served a lama. No, I 
shall not take it. I like better to keep the merit. It is useful 
for the next life as well as for this one. Please give me 
your blessing, kusho, I must make haste now. Kale pheb. 
Lama! Kale pheb, mother!” 

With that he was gone, happy with the dust of a few dry 
leaves and the belief that he had sown a few seeds of future 
felicity in this world or in another one. The poor thing! My 
hearty good wishes followed him. 

We stood near the latza. We had not shouted the habitual 
a‘Lha gyalor as Tibetan  custom requests. We had nothing 
of that joyful excitement which makes one enthusiastically 
salute the conquest of the summit at the end of an exhausting 
climb. Accustomed to long tramps, that short ride had been 
a real luxury to us. For the first time since we had left 
China, we had reached a pass without fatigue, and perhaps it 
was that which prevented us from being cheerful. 

Anyhow, it was neither the time nor the place to tarry and 
ponder over psychological problems. 

The shout was rather listless. 
“It will snow,” said Yongden, who looked unusually grave. 

“I suspect it since the sun has risen in such a melancholy 
way,” I replied. “But will it snow today? Could our nepo 
have thrown, before the appointed hour, the grain you gave 
him yesterday?” 

The joke found no echo in the lama. 
“Let us be quick,” he said. 
I did not like to see him in such a gloomy mood, so I continued: “Do you remember that Nagspa lama of the KoKo Nor 
who could, so the cowmen said, make the snow and rain and 
hail fall or stop at his will? Me has taught me some of his 
ngags. Let us bet on the result. You have called the snow. 
I will try to prevent It.” 

The young man did not even smile. 

“The poor fellows need snow for their pastures,” he said. 
“Let them have it.” And he began to stride down the steep 
white slope. 

His strange attitude impressed me! Why was he so greatly 
concerned about snow? We had seen much of it in previous 
journeys. It was not a thing to frighten us, especially as we 
were so near the villages. Perhaps he felt unwell. 

I hastened to join the lama, who was already far below. In 
spite of my efforts the distance between him and me increased 
rapidly , which annoyed me. I tried to run straighter, avoiding the loss of time caused by long windings. Then, I suppose some invisible and compassionate little mountain fairy, seeing 
my trouble and wishing to' do me a gracious service, pulled 
me by the foot. In the tenth part of a second I fell and slid 
just as in a toboggan 'race, yet with the noteworthy difference 
that I was myself the toboggan and its driver, all in one! I 
had happily succeeded in grasping my staff low enough to use 
it to steer. In such wise, dispensing with any “tacking,aa I 
passed Yongden with the speed of an express train and pulled 
up far ahead of him. 

He hurried as quickly as he could and joined me as I shook 
off the snow that covered my dress and my load. Satisfied 
with my answer that I had not hurt myself, he declared that 
my performance looked quite pretty and had spared me a good 
deal of exertion. 

It had another result, which I appreciated still more, for 
Yongden had recovered his goodhumoured laugh. 

What vague premonition had for a moment thrown a gloom 
over the cheerful mind of my young companion? I did not 
venture to offer any explanation. But truly we were approaching rather trying circumstances. 

Judging from the scenery, I could guess that the country 
toward which we proceeded was entirely different from the 
upper Salween basin in its physical aspects. 

The air was charged with moisture, the ground wet, even 
slightly marshy, in some places. Snow had already fallen in 
quantities and the dokpas of the region had no reason to feel 
anxious for the growth of the grass, as did those living on the 
opposite side of the mountain range. 

Soon we entered the zone of trees and followed the shore 
of the river springing at the foot of the Aigni la. It led us 
to large pasture lands which occupied the area at the inter 
section of three valleys. We had walked down through one of 
them, another opened just opposite, beyond the pastures, 
and a stream, larger than that coming from the Aigni pass, 
issued from it. The third received the united waters of 
the two rivers which would, far away, flow into the Yeru 
Tsangpo (Brahmaputra) and bring the melted snows of the 
mighty range I had crossed into the Indian Ocean. 

I had now been able to discover one of the springs of the 
river Po, whose upper course is unknown to geographers. The 
second interested me greatly. It originated, it seemed, in the 
vicinity of the pass which the dokpas had named Yon tsong la 
and which was blocked for the present. That muchtobe 
regretted circumstance left me no hope of climbing it to inspect 
the range on that side. But I wished at least to follow the 
river up as high as I could, and to gather whatever observa 
tions I might be able to make in my humble way. I was far 
from suspecting that this bit of rough scouting, such as I had 
so often done in Tibet, was to lead me into a short but rather 
exciting adventure which turned out all right, but could have 
ended otherwise. 

Briefly, I explained my intention to Yongden. 

Still more laconic, he answered curtly: “It will snow, and 
we have no food.’ 

These were words worthy of some reflection. 

The snow?. I did not fear it. As for the food, I opened 
the bags, inspected their contents with the lama, and we agreed 
that there remained a sufficient quantity for three meals. Three 
meals meant three days, for we had not come to these ThibeUn 
wilds to indulge in gastronomy. Moreover, I did not intend to 
linger in the upper valleys; a mere glance would satisfy my 
curiosity and enable me to supply a few general facts to those 
interested in that virgin river. 
“Forward!” 

After sunset the snow began to fall, lightly at first , ajust a 
few butterflies whirling "among the black trees. Then it grad 
ually became more and more dense, one of those slow snow 
falls, whose flakes descend from some inexhaustible heavenly 
store, shrouding the mighty peaks and burying the valleys. 

“Let us pitch the tent,” I said. “We will light a fire inside 
it and have tea.” 
We really needed some refreshment. Since the evening soup 
of the day before, eaten at the dokpasa camp, we had taken no 
food. 

Dry wood was scarce. To cut and collect some while the 
snow fell kept us busy for a long time. Nevertheless we gath 
ered enough small branches to boil the tea. Our frugal meal 
having been hastily eaten, we threw the remaining embers out 
side, for the heat melted the snow on the thin cloth and water 
dripped freely on us. It also became evident that our pil 
grim staffs, which were used as tent poles, could not bear the 
weight of the snow for long. Since we could not run the risk 
of breaking them, we established, with the cloth only, a kind 
of sloping shelter fixed with a few stones on an adjacent rock. 
We then lay down beneath it, and as it was not very cold we 
soon fell asleep. 
A sensation of painful oppression awakened me. I lifted my 
head, and immediately knocked it against our roof. Over 
loaded with snow, it had sagged and we were being buried. 
There was, for the time being, nothing tragic about the matter. 
Anyhow wc had better be quick and get out while it was still 
easy. 

I pushed Yongden, who was asleep. He needed no explanation to understand the situation, which was plain enough! I 
only said: 
Let us turn slowly and then get up together, pushing the 
cloth with our backs. Ready? Gee up!

We were out of our grave, and none the better for it. Snow 
fell and we had no hope of fixing another shelter, for we would 
have been buried again before long. No rest being possible, 
it was better to walk and keep warm. 

We tramped the remainder of the night and all the next 
morning without making much progress. The soft snow made 
walking difficult. Then, when we had reached a higher level, 
we began to slip on the miniature glaciers formed by previous 
snowfalls, that had repeatedly melted and frozen again and 
which were now treacherously hidden under a thick new layer. 

We established ourselves on its dry ground. Our tent, hung 
like a curtain to some roots above our heads, added to the 
protection afforded by the cave. No fuel was available, but we 
ate a little tsampa and quenched our thirst with snow which we 
melted in our mouths. Then, overtired, after two nights spent 
nearly without rest, we slept soundly till the morrow at dawn. 

When we awakened, the snow was still falling. We could 
see that it had not ceased the whole night, for it was heaped 
much higher in front of our prehistoric refuge and formed a 
wall that had kept us warm during the night. 

I decided to leave our bags in the sa phug and to attempt 
a reconnaissance higher up. We should walk the more easily, 
carrying only our mountain staffs. As we were compelled to 
retrace our steps to reach the Po villages, we would pick up our 
baggage again on our way down. As for thieves, they were 
not much to be feared in that deserted land, on the road to a 
blocked pass. 

We started. Snow continued to fall in the same slow, inexorable, unavoidable, way, as it had done for more than forty hours. We found it forming impassable barriers at some points where 
It had accumulated on old layers already thick. It was impossible to follow any regular direction. With great exertion I reached a ridge from where, through the moving curtain of 
the white soft flakes, I faintly discerned summits which looked 
like sloping, undulated tablelands. But who knows if the snow 
had not leveled the ground and changed their aspect? It is a 
common thing, well known to all alpinists, that mountains 
which assume rounded lines in their wintry garb show, in the 
summer, sharp spurs and rocky peaks like needles. 

I went down with still greater difficulty than I had experienced in climbing up, and endeavoured to reach another spot from which I hoped to ascertain if a stream joining the main river issued from what appeared to be a small gorge. I was pushing forward when I heard a cry behind me. Yongdena,
while looking for a short cut, had slipped and fallen into a 
ravine. This was not very deep, yet, shut between nearly 
vertical banks, its access was anything but easy. When, after 
a few minutes, I reached my poor companion, he looked piti 
able enough, lying in his ragged lama dress on the white snow 
stained with drops of blood. 

"Nothing, nothing serious at all,” he said, answering my 
questions. ‘T must have knocked my head against a rock when 
rolling down. The skin is a little cut, but there is nothing 
more. Do not be afraid. The shock only made me giddy.” 

Then he moved to get up, uttered a moan, whilst he became 
pale, shut his eyes, and whispered: “Oh! my foot!” 
He tried a second time to stand, but without success. 
“I cannot,” he said, the pain bringing tears to his eyes. “I 
cannot stand.” 
I felt terrified. Had he broken his leg? 

What should we do in that case, alone in that wilderness, 
without food and the snow growing higher hour after hour? 

I immediately took off his boot and examined his foot. Happily, the bones were unbroken. He had merely sprained his 
ankle and somewhat bruised his knee. The accident in itself 
did not endanger his life or his general health. At least, it 
would not have done so in any inhabited place, but out 
here. 

He understood as well as I did the gravity of our situation 
and again endeavoured to rise. With my help he succeeded 
and remained op one foot, leaning on his staff. 

“I shall try to carry you,” I said. “We must go back to the 
sa phug, and there we will think over the matter.” 

In spite of my good will and strenuous efforts I was soon 
compelled to realize that I lacked the strength necessary to 
carry my adopted son across deep snow, with stones and pits 
hidden under it, which made me stumble frequently. Yongden, who had reluctantly obeyed my express command to let 
himself be carried, then endeavoured to proceed, leaning on me 
and on his staff, creeping rather than walking, and stopping 
every ten minutes. Drops of perspiration caused by the painful effort fell from the lama cap which covered his forehead. 
It took us hours to reach the sa phug. 

I massaged Yongden's ankle, and bandaged it with his belt. 
I could do no more. 

As on the day before, we had no fuel and shivered as we lay 
on the frozen ground. The snow which we had eaten to 
quench our thirst on the road, as well as the icy water brought 
from the stream to drink with our meal, had increased the 
painful sensation of internal cold that kept us awake. 

Yet, had it not been for my concern for my young companion, I should have found a peculiar charm in my situation. 
Indeed, that charm was so powerful that it triumphed over my 
preoccupations and my physical discomfort. Until late that 
night I remained seated, motionless, enjoying the delights of 
my solitude in the absolute silence, the perfect stillness of that 
strange white land, sunk in rest, in utter peace. 

And the snow still continued to heap itself around us. 

In the morning, when I opened my eyes, the first thing I 
saw was Yongden standing on one leg, leaning on his staff, 
with his back against the earthen wall of the sa phug. His 
attitude reminded me of that of certain Chinese spirits in the 
Taosse Temples, and he would have been quite comical in any 
other circumstances, but tears were in his eyes. 

“I cannot walk,” he said in despair. “I have already tried 
several times, but I cannot stand on my foot.” 

His ankle was swollen. The foot remained twisted out of Its 
normal position. It was Impossible to start. 

We spent the first morning hours in discussion. I thought 
of leaving my companion with the baggage and the handful of 
tsampa that remained and of trying to reach some village to 
ask for help. But Yongden doubted whether anyone would 
follow me and take trouble for mere beggars, as we appeared 
to be. As for showing money or offering a reward of some 
importance, such a thing would prove more dangerous than 
anything else. Perhaps my son was too pessimistic in his 
opinion of the Popas, but more serious objections could be 
raised against my plan. 
We did not know how far the villages were, and which were 
the roads that led to them. Two days ago, when coming 
down from the Aigni laa we had seen three tracks. All traces 
of these would now be hidden beneath deep snow. The river 
remained the only guide, and it was not a reliable one. It 
could not fail to flow down to the inhabited region, but we 
were not certain that we could follow its course all the way. 
Mountain streams frequently enter narrow gorges, while trav 
ellers’ paths cling to the hills far above them, although they 
both meet again miles away. 

What if I missed the right path and had to retrace my steps? 
I might wander several days, meet with an accident as my 
companion had done, or starve and fail to reach my goal. 

I could not deny that Yongden’s apprehensions, gloomy as 
they might appear, were well grounded. As for me, I felt 
very frightened at the idea of abandoning the lame young man 
in that cave, where wolves, bears, snow leopards, or other hun 
gry beasts might attack him at night, while he could not even 
stand on his feet to protect himself. 

So time passed while we made plans and rejected them, one 
after another. I eventually decided to follow the valley down 
as far as I could, in search of dokpas. I would return by evening. I walked the whole day, seeing two deserted encampments, but not one living being. I was overcome with sorrow 
at the thought of the lama who had remained shivering in the 
sa phug. How much better he would have been in one of 
those abandoned huts, in which fuel left by the dokpas could 
have warmed him! At any rate, I ought to bring some back 
with me. i But how could I carry it? I had no bag nor any 
piece of cloth with me, and only a thick woollen material could 
prevent the cow dung from becoming wet on the way. As I 
had no choice, I took off my upper dress made of coarse Thi 
betan serge, packed the fuel in it, tied the load with my belta 
and, having fastened it on my back, I started. 

It was an exhausting tramp. The snow had not ceased to 
fall, and my thin Chinese underdress was but an insufficient 
protection against It. Before half an hour elapsed I felt as if 
I were in an icy bath. 

Night came while I was still far from the cave. I could not 
miss my way, the stream being there as a guide, but in the 
darkness I failed to find the exact place of the sa phug. Had 
I proceeded too high up the valley, or was I still below the 
spot where the cave was situated? I realized that I did not 
know. 
I was on the point of shouting to the lama when I discerned 
a small light a little higher up. No doubt Yongden was there 
and he had lighted, to guide me, the roll of taper which we 
had in our bag. Such, indeed, was the case. 

“I was half dead with fear,” he told me, when I joined him. 
I fancied the very worst, when evening came and you did not 
return.” 

The fire, and a bowl of hot tea in which we threw a few 
pinches of barley flour, cheered us, even though our wretched 
plight had grown rather worse. Our food supply was now 
reduced to three or four spoonfuls of tsampa, and a little tea 
dust. We were still in ignorance as to the distance that sep 
arated us from the villages, and the path that led directly to 
them, and poor Yongden was still unable to walk. 

not worry about me, Jetsunma,” said the lama as I was 
drying myself near the fire. know you do not fear death, 
and I do not fear it, either. I have massaged my foot again 
and again today and now I will put a compress of hot water 
on it. Perhaps I shall be able to walk tomorrow. If not, 
you must go away and try to save yourself. Do not be sorry 
on my account. All that happens comes from some cause. 
This accident is a result of my previous deeds. No gods or 
men or anybody but myself are responsible for it, and it would 
be useless to lament about it. Now let us sleep.” 
And we both slept soundly while the snow still fell and fell, 
without ceasing. 

The next day Yongden could stand. I tied his bag and 
mine in one load, which ,I carried, and, as I had done when 
leading him back to the sa phug after the accident, I helped the 
lama to walk. We were progressing at a snaiPs pace. When 
we again reached the wooded hills I cut a branch at the end 
of which I fixed a short piece of wood and wrapped it round 
with our empty provision bags to form a kind of cushion. This 
provided the young man with a primitive crutch and he could 
thus proceed without my help. 

During my scouting tour the day before I had seen the 
valley narrowing in a way which made me fear that we could 
not proceed close to the stream. I had more confidence in a 
track which we had seen climbing through the forest when 
coming down from the Aigni la. It branched a little before 
entering the pasture land and very likely it followed the same 
direction as the stream higher up, having been cut through 
the jungle because the bottom of the valley was not passable. 
We could, no doubt, have found some short cut to it with 
out going as far as the spot from where we had just noticed 
It, but it would have been imprudent to attempt steep slopes 
through the bushes with Yongden who had great difficulty in 
walking, even in the trodden tracks. 

So we went a long way, kneedeep in the snow;, until we 
reached the path which was well marked by a neatly cut line 
between the trees. 

The weather cleared at that time, and had it not been for 
the difficulty of proceeding in the snow that sixtyfive hours 
of continual fall had accumulated, and the sorrow I felt at 
seeing the painful efforts made by Yongden, the walk would 
have been rather pleasant. We were now in the midst of fine 
alpine scenery which must have been charming in spring and 
later summer, after the Wet season. Unfortunately, I began to 
share something of the physical misery of my friend. That 
morning I had noticed a small gap in my boot through which 
my right big toe began to appear. Hours of tramping had 
transformed the little hole into a wide mouth that opened and 
closed at every step, as if my leg tndad in a strange animal, 
feeding on snow as it went. As for my left foot, it did not 
fare much better, for the sole of the. boot had become almost 
entirely unsewn on one side. I begah to suffer cruelly. Fresh 
snow is especially dangerous; it burns and causes sores. Thibetan hillmen, though their skin is rather tough, take great care to avoid direct contact with it. 

It was getting late, and we had fibafidoned all hope of reach 
ing a village that day. No trace of cultivation, no cattle were 
seen, and it also seemed that we would find no shelter. For 
we had searched in vain for the dokpasa summer huts which, 
according to the man who had accompanied us to the top of 
the Aigni la, existed on the path going down to the inhabited 
valleys. Covered with snow, they were perhaps not easy to 
discover. Or could it be that, unlucky till the end, we had 
missed our road? That question formed the topic of the few 
words which we exchanged. We had given up asking each 
other about our respective efforts and pains. We knew that 
we were both struggling with all our might and unable to 
relieve each other’s suffering. Prattling about it was useless. 
Later on, we also dropped, as idle and tiring, the question of 
the dokpasa huts or whether we had missed our way. 

Night came and snow began to fall again. The sky was 
pitch dark, but a dim, dull light, that made me think of Hades, 
seemed to ascend strangely from the white ground and issue 
from the snow clad trees. 

White from head to foot, mind and body benumbed, we 
continued at a limping gait our silent tramp. In that fan 
tastic landscape, we looked like two queer ghosts en route to 
answer the call of a Tibetan  wizard, or the ragged attendants 
of some needy Father Christmas of the wilds. 

Father Christmas. An association of ideas took possession of my thoughts. Were we not in December? Yes. But 
the concordance of dates between the Gregorian and the Sinoa 
Tibetan  calendar, which I had used for years , awas not clear 
in my memory. a I would consult, when free to do so, the 
Chineseforeign calendar I had in my bag. 

Gradually Yongden fell behind and I continued to drag 
myself aimlessly along. Villages, huts, any kind of shelter, 
seemed out of reach. To camp in the deep snow was impossible. Then what? 

A sudden shock shook me from my torpor. I had knocked 
myself against something hard. I looked. It was the top of 
a rustic fence. A fence! The dokpas summer camp, 
of which our guide had spoken! We were on the right way, 
and here was a shelter to sleep in! 

I could hardly believe it. I laid my hand on the wood and 
followed along it as if I feared that fence and huts would 
vanish, slipping away from my hold. I arrived at the gate of 
the enclosure and from there vaguely discerned a large square 
cabin and several smaller ones. 
I shouted the good news to the lama: 
"Dim! Dim! Kampa chik dug! Means, Here! Here! There is 
a house!” 

Without waiting for him I entered the camp. Next the 
men’s room was a horse shed. I put my load down under it 
and began immediately to clear away the snow heaped high 
before the door. Yongden arrived while I was thus busied. 

We happily found a good quantity of firewood and dry cow 
dung under the shed, and we first lighted a fire there, the room 
itself being too dark to locate the hearth. As soon as the 
burning branches gave us some light, we carried them into the 
hut, which we found rather large, with a fireplace' and, on both 
sides of it, boards covering the ground to sit and lie on. The 
happiest discovery was another supply of fuel. After the nights 
spent in the sa phug, the warmth that spread into the closed 
room thrilled voluptuously in me the epicure which is always 
lurking in the corner of the most ascetic hearts. 

Before sleeping, we drank a bowl of hot water sprinkled 
with tsampa, leaving the tea for tomorrow’s meal, and Yong 
den put a hot compress around his foot. I consulted my calendar; it was the 22d of December. 

Yongden’s foot was less stiff and less painful on the follow 
ing morning. But the young man still needed his crutch. And 
I was now in trouble, in my turn, for I could not proceed with 
out sewing new soles on my boots. The day before, my toes 
had been burnt and half frozen. Blisters and bleeding sores 
made my gait as lame as that of my son. It would have been 
really dangerous to start, practically barefooted, on a new 
tramp in the snow. 

Nothing in his monastic study had prepared the lama for 
a cobbler's work, and he found it very difficult. As for me, I 
knew nothing whatever of this craft, and the only help I could 
give him was to unstitch the wornout piece of leather. 

It was one o’clock when the boots were ready. We hesi 
tated to start. The existence of a dokpas’ abandoned summer 
camp at this spot had shown us that we were still far from 
the permanently inhabited region. Most likely, travelling at 
such a slack pace, we should not reach it before darkness came. 
That meant one more tramp at night and we began to feel the 
effects of prolonged fasting on our overtaxed endurance. On 
the other hand, to rest the remainder of the day was to increase 
the length of our starvation. The choice between these equally 
unenjoyable alternatives was hard.. The bright fire tempted us; 
we decided in favour of the warm shelter during the night 
and a very early start before daybreak. 

The weather did not clear; it snowed without interruption. 
A little before sunset, Yongden, who wished to ascertain if 
the condition of his sprained ankled had improved, went to 
another dokpas enclosure situated in the same clearing, and 
told me that he had seen from there the path we would follow 
on the morrow. 

The fire was revived long before daybreak. We turned our 
tea bag inside out and shook it over the kettle so that the 
last atom of tea dust would fall into the boiling water. Then, 
after a brief, purely liquid breakfast, we proceeded straight to 
the place Yongden had marked the day before. It was srill 
dark and snow fell heavily. The path seemed to be nar 
rower than it had been above; but Tibetan  tracks grow as 
the forest makes them, and the forest is a capricious road 
builder. 
We walked painfully until nearly noon, gnd then, to our 
dismay, we realized that we were going in a wrong direction. 
We ran into thickets and steep slopes, with no more traces 
of a path. Had we wandered after having started in the 
right direction? I doubted it. Most likely we had been wrong 
from the beginning, entering one of those trails on which cat 
tle roam in the hills, of which a number are always to be 
found near pasture grounds. Be that as it may, we could but 
retrace our steps to the dokpas encampment. Any attempt to 
look for the track from our present position would but lead us 
still farther astray. 

We had not gone far. Neither the lama, who still used his 
crutch, nor I with my sorely bleeding feet, could progress 
quickly. But far or near, it was the time needed to reach 
our startingpoint that was of importance. The consequence 
of such a mistake for people who had already fasted three days 
was really serious. 

We did not always find our tracks easily. The snow had 
partly effaced them, and Yongden had frequently to rest, which 
caused more delay. 

The ranges which we were crossing were covered with forests 
of hollyoak trees, and reminded me once more of Christmas. 
It was Christmas Eve, and I pictured the joyful agitation of 
so many in Western lands, and the sorrow of too many others 
who do not even receive “the crumbs which fall from the rich 
man’s table.” How far I was from all these things, in that 
solitary woods! I broke a small branch of hollyoak, meaning 
to give it, later on, to a friend of mine, if I escaped from these 
mountains and that snow which seemed determined to keep me. 
But so unexpectedly do things happen, that when I brought 
the holly of the virgin Po forest to the Western land, the man 
for whom it was meant had departed for a still more mysterious 
land than that of the Popas. 

A bowl of hot water was again the only refreshment we 
could get when we arrived at the dokpas hut. I wanted to go 
scouting immediately, for we ought at any rate to avoid another 
mistake the next day. We both began to feel very giddy. We 
heard strange sounds of bells; and although we did not suffer 
many pangs of hunger, it was certain that unless we got some 
food before long, we should lack the strength necessary to reach 
the villages. 

Yongden insisted on going himself to look for the road, while 
I rested near the fire. I yielded to his kind entreaties, and 
the poor fellow started again over the snow, his staff in one 
hand and his crutch under the other arm. 
Time passed. The lack of provisions dispensed with the 
trouble of cooking. I had but to fill the kettle with snow, to 
melt it and boil the water. Then I could lie down and think! 

I fancied a few of my acquaintances in my place. I saw 
some of them swearing at God, the devil, their companions, 
and themselves. I saw others weeping and praying on their 
knees. Most of them, I know, would have blamed my quiet 
ness and that of my young companion. A pali verse sung 
sweetly In my memory : 

‘Happy indeed we live, ainona the anxious unanxious.

It was nearly dark when Yongden returned. This time he 
said that there could be no mistake. He had but faintly seen 
a trail the day before and had taken it for the main path. 
Darkness and snow, when we had started, had prevented us 
from discovering the mistake, which was really an absurd one, 
for the true track, although its entrance was hidden by fir 
trees scattered all around the clearing, was not very difficult to 
find. Nevertheless, he had followed It for quite a long time. 
There was no need to worry about the matter. It was really the 
right one. 

The news was most comforting, but I did not like the look 
of the young man. He was pale, with glowing and feverish 
eyes. He drank two bowls of hot water and immediately fell 
asleep. 

I remained for a while watching him. He was restless and 
from time to time he moaned. Gradually, however, he became 
calmer and I closed my eyes to sleep. 

A noise of steps on the boards and a confused muttering 
awakened me. The dim light of the smouldering embers dis 
closed the lama tottering toward the door, his staff in his hand. 
Where was he going? In.no time I was on my feet. 

“What is the matter with you?” I asked. “Are you ill?” 

“Snow Is heaping up heaping up,” he answered with 
a strange voice, as if dreaming. “We sleep here, and it falls. 
Let us start. It will be too late.” 

He was only half conscious and undoubtedly under the influence of a nightmare. I tried to calm him, to persuade him to lie down again. He did not appear to understand, and was 
lost in his own idea. He wanted to start. I could see that 
he was raving. His hand was burning with fever. It was the 
result of the long tramps in the snow, the fasting, and the pain 
caused by the sprained ankle. 

With sudden violence he reached the door and opened it. 
“Look,” he said, “it snows!” 

Heavy snow was falling. A new white mound could be seen 
blocking the passage which we had cleared several times since 
we had first arrived at the camp. A draught of cold air blew 
into the hut. 

“Do not stay here,” I commanded the lama. “You are ill. 
The cold will make you worse!” 

“We must start, start at once,” he repeated obstinately, and, 
trying to drag me away, he cried: “You will die, Jetsunma! 
Come quick! Comez!” 

I gave him a push, kicked the door shut, and endeavoured 
again to make him lie down near the Are, in spite of his strug 
gles. Fever and the wild idea of saving my life had increased 
the natural strength of the sturdy young fellow. He staggered 
on his bad foot and did not appear to feel the pain. 

What would happen if he succeeded in breaking out? I 
remembered, terrified, that the clearing ended in a precipice 
only a few feet away. 

I succeeded in throwing a few branches on the fire, and 
the sudden bright light" broke the trend of Yongden’s feverish 
vagaries. 
“What? What?. he said, looking around. And he 
no longer resisted my efforts to make him lie down. 

I made a big fire and placed some iresh snow on the young 
man’s head. He then fell asleep 'again, but I dared not relax 
my watch and remained seated the rest of the night. 

Did I doze and dream?. I heard' the feeble jingling of 
a bell, lower down the hill. Who could be travelling in that 
snow, and at that hour?. I listened, fearing that some one 
might enter, but after a time the jingling died away. 

Such was my Christmas Eve in that land of Po. 

When day broke I did not dare to awaken my companion. 
Sleep is a powerful medicine and I placed more faith in it 
than in the few tabloids I carried with me. 

It was already late when he opened his eyes. I saw at once 
that he was better. He had but a faint remembrance of what 
had happened in the night, and thought it was altogether a 
dream. We prepared the hot water that once more constituted 
our breakfast. 
Had we had only a little butter or one or two pinches of 
tsampa to throw in it, we might have felt a trifle refreshed, 
but that plain water, even boiling hot, was nothing of a 
cordial. 

'As I expressed my feelings aloud, ending jocularly with the 
wish that some compassionate mountain god might bring us 
even the smallest piece of butter or fat, Yongden looked at me 
in a peculiar way. 

“What is the matter?” I asked. 

“Well,” he replied, hesitatingly, “if you were not too par 
ticular about the fat, I might be the mountain god.” 

“What do you mean?” 

He laughed. 

“You are somewhat Tibetan  in your ways, but perhaps 
not enough to do what a true Tibetan , in your case, would 
do.”. 

“Go on. Have you something left in your bag?” 

“Yes,” he answered. “A bit of bacon with which I rub the 
soles of our boots to keep them waterproof, and some bits of 
skin a which were left from the new soles I cut the day before 
yesterday.” 

“Throw them all in the pot and add a little salt if there is 
any left,” I ordered, the soul of a true Tibetan  arising in me. 

He did so, and half an hour later we were tasting a turbid 
beverage whose flavour was a matter open to discussion. But 
to a certain extent it satisfied the craving of our empty 
stomachs. 

Christmas merriment continued. 

The weather cleared and the sun appeared shyly soon after 
we had left the dokpas camp. As we descended we found the 
snow less deep. The path continued through thick forests, 
and we met another dokpas encampment, which was not a 
good omen for the nearness of our goal. A little below it, we 
crossed a third feeder of the river Po, a small torrent rushing 
down from the side of the Gotza la. We also saw the path 
which led to the pass itself. 

Neither villages nor fields nor anything that could suggest 
the neighbourhood of human habitations could yet be dis 
covered. Evening would, come soon. Was our fast to 
continue? 

Below the path, in a narrow clearing, I noticed a small hut 
which I pointed out to Yongden. Would it be wise to stop 
there? We had just time to collect some wood before dark 
ness had set in beneath the big trees. To mention food was 
useless. That topic seemed as if it were to become forever 
foreign to us and we were to live like the gods of the ethereal 
regions, feeding on scents and pure air. We grew bewildered. 
We should not reach a village that day. 
 On approaching the hut, we were most astonished to see a 
man standing at its door. This was our first meeting with a 
Popa in his own land, and the strange stories about robbers 
and cannibals that are current all over Tibet about that 
dreaded tribe, rose immediately in our memories. Yet we did 
not show any sign of our thoughts. I simply asked, politely: 
'Kusho [sir], may we be allowed to enter to make a fire?” 

“Come in,” answered the Popa brieily. 

We went down the road, crossed the clearing, and our astonishment became still greater when we saw about a dozen men seated inside the cabin around a fire. What could they be 
doing in the midst of the forest? 

We were politely welcomed. The men manifested extreme 
surprise and looked at one another with an air of mystery 
when they heard that we had crossed the Aigni la. Yongden 
deemed it useless to tell them about our supplementary promenade in the other valley, so that they thought we had come straight down from that pass. 

“Certainly,” they said, “you both have got powerful Po lha a 
and Mo Iha.a Without their help you would have perished in 
the snow, for the pass is now completely blocked.” 

The special heavenly protection which we enjoyed impressed 
the Popas in our favour. A place of honour was given to the 
lama next the fire, and we were invited to produce oUr bowls 
for some tea, while the men apologized for the lack of tsampa 
to eat with it. They had just finished their meal when we 
arrived. Even without tsampa, the generously buttered tea 
refreshed us delightfully. 

After some more enquiries about our country and our pil 
grimages, one who appeared to be a personage of superior rank 
amongst the other Popas asked the lama if he knew the art 
of mos; and all of them appeared greatly pleased when he 
answered that he did. 

What followed was firstrate material for a novelist, and at 
the same time threw some light on a picturesque and interest 
ing side of Tibetan  home politics. 

As nothing, or but very little, is known, in the West, about 
the true condition of Tibet, a few explanations are needed 
here to make the matter understood. 

It is an error to fancy. Tibet as a homogeneous whole under 
Gods of the paternal and maternal ancestors. 

a central government. Outside of the and Tsang provinces, 
the various tribes have always lived in independence under a 
number of petty rulers who were styled gyalpos (kings). During the Chinese suzerainty the imperial officials did not interfere much with these local customs, but since they have been 
driven away by his troops, the Lhasa ruler has undertaken to 
bring under his direct authority the whole of the Tibetan  
territory which has escaped Chinese control. 

Those tribes who have greeted the departure of the Chinese 
officials as meaning entire freedom for them do not feel in the 
least inclined to accept as governors men from Lhasa who lack 
the prestige of the Chinese literati, representatives of the great 
Chinese Emperor, who is, according to lamaist belief, an incar 
nation of the God of Knowledge and Wisdom: Janpeyon!
The Dalai lama is worshipped by them as a spiritually exalted 
personality only, and though some of them may even go as 
far as to bow reverently to him from a distance, they strongly 
resent the appointment of governors or other dignitaries to 
rule over them, and especially their power to tax them and 
carry away to Lhasa the product of their levies. 

So, the inhabitants of Chos Zong had simply stoned their 
governor appointed from the capital, and besieged him in his 
zong, where he had run In haste for shelter. 

The enraged official had, however, been able to flee at night 
from Chos Zong and to dispatch secretly a messenger to ask 
help from the Kalon lama, a kind of Viceroy reigning over 
eastern Tibet, whose seat is at Chiamdo. The men of Chos 
Zong had in their turn learned of the departure of the messen 
ger, and fearing that on the order of the Kalon lama soldiers 
might be dispatched to their country on a punitive expedition, 
they had sent some of their friends to overtake the messenger, 
seize the letter he carried, and "suppress” its bearer. 

Our hosts were notabilities of the proud city which had 
stoned the alien governor. There was no question of cannibalism or of robbery; the lama was merely required to tell 
whether the messenger would be caught. 

The joke this time had a serious side. It might prove dan 
gerous for the seer if his oracle turned out to be wrong. The 
giant fellows seated around the fire were no doubt not easy to 
manage when irritated. My companion 'and I are both short 
of stature, and we looked amongst them like “Tom Thumb” 
of the nursery tales, in the ogre’s den. But in this case the 
ogres numbered fourteen, and although we could almost feel 
confident that they did not eat the flesh of lost travellers, they 
could certainly not be fooled with impunity. 

The lama asked them many questions about the roads which 
the ponpo’s messenger might have followed in order to leave 
the country, and thus I secured a good deal of geographical 
information. We also learned that a man had been dispatched 
toward the Aigni la, but had turned back, and this explained 
the faint jingling of a horse’s bell that I had heard before 
‘daybreak. The man had deemed it useless to proceed farther, 
realizing by the quantity of snow already heaped up at that 
level that the pass must be completely blocked. Therefore 
the astonishment of the Popas had been all the greater when 
they had seen us coming from the other side of the range. 
They enquired again and again if we had seen nobody or no 
traces of steps. But we had truly seen neither, and certainly 
the ponpo's messenger had not taken that road. 

After a good deal of muttering and gesticulation which were 
watched with deep attention by the interested spectators, the 
lama declared something to this effect: “If your men run faster 
than the ponpo’s messenger they will catch him.” But of course 
this was said in oracular style, wrapped in a quantity of solemn 
words and was really very impressive. 

What prompted me, then?. I could not say. The ro 
mance of that political intrigue of the wilds, these William 
Tells of an unez{ffored land, plotting in the heart of the forest 
against a Gessler from Lhasa, may have tempted me and awak 
ened the desire to play a part in the drama. Be that as 
may, in the silence which followed the prophecy of Yongden, 
I pronounced, as if speaking for myself: 

“No harm will be done. All will end well." 

The fourteen conspirators and my astonished companion 
gazed at me dumfounded. 

“What? what?' What does she say?” they asked 
after a while. “Is she a pamoV' 

“Not exactly,” answered Yongden. “My father was a black 
nagspaa and she was his initiated consort.” 

“Indeed! indeed!..” replied some of the Popas. 
Then, huddling themselves closer together, to give me room 
near the fire, they invited me to approach. 

“Do not stay in that corner, tangs Yum. You must feel 
cold. We are sorry that you have come too late to share 
our meal. So, truly, all that trouble will end well for us?” 

“Yakpo chung yong [Good will arise],” I ansv;;cred, then 
gazed into the fire, apparently sunk in profound thought. 

The Popas did not feel very comfortable. I could see it. 
They rejoiced over the favourable oracles, but the company of 
the black nagspa’s yum in the middle of a forest after sunset 
seemed to them rather disturbing. So they took leave, request 
ing the lama to say that they had all gone home, if some one 
should come and ask about them. 

The men had told us that we were not far from a village 
called Cholog, but what appeared a short distance to theae 
sturdy hillmen might be a long one for tired, lame, and ex 
hausted people like ourselves. We had drunk a quantity of 
buttered tea and had received a small piece of butter and a 
handful of tea, and these secured us a liquid breakfast for the 
morrow. It was better to spend the night under shelter. 
We may be certain, I told Yongden, that these Popas 'mil, 
not come back to rob us. They are too busy with their own 
business, and, moreover, they fear me. 
Footnotes here.
 A woman who, during: mediumism trances, is possessed,by a god or a 
demon who speaks thorough her mouth. If the medium is niin he is called 
fawo.
 Nagsfa: A knower of the secret spell, a dreaded kbd of sorcerer. 
 Literally, scret mother.” A polite title to address the mystic consort 
ad helper of a magician or any lama belonging to a Tantric sect. 

The young man agreed, but he did not think that the hut 
was a safe place in which to spend' the night. The followers of 
the ponpo may have learned, he said, that his enemies have 
met here, and come at night to take them by surprise and kill 
them. They could mistake us for those who had stoned their 
master. We risked getting bullets through the door or being 
dragged before an official to explain who we were, or having 
to answer countless other embarrassing questions. 

I could not deny that he was right to a great extent. But 
it was already dark beneath the trees, and, not being acquainted 
with the path, we could easily have met with an accident of 
the same kind as that from which Yongden was still suffering. 
As for being fired at or arrested, this could as well happen 
to us when tramping at night in the forest as in the hut. I 
would stay! 

Once we had decided to stop there, Yongden went into the 
forest to cut wood. I gathered as much as was lying about 
near the cabin, and when I had finished I sat near the fire. 

All of a sudden, without any noise, a head appeared over the 
top of the door, which closed only about threequarters of the 
entrance. 

A man looked hurriedly into the hut and pronounced a few 
words which I did not understand. He did not give me time 
to ask him to repeat them, and disappeared while I shouted, so 
that he might hear it, what the lama had been requested to say: 

“They are all gone!” 

Those could not be, it seemed to me, very compromising 
words, and if some one were looking for the conspiring Popas 
they would not come to trouble us. 

Anyhow, the romance was to continue at the expense of our 
repose. A little later we heard a noise in the bushes, steps 
on the fallen leaves, dry twigs broken under the feet of an 
invisible wanderer. 

Yongden called from the door: “Arau! Arau! [comrade] 
you may come.” 
But no one appeared. I felt inclined to believe that wild 
animals were roaming about, and we threw some stones in the 
direction where the noise was coming from, but this did not 
stop it in the least. This Confirmed Yongden in his opinion 
that human beings and not beasts were there. 

However, as they did not attack us, we left them to their 
business and went back into the hut. We barricaded ourselves 
as well as we could, covered the fire, and lay in a corner where 
we could not be easily seen or fired at through the gap in the 
top of the door. That was all that we could do; and in what 
ever case, when one has done oneas best, worries of any kind 
are superfluous and unwise. 

Thus reflecting, we fell asleep and slept so soundly that the 
sun was already high in the heavens when we awakened. 

We drank a bowl of tea with pleasure, but my tired body 
cried out for some solid food. This was the sixth day of our 
fast, and, without appearing too gluttonous, I can confess that 
we were hungry! 

Cholog, the first village we were to come upon, was not so 
near to the hut as the conspirators had told us the day before. 
We reached it at noon. 

We had at last arrived amongst these Popas, heroes of so 
many strange tales, about whom Yongden and I had spoken 
for years. Up till now all had gone well, and we were full of 
confidence in the future. 

The village was situated in a narrow valley surrounded by 
alpine scenery and partly covered with snow. Neither its 
wooden cottages nor the few people visible had anything espe 
cially threatening about them. 

I felt really safe as to my disguise, after having passed these 
huge mountain ranges. No one would ever think that a foreign 
woman had dared to venture on that road. No one would 
ever suspect the pilgrim tramping over these distant tracks 
on which a white traveller was never seen. This feeling of 
security was a great comfort and allowed me to enjoy tbb 
charm of my adventure more freely. 

We could not begin our wanderings In the land of Po in a 
better way than by going round abegging. It was in accord 
ance both with our programme and our present needs. We 
therefore knocked at the door of ‘the first cottage we found on 
our road. 

When we answered the usual question, “Whence have you 
come?” by saying that we had just crossed the Aigni la, the 
woman who had interrogated us burst into loud exclamations 
which attracted a few neighbours. How could we have come 
through the snow? It was a real wonder! And again the 
unquestionable protection of our Po lha and Mo lha came 
forward. 

We were invited to sit down and produce our bowls, which 
were filled with hot soup. 

Was it good, was it bad? I could not say. I only felt the 
inner animal joy of the starving man at his first contact with 
food, after a long fast. It seemed to me that beings rushed 
up from the depth of my body toward my mouth to feed upon 
the thick mixture of tsampa, water, curd, and turnips that I 
swallowed eagerly. Other good people gave us tsampa and 
a little butter, and taking our bags in hand we went through 
the village to continue our begging. We quickly gathered a 
quantity of tsampa sufficient for two days. As we were now 
in an inhabited country, we could renew our supplies, and did 
not need to load ourselves with heavy bags. Thus we left 
Cholog and followed the river downwards. 

We had left the village, when a strange idea took root in my 
brain. That soup which we had eaten , the woman had taken 
it out of a pot standing In a corner behind an open door. 

Why had that earthen pot been put in such a place?. • 
Could it be?. •. No. I revolted at the mere thought of it. 
And yet in a corner behind the door. 

I turned toward my companion. 
‘Gelong lags' I said, very politely. “Methinks we have 
eaten the dog’s soup.” 

The lama, who was enjoying the pleasant sensation of excellent digestion, started: 

“What do you say? What, dog’s soup?” 

I explained to him calmly the particulars on which my suspicion was grounded. He turned pale, the expression of his 
face reminding me of those one sees among the passengers on a steamer’s decks in rough weather. 

Then, amongst the details of our meal, I remembered that 
to fill our bowls our benefactress had dipped in the soup a ladle 
which was hanging near the hearth, with the kitchen utensils. 
A Tibetan  would never touch the dog’s soup with a ladle 
used in cooking. I could therefore be certain that the soup 
was men’s food, and I reassured the trembling lama. 

“What a fright you have given me!” he said, laughing. 

“What a fool you are!” I answered. “Men’s or dog’s, the 
soup refreshed you. Why make yourself unhappy and sick 
over a mere idea?” 

“I fear,” replied Yongden, “that under your hermit masters’ 
guidance you have made too much progress in the thul shugsj 
In the future I shall carefully examine the contents of our 
pot when you make our broth.” 

“I hope I shall not have to fill it again with bootleather 
broth as you have done.” 

The good soup that I had so unjustly calumniated kept us 
jolly. 

We were proceeding in that gay mood when we saw three 
welldressed and handsome men coming toward us across the 
fields. Long hair falling freely on their shoulders, fur robes, 
cloth vests in shades of warm green and dark red, beautiful 
swords with jewelled sheaths stuck in their belts, they looked 
vaguely like those knights of yore one sees in old paintings. 
The mystic landscape of fir trees in the background, the clear 
river, and the narrow path that wound through the fields 
added still more to the impression. It made me think of the 
Memling paintings I had seen in my youth in Belgian galleries. 

They politely requested the lama to make some mos about 
the very same affair on which he had already been con 
sulted the day before, in the forest.. The men sent after the 
Governor’s messenger had not yet come back. Had they 
caught him, or not? It appeared that the whole country felt 
greatly concerned about the matter. Yongden told them that 
the gods had already been consulted and that it was neither 
fit nor prudent to trouble them again. Still, he could say that, 
according to his previous vio, all things would end well. The 
two knights seemed satisfied, and with a most graceful dignity, 
went back to their houses near by. 

A few minutes later a villager passed us and stopped my 
companion to ask a mo about some private business; and, as 
the latter satisfied him, a lama rode by on a horse and, having 
alighted, requested the same kind offices from his humble 
pedestrian colleague. 

Human credulity, be it in the East or in the West, has no 
limits. In India, the Brahmins have for centuries kept their 
countrymen to the opinion that offering presents to those be 
longing to their caste, and feeding them, was a highly meri 
torious religious work. Nowadays this cunning old device has 
taken in its snare the very ones who invented it, and on vari 
ous occasions Brahmins are compelled by the custom to give 
gifts to other Brahmins. In the same way, a Tibetan  lama, 
adept in ritual, cannot perform the magic rites for his own 
benefit and must rely on the wellremunerated services of a 
colleague. 

Hermits (Gompehen) alone can escape. Some of them have 
completely renounced all religious ceremonies, whereas others 
condescend to oblige the believers who beg their help, but 
never perform any rites on their own behalf, or ask anyone 
else to do so. 
The views of these lonely ascetics and the teachings they 
impart to those whom they take as disciples are interesting in 
many respects, and may be a revelation to those who consider 
Tibet a land of benighted savages. But to return to Yong 
den, I must say that although they are more numerous and 
more powerful, as members of the State Church, the lamas who 
belong to the “Yellow Cap” sects acknowledge the superiority 
of their brethren in the various “Red Cap” sects in all questions more or less connected with magic and occult science. 
Humble and dirty as it was, my companion’s red hat enjoyed 
much success. 

A contribution of tsampa and butter entered our bags as 
a result of the delivery of these various oracles. Truly the 
beginning of our adventure in the country of the dreaded Popas 
was quite encouraging. 

We soon entered a narrow, dark gorge, and being tempted 
by the provisions we carried, we thought of taking a rest for 
a while, and eating some barley flour and butter. We were 
already seated on the trunk of a fallen tree when a man passed 
and advised us to proceed quickly because we were still a long 
way from the nearest village and the road was anything but 
safe. Robbers, he said, roamed In the region even during the 
day and were much more to be feared after dark. 

The news agreed with what we had been told about Po yul. We 
started immediately, our revolvers in readiness under our dresses. 

The sun had set when we reached the end of the gorge. 

There three wide valleys opened and their very large inter 
section wa$ entirely cultivated. Farms were seen here and 
there, and a cluster of houses forming a hamlet. The valley 
on the opposite side of the river led to Chos Zong, where there 
is an important lamasery, the very place where the Lhasa 
mandate had been stoned. 

We crossed a bridge, wellbuilt, although Jt had no breast 
work, and were allowed to spend the night in the mill room of 
a small isolated farm which was extremely clean. As a rule, 
the place where grain is ground is thie cleanest in a Tibetan  
house, and very often only the inmates are allowed to entera 
it, for fear lest it be defiled by strangers.' 
footnote.Professional beggars are more or less considered as impure, although 
the system of castes does not really exist in Tibet. As for travellers, 
they may, so think the Tibetans, have Come into touch with impure 
objects or be accompanied by evil spirits. 

Our hosts sent us a few pieces of dry cow dung to light a 
fire, but refused to give or even to sell us enough fuel to cook 
a meal. I went outside, along the river and in the fields, 
gathering whatever branches I could find. When I came back, 
Yongden had some visitors, and the.question of the Governor, his messenger, the men sent after him, etc. was once 
more the topic. 
Other people appeared later on, and requested from our host 
a contribution in grain to feed a party of armed Popas who 
were mustering to go somewhere , we were not admitted into 
confidence as to their destination. It looked as if the country 
were rising. The next morning some more armed fellows came 
to the lama for mos about the Governor, who had succeeded in 
fleeing from Chos Zong and had taken refuge in another lama 
sery at Sung Zong. 

Spies of both parties were certainly wandering through the 
country, such being the Tibetan  custom. We might be taken 
for spies ourselves, and get into trouble. We therefore re 
crossed the river, and strode away, endeavouring to put Sung 
Zong behind us as soon as possible. 

Pilgrims returning from the holy Pemakoichen mountains 
called us to drink tea on the road and made us a little present. 
We again crossed the Polung tsangpo and proceeding now on 
its right bank, we entered a narrow gorge where I met with a 
peculiar accident. I merely knocked my toes against a stone 
sticking out of the ground and did not hurt them, but felt 
such terrible pain in the bowels that I nearly fainted. I re 
mained lying on the ground for quite a long time, incapable of 
standing, and as a comical element was never absent in even 
our most unpleasant adventures, Yongden did not dare to 
throw water on my face when he saw that I was fainting, lest 
it should remove the accumulated dirt and special makeup
that constituted a part of my disguise. 

The enthusiastic opinion which we formed of the Popas, 
after our first meeting with them, did not last more than a 
single day. 

That evening on emerging from a gorge we saw the valley 
suddenly widen. A number of farms were scattered over the 
fields, and near the road. we noticed two or three halfruined 
and abandoned houses. I proposed to Yongden that we stay 
for the night in one of these tumbledown habitations, but he 
objected, with reason, that the fire which we should light would 
attract the attention of the villagers, and that undesirable visi 
tors might call on us. 

As we thought it imprudent to spend the night alone in the 
vicinity of the village, we had to beg shelter somewhere, and 
we thus made a real acquaintance with the Popas’ hospitality. 

At the first farm a young shepherd left his flocks as soon 
as he caught sight of us, and ran as for his life, to inform the 
inmates of the house that arjopas were coming. Instantly 
doors and windows were closed and no one answered when 
we called and shouted outside. All had been done so quickly 
and so artlessly that it was really amusing. I nearly laughed 
aloud, but as such gaiety would not have fitted my disguise, I 
endeavoured to appear sad whilst proceeding to another farm. 

“We were wrong,” said Yongden, “to go to such a small 
cottage. Poor people have none too much for themselves, and 
fear the beggars because they have nothing to give. On the 
other hand, they do not like to refuse alms to a lama pilgrim, 
for it is ‘a bad deed, so they cleverly manage to avoid seeing 
him. Did you not notice that they fastened the door and the 
blinds without looking outside? They may even have made a 
pretence of not hearing me when I shouted at them, or they 
may have said amongst themselves: 'Here is one of those 
rascals wfio imitate the lama’s way of begging to deceive house 
holders.’ aaathe cunning ones are blameless, since they pre 
tend not to knbw that a lama was at their door. What a wonderful trick!. 

“Let us go to a rich farm!” 

At the chukpos (rich man) house no one shut the doors, 
but five "big dogs were allowed to attack us freely. While I 
worked hard with my ironspiked staff to keep the beasts away, 

Yongden endeavoured to express his request loudly enough to 
be heard above the furious barking of animals. Nobody answered at first. Then a young womap appeared on the flat roof and asked us many questions, without ordering the dogs to 
leave us. Yongden answered with angelic patience, while I 
continued the fight around him. Her curiosity satified, the 
woman retired inside the upperstory apartment to report to 
the nepo about us and our request. This lasted another good 
ten minutes, and finally she came back bringing a negative an 
swer. We were not allowed to enter the house! 

Tibetans, like many other people, are very much like sheep. 
The traveller may be certain that if he is refused hospitality by 
one farmer, all the other villagers who may happen to know it 
will close their doors to him. We had not the least chance 
of success in the vicinity of the owner of the ferocious dogs. 

We went away, already resigned to walking a few more 
hours, and if we did not come to any village on our way, to 
sleep hidden in the woods. But the last house at the end of the 
cultivated area happened to present a good appearance. Just 
as we passed, a woman opened the door of the cattle pen to 
let the cows in. Yongden begged that we might be allpwed 
to stay inside the farm until the next morning. As he was 
speaking with her, another woman appeared at a window, and 
he repeated his request. 

The answer was that the permission of the master of the 
house was needed, and that she would ask him. 

After a while, the same woman came down with a plate of 
tsampa, sent by the nepo, who did not wish to receive us. 

We do not ask tsampa” explained Yongden. “We only 
want netsang.a We will eat our own food and trouble nobody 
for alms. Let us only come inside.’ 

The woman returned upstairs with the flour, and very prob 
ably the fact that we had refused it inclined the nepo to be 
lieve in our respectability. We were admitted into an exceed 
ingly clean and wellbuilt room such as I have seen only in the 
dwellings of quite upperclass Tibetans. A servant lighted 
the fire and gave us a plentiful supply of wood. Our opinion 
of the Popas, which had fallen very low after the experiences 
at the other farms, rose a little. We cooked some soup, and 
while eating it we had an Interesting talk about the economical 
and political conditions of the country with a man who belonged 
to another part of Tibet, but who had settled in Po yuL. The 
nepo came also with several women, and Yongden had to comply with the usual requests for mos. 

One of the women noticed a turquoise which the lama had 
hung to the rosary he wore around his neck. Like coral and 
pearl, turquoise Is a very prized part of Tibetan  jewellery. 
But what goes under the name of yu (turquoise) in Tibet is 
seldom genuine. It Is mostly polished malachite, or even some 
gross imitation made in China. The stone in Yongdenas rosary 
was of a pretty colour. It greatly pleased the women, who 
examined it again and again. Finally one of them wished to 
buy it, but with the cunning of peasants in every country, 
she tried to take advantage of our apparent needy condition 
to acquire It practically for nothing, and her friends did their 
utmost to help her. 

It was quite amusing to hear them talking about imaginary 
dangers, thieves along the road which we were to follow, and 
how food would be more useful to poor travellers than a use 
less precious stone. There was no one amongst them who 
did not recognise the spiritual superiority of an ordained lama. 
They would not have failed to ask his services in case of Illness, 
death, or epidemic among the cattle. They would have called 
on him to bless the harvest or the house, and to make mosa 
but, nevertheless, they endeavoured, with all the cleverness 
they possessed, to cheat the poor holy one delivered by Fate , 
as they believed , into their hands. 

The lama refused to accept the price offered, and as I knew 
that he had inherited some really fine turquoises on his father’s 
death, I thought that this was one of them which he was 
carrying with him. 

Was it the talk about robbers, or the many mos he had made, 
or other causes that troubled Yongden’s sleep? 

I was suddenly awakened in the night by a rather loud 
exclamation. 

“Where is the gun?” said the lama. “They have taken my 
gun!” and some incomprehensible muttering followed. 

At first I did not realise that he was dreaming aloud. I 
quickly extended my hand toward the two revolvers which 
we had, as usual, hidden with our money under the tent 
spread over us as a blanket in Tibetan  fashion. (I have already said that poor Tibetan  travellers do not undress to 
sleep. The covering allowed us to part with our heavy belts 
containing the money. When we thought it unsafe to use it 
for fear that so much cloth might awake our hostsa cupidity 
and thus endanger our safety, we were compelled to keep these 
belts, as well as our arms, under our dresses. Their weight on 
the breast during a whole night was, I need scarcely say, most 
tiring and unpleasant. It often prevented me from sleeping. 

Our revolvers and belts were there, but the young man con 
tinued to speak aloud. 

There were two people beside ourselves in the room: the 
strange man and his Po wife. Our companions might awake, 
throw a piece of resinous wood on the fire to get a light to see 
what was the matter. Even if convinced that the lama was 
dreaming, they might persuade themselves that his dream had 
roots in something real and that we were really hiding a gun. 
Knowing the passion of all Tibetans for firearms, I was 
afraid that anything might happen if our hosts happened to 
suspect that we owned one. To what extreme means would 
they not go to secure it? 

I gently pushed the dreamer. But it was no use; he con 
tinued to twaddle about the gun. I then crawled close to 
him and shook him, whispering in his ear to be quiet. The 
poor fellow was tired and enjoyed the sound sleep of youth. 
He did not awake, although he opened his eyes. I gave him 
a slap. I blew on his face. I did not known what to do to 
silence him! At last he turned on one side and ceased his 
muttering. Already our companions moved in their corner. 
I took our belts and the revolvers, and buckled them all hastily 
under my dress, so that no sign of them could be seen if some 
one made a light and came over to us to enquire about the 
meaning of the noise. 

I did not dare to slee]3 again, and watched Yongden till a 
little before daybreak, when ne awakened. 

While we were drinking our morning tea, two women came 
again to try to buy the turquoise, and after we had taken 
leave and were proceeding on our way, the one who wanted 
it ran after the lama awith a small piece of butter and some 
tsampa. Still thinking that the yu was one of his genuine 
stones, I scoffed at the silly female who believed that she could 
acquire a beautiful stone at such small expense. But in order 
to prevent any of her male relatives or friends from following 
us with the desire of getting the precious jewel still cheaper, 
I added: '‘My son is a pure gelong. He forgets too often that 
his father was a nagspa, as his elder brother still is in our 
country. That yu has been hung on his father’s totrenga and 
anyone who is not connected with the ngags will find to his cost 
the result of wearing it. All but an initiated nagspa, or a 
nagspaas near relative. Is na mi theta to It, and would die If 
he became its owner.” 

This was sufficient to cool the coquettish person. She under 
stood that the turquoise was definitely out of her reach. Per 
haps she considered herself lucky to have been informed of 
the danger of wearing it. Perhaps, at the bottom of her heart, 
she regretted the niggardliness which had prevented her from 
acquiring it, when she could have hung the skyblue stone at 
her ear or on her neck without suspecting Its origin. 

She went silently away, carrying back with her the butter 
and the tsampa. ft 

"Why should you sell your turquoise?” I asked Yongden. 
"We do not need money. It is better to keep it and give it, 
later on, to one of your relatives.” 

A peculiar exprmion meaning that one is not worthy of the object 
of which he use, and that he cannot bear a special power or 
dignity. 
"They do not care for such yu," he answered, laughingly. 
“What? They do not like turquoise?'’ 

“Yes, they do genuine ones.” 

“But this?” 

“It is an imitation from China. The tsampa and butter 
would have been a good price for it.” 

And I had taken it as genuine, as, of course, had the woman 
at the farm! Anyhow, that kind of fun was not to be repeated. 
It would have been too absurd to get into trouble with robbers, 
and be killed for a supposed precious stone of which one could 
purchase about a pound for less than twenty cents. The tur 
quoise was therefore removed from the rosary. 










CHAPTER VI.

Having crossed a dense forest, we reached the neighs 
bourhood of Sung Zong a few days later. 

A reading of the whole Khagyur had taken place in a village, at the conclusion of which the 108 big volumes, loaded 
on yaks, were taken back to the monastery by a few country 
folk. Amongst these an old woman ambled leisurely, walking 
at a slack pace before her hairy bullock, which enjoyed an 
occasional graze. The good grandmother chatted with us, and 
seeing that I was eating dry tsampa as I went along, she pro 
duced a piece of bread out of her amphaga and gave it to me. 

Who could tell in what strange and dirty places that bread 
had been? Of course, I could not refuse it, and I was even 
compelled to make a pretence of eating it. But the first morsel 
was far from being unpalatable , quite the contrary. I quickly 
overcame my disgust, and with the solid appetite of a way 
farer I ate the last crumb of it. 

We came upon Sung Zong as I was finishing this rustic deli 
cacy. Groups of houses forming hamlets were scattered hither 
and thither. The lamasery itself stood isolated on a sniall 
hillock, between the Po and Nagong rivers. The latter emerges 
from a valley that opens behind the lamasery, and the ranges 
which bound it. This provides a commanding background for 
the insignificant buildings of the large monastery. 

Although Sung Zong is one of the most important places 
of the Po country, and is of considerable geographical inter 
est, being at the junction of two large rivers, it has not yet 
been charted on the maps. The whole region Is still terra
incognita to geographers, and I could not but deeply regret 
that the odd disguise I had been compelled to assume pre 
vented me from gathering the few observations that my modest 
ability would have allowed me to make. 

In all my travels, including this last journey, I have been 
uncommonly successful in my search for documents pertain 
ing to the field of my own studies, and I should have 
been glad to do something that would prove of interest to 
others in different fields of knowledge. If I have failed, the 
fault is not mine. During the whole period of my stay in 
Chinese Tibet my movements were closely watched by the 
spies of the border posts. The Lhasa officials In charge of 
them had received strict orders to prevent me from entering 
the part of Tibet under British influence. My small baggage, 
containing some instruments and requisites for plain scientific 
work, which I had once tried to smuggle Into the country, led 
to my detection, and I was stopped on my way.a Under such 
circumstances it only remained for me to start as I did, empty 
handed. 
I enjoyed too much these months of free life to entertain 
unkind feelings toward those who forced upon me the hard 
ships and dangerous risks of my pilgrimage as a beggar. I 
feel rather grateful to them for having led me to that wonder 
ful experience. Yet one cannot but lament the fact that such 
efforts are hindered and not allowed to bear their full fruit. 

It is beyond the scope of the present book to deal with geographical matters. Nevertheless a few words may be of interest. 

I have already mentioned that the region around the upper 
course of the river Po is unsurveyed. Maps mistake the 
Nagong for it, but the former has its source farther to the 
southeast. 

No one Is to be blamed for this error, as no white traveller 
has ever gone up the river higher than Showa, which is situ 
ated far from Sung Zong, downstream. If I am not mistaken, 
only one English officer has visited the former place. 

The Nagong springs from the foot of a small pass, near a 
monastery called Dugang, in the range that divides the basin 
of the Salween from that of the Brahmaputra. On the opposite 
side of the pass flows jthe Daishin River, which joins the 
Salween. 

As the Nagong is an important stream, some might like to 
discuss the question as to which of the two rivers that unite at 
Sung Zong is the main one, and which is the tributary. But 
the natives have answered this definitely. The river formed 
by the three streams which I discovered on my way to Po yul 
they call the Po. One of these three comes, as I have said, 
from the Po Gotza pass. 

Above Sung Zong, the river Po receives two important tribu 
taries emerging from wide valleys, the upper one leading to 
Chos Zong and the second in the direction of Chundo, where 
is situated the parent monastery of the two large lamaseries 
of Chos Zong and Sung Zong. 

The maps of that region, which have been drawn from re 
ports and not actual surveys, indulge in many fancies which are 
faithfully copied in successive editions. Amongst them is the 
invention of a town called Pozong. In reality Po Zong means 
“the fortress of the Po country It is a title rather than a 
name, almost like our own word “Capital.’a But the Popas do 
not agree as to which of their towns is entitled to bear it. 
While the people of Pomed (the lower Po) declare that Pozong 
is Showa, where the King of Po has his residence, the inhabit 
ants of Potod (the upper region, extending downstream along 
the river Po as far as Dashin) affirm that the Pozong is 
Chundo. 

This is not the only peculiarity offered by the maps of 
Tibet. In fact, in most parts of the north and the east they 
are of but little use to travellers, if indeed they are of any use 
at all. The names written on them seldom correspond to 
those one hears from the natives. The rivers and mountain 
ranges are not really in the places they are shown to be, and a 
number of them are completely ignored, as are also the roads 
with the exception of a few main tracks. 

Geographers arc wanted on that side of the globe , geographers and other scientists. For I doubt if any land is more wonderful than that unknown and still forbidden Tibet! 

The most annoying but unavoidable necessity of revictualing 
delayed us at Sung Zong. 

The environs of the monastery were full of animation. 
Country people could be seen moving hither and thither, lead 
ing yaks or horses loaded with wood, meat, or grain. Petty 
chiefs rode amongst them giving orders with an important and 
busy mien. Trapas also ran to and fro, in and out of the gate 
of the gompa. From the distant spot from which I witnessed 
this agitation, the lamasery with its unwhitened mud houses 
seemed an anthill occupied by diligently working insects. 

The fugitive official had taken refuge at Sung Zong, and 
wherever a chief stays, the inhabitants of the region are not 
only compelled to feed him, his retainers, servants and beasts, 
but also to offer him daily presents. This explained the procession of poor ants going to fill the storerooms of the ponpoas household. 

The prophecy with which I had surprised and gratified the 
conspirators in the forest cabin, was nearing its fulfilment. 
Several great lamas had intervened as peacemakers between 
the offended Governor and the braves of Chos Zong. One 
of them had passed by us while we were eating, seated near 
a stream. 

Looking at the pretty procession of riders clad in gold bro 
cade and brightyellow satin, with their darkred travelling 
coats and zensa we had entirely forgotten that humble folk 
such as ourselves ought at least to stand up to show our 
respect. The great lama, who was a young man, did not 
appear offended, and smiled at his less fortunate brother in the 
Order, who had become indescribably ragged by this time. 
The Tibetan  servants, always more arrogant than their mas 
ters, looked at us angrily. But the Tulkua had smiled and 
they had to refrain from beating us, as they would have 
enjoyed doing. 

Yongden remained abput three hours at the gompa. He 
met some nice obliging trapas who gave him goods in addition 
to the provisions he had purchased, such as a liberal amount 
of bread, and dried apricots. Such kind treatment gave him 
no chance of shunning the long chat which Tibetans enjoy 
a much, or of refusing to drink the tea so cordially offered. 
Thus time passed quickly (and rather pleasantly) for my com 
panion, but rather dully for me, who remained seated with our 
a wild and barren spot swept by a piercingly cold wind. 
For company I had first a few children minding cattle, who 
came to sit near me. I learned a few things worth knowing 
from their candid mouths! After them came a welltodo 
traveller, accompanied by several servants. He stopped to 
ask for whom I was waiting, as he saw my two loads and so 
understood that I had a companion. 

I told him that my son, a gelong, had gone to the monastery. 
This looked quite respectable, and the man dismounted to ask 
me more questions about my native land and other topics. 

At that time I had again adopted a new mother country, 
the faroff Ngari. The traveller had only heard about It, but 
he had once been to Shigatze, the capital of the Tsang province. 
As I had stayed there some years before, I was quite at ease 
in discussing it, and the man having seated himself on the 
ground, we had a pleasant chat together, in which the servants 
joined. He was coming from the Kongbu province and car 
ried some cakes of dried molasses, of which he gave me two. 
When the lama returned proudly with his provisions, and 
boasted of the presents he had received, I enjoyed puzzling 
him with my two sugar cakes, which I said that a lhamo (god 
dess) had given me. 

The country which we entered soon after leaving Sung Zong, 
mustaWfithout doubt be admirable in all seasons, but winter had 
now tranisformed it into a bewitching fairyland. For miles 
we proceeded under cover of gloomy, silent, and mysterious 
forests. Then, an unexpected clearing suddenly revealed, behind 
the dark line of tall fir trees,.extraordinary landscapes of 
shining snowclad mountains, towering high in the blue sky, 
frozen torrents and glittering waterfalls' hanging like gigantic 
and immaculate curtains from the rugged rocks. We looked at 
them, speechless and enraptured, wondering If we had not 
reached the confines of the human world and were confronted 
with the abode of some genii. But as we continued on our 
way the forest again surrounded us, and the vision disappeared. 
Yet tomorrow or the day after a new fantastic apparition 
would rise before us In the same instantaneous way! 

I tarried long In that beautiful region, making long devia 
tions from the direct road, walking leisurely during the day, 
sleeping generally in the open, at the foot of a tree or in a cave 
when lucky enough to discover one on my road at the time 
of camping. But the beauty of nature was not the only object 
of interest offered by Po yu. 

We did not always spend the night in the forest. On reach 
ing hamlets. Isolated farms, or monasteries, we often begged 
hospitality. Sometimes it happened that we were forbidden 
to enter. More than once we had to defend ourselves against 
dogs left loose to keep us away; and with utmost gravity we 
sometimes discussed the degree of ferocity of the canine 
watchers of the different places we passed. We had been given 
enough opportunities to make a study of it! Other selfish 
people answered our request by saying that there was a sick 
person in the house, and this was equivalent to a strict prohibition to approach It. 

A superstition, having nothing to do with the desire to avoid 
the propagation of diseases, is at the bottom of this custom. 
Tibetans, as I have already mentioned, never believe that any 
illness or accident has a natural cause. These are considered 
as the work of evil spirits, which are hunting for the vital 
principles of the beings to enslave them or feed upon them 
A strong and healthy person is supposed to be more difficult 
to catch and kill than one already debilitated by sickness, 
just as a swift deer is a harder match for the hunter than 
a lame or already wounded one. 

Now, Tibetans suspect all travellers coming from afar of 
being accompanied by devils,a so that, if introduced In the 
house where a man is ailing, undesirable and invisible visitors 
could enter it In their train. 

Needless to say, the cunning Tibetans often take advan 
tage of this superstition to shut their doors even when all the 
inmates enjoy perfect health. I once terribly frightened a 
woman who used this excuse to send us away. Before she 
closed the blinds of her only window I had had time to 
peep inside and to see that no one was lying down. Then, 
assuming an inspired air, I exposed her lie and prophesied 
that, as she had falsely told saintly pilgrims that one of her 
family was ill, real sickness would indeed come on her house. 
This declaration was accompanied by brief choregraphic exercises in which I shook the lap of my large dress as if I were liberating a host of devils who had been sheltered in it. The 
comedy ended with a present of butter which the selfish house 
wife, who was now weeping, offered us. She also begged us 
to spend the night under her roof, but we refused. Still, to 
console her, Yongden blessed the small farm from outside to 
charm away the sickness I had foreseen. It may be that my 
performance has benefited, in the course of time, some tired 
and hungry arjopa to whom the woman has not dared to refuse 
hospitality. 

But all doors were not closed to us. Far from it! This 
gave me most interesting opportunities of witnessing from the 
inside, as we had done along the upper Salween Valley, the life 
and customs of the inhabitants. Familiar talks allowed me to 
study their peculiar mentality, their views and beliefs. I heard 
witty stories and terrifying legends. Thanks to the time I 
had allowed for slow progress and wandering at random, I 
was also quite unexpectedly favoured with two unforgettable 
meetings, most valuable for my observations on Tibetan  mysticism. However, for the present, I must confine myself to the brief outline of my adventures of travel, putting aside the 
more special topics which will find their place elsewhere. 

The first important place we reached after Sung Zong was 
called Dashin. It is the seat of a large monastery. 

The day before we arrived there, we met on the road two 
villagers, husband and wife, who had bought a cow somewhere 
and were leading it to their house at Dashin. As was nearly 
always the case when coming in touch with people, Yongden 
was requested to make mos about some land business. We 
walked several hours with the pair, and as we stopped to 
drink tea, they went on ahead, promising a hearty welcome 
in their home. However, toward the end of the afternoon, 
while crossing a village, we saw the cow tied before a door, 
and its owner shouted at us from the threshold, a‘Go slowly. 
We will join you soon!” But evening came and the peasants 
did not appear. We understood they were spending the night 
at their friendsa house. It was too late to beg hospitality 
at the first village we reached. People were certainly asleep 
and would not open their doors. The Incident did not trouble 
us in the least, for by that time we had become quite accus 
tomed to remaining at night in the open. We found a pit in 
the forest and lay in it with our baggage; and, as patches of 
snow were to be seen here and there, we spread our tent over 
us in the old way. The sky generously came to our assistance 
and sprinkled real snow on our sham snow during our sleep. 
We were therefore really well hidden, and kept warm all 
the night. 

The next day, after having passed a village, we stopped to 
take our breakfast on the bank of a wide mountain stream. 
We were just finishing when the couple appeared with their 
cow. They explained that they had been delayed and had 
slept at their friendsa house, and pressed us to proceed with 
them to their house.' We went together, and very likely out 
of the desire to get payment of their hospitality beforehand
they asked Yongden to make mos again, about various affairs, 
even while walking. 'One of the mos concerned the health of 
a man very seriously ill, Would he still be alive, or not, 
when the two villagers reached Dashin? 

Although he was, as a rule, a seer full of prudence, Yong 
den was bored by the' importunity of the peasants, and said 
bluntly, “He is dead!”  

I could not tell whether the news brought them sorrow or 
pleasure. We did not know if they were the anxious heirs of 
the supposed departed one, or his loving relatives. At any 
rate, they spoke together in a low tone, and then kept silent. 

About half an hour later, a man passed us, coming from 
Dashin. Our companions at once asked about the fate of the 
sufferer. 
“He Is much better,” was the answer. 
The prestige of the lama fell immediately, and when the 
golden roof of the Dashin monastery emerged from the forest, 
those who were to be our hosts went their way without taking 
any more notice of us. 

We did not attempt to follow them or try In any way to 
claim the hospitality which they had promised us. We really 
cared very little for it. It was indeed a happy time in my 
life when the many nights spent in the open had freed me 
from concern about shelter and the like! 

The place where we had been abandoned was a pretty one, 
half smiling, half austere. The lamas of Dashin had evidently felt, as I did, the peculiar beauty of the spot, for they had built several Tsam Khanga there, high above the road, against a rocky diff. The small white houses of the reduses appeared as if hung on the black rock, while a few daring  fir trees, which had taken root in some crevices, framed the whole dust of ascetic dwellings. 

'These houses are called Tsavv Khang because the recluses 
remain isolated behind their closed doors as if a barrier had 
been erected around them, to be crossed by no one. 

Any lama who is above the common lot is expected to spand, 
at least once in his life, a period of a little over three years in 
such a retreat, and, in addition, one month or more yearly. 
These periods of retreat are called Tsam, and the recluse 
Tsam'pa. There are many varieties of Tsamy more or less 
severe as to the strictness and length of the reclusion. Between 
the lama, who merely shuts himself in a Tsam Khang or even 
in his own apartment, and who, although he does not receive 
visitors, sees freely a number of attendants who wait upon 
him, and the one who dwells in complete darkness and silence, 
receiving his food through a double wicket, there exist many 
degrees. 

Besides Tsam Khangs there exist in Tibet riteuSy which are 
a more remote kind of hermitage, to which the still stricter 
ascetics resort. Details about them cannot be given in the 
present book. I must leave them for a future publication. 
Indeed, this world of the Tibetan  mystics is a mystery in the 
mystery of Tibet, a strange wonder in a wonderland country. 
Very possibly Tibet will soon cease to be forbidden ground, 
but one may doubt if the secret of its Tsam Khang and riteuSy 
the aims of their dwellers and the results they achieve, will 
ever be disclosed to the many. 

I sat in the meadow near a huge erratic boulder, and enjoyed 
weaving fancies about the men hidden from me behind the 
white walls of their miniature dwellings. During this time a 
large party of neskorpas passed me. They had visited Lhasa 
on a pilgrimage, and were on their way to their homes in the 
Nu valley. Yongden and I endeavoured to get information 
about the road and the country they had crossed, but we got 
very few interesting details. These poor villagers or members 
of the low clergy do not take the least interest in what they 
see on their way. They walk like cattle, without even noticing 
the road which they follow. Most of them are certainly not 
brightminded, but it may be said in their defence that the 
fatigue caused by the long daily tramps with a heavy load on 
the back and scanty 'food tends to benumb the mental facul 
ties.' I have experienced ihls myself and once had to struggle 
with all my might against a kind of overpowering dullness, 
which would have made me walk in as bovine a fashion as 
these poor pilgrims. 
On nearing the monastery I remarked, standing at some dis 
tance, the man and the woman whom we had met on the road. 
They looked at us shyly, though intently. 
“They are not bad fellows, after all,” I said, pointing them 
out to Yongden. “I am certain that they repent having abandoned us, and now wish to keep their promise.” 
The lama cast a glance at the couple. 
“The sick man has died,” he declared. 

“How do you know?” I asked, with astonishment. 

“It is not difficult to understand,” replied my companion. 
“Have you not noticed how humble their attitude is and how 
different from their manner on the road? They fear to have 
offended a great prophet, and dread the evil consequences of 
their rudeness. That means that they have found the man 
dead on their arrival.” 

Perhaps this pessimistic opinion was, after all, justified. I 
never knew. 

Yongden walked with a dignified gait toward the monas 
tery, without giving as much as a glance at the anguished pair, 
and I sat on the stones bordering the avenue which passed 
along the river below the gompa. 

Although it was not built on a summit, the deep river wind 
ing at its feet and the rocky headland which confronts it from 
across the green water, surround the lamasery with a pretty 
and romantic landscape to which the gilded dome, emerging 
above the old walls of the enclosure, adds a peculiar character. 
Behind the monastery, a wide cultivated valley opens out. A 
track follows it, and leads to southern Tibet, across several 
passes. This trail has branches, some of which reach the bor 
ders of India in Assam, on the banks of the Brahmaputra, while 
others take the traveller to China or to Burma. On the opposite 
shore of the Polung Tsangpo, a short distance from Dashin, 
yet another track runs northward through the hills, touching the main road from Chiamdo to JLhasa. This gives access to several roads leading to the “Land of Grass,” to Jakyendo, 
the market town situated on the route of the tea caravans. 
Then, proceeding still farther north, one can reach the great 
SinoTibetan  markets of Sining and Dankar, in Kansu. Continuing the journey, one arrives in Mongolia. All the northern part of this track, beyond the Chiamdo road, is familiar to me. 
In any other country, a place situated in such a favourable 
geographical location would have become an important centre. 
The divers roads which converge there would have been duly 
improved, if not as cart roads, at least as good mule paths. 
But in Tibet no one gives a thought to such questions, and 
Dashin is but a village. 

As I was seated by the side of the river, several people 
passed, and amongst them were some women going to cut 
wood in the forest which we had crossed on our way. They 
stopped to question me. I told them I was waiting. for my son, 
who had gone to the monastery, and we enjoyed a short chat 
together. 

Yongden remained very long at the gompa. He had by 
chance met a monk coming from the same land where his 
greatgrandfather had been a “Red Cap” married lama of rank. 
He knew a number of people there, if not all personally, at 
least by name; and although he had not heard about them for 
years, he satisfied the eager curiosity of his brother in the 
Order and gave him news of everybody and of everything. 
Such a lucky meeting could not pass in Tibet without eating 
and drinking. While her “son” enjoyed the clerical company 
behind the wall where women were forbidden,a the “old 
mother,” after the sun had set began to feel rather cold, 
seated on the stones telling her beads. 

 Women are only allowed to enter the monasteries of the "Yellow Cap” 
sect on certain religious festival days, and even then must retire outside of 
the walls after sunset. My situation at KumBum was quite exceptional 
I never heard of a woman to whom a house had been granted there. 

The women returned, each one carrying a load of wood. 
They were most astonished to see me still in the same place. 
This gave them the opportunity for another chat, and the 
eldest one kindly invited me to her house for the night, explain 
ing to me minutely where it was situated. They then went 
away, but had only gone a few steps when Yongden appeared, 
accompanied by a young novice lama. Both were loaded with 
provisions, and we were invited to pass the night somewhere 
in the village. But I preferred to go with the good woman 
with whom I haid had a talk, and so it was she whom we 
followed. 

The master of the house into which we were shown, although 
only a villager, was remarkably intelligent. He had travelled 
much and had lived long at Lhasa. We took great pleasure in 
listening to him, though we were rather afraid that he might 
penetrate my disguise. So I performed all the menial work, 
leaving the lama seated on the carpet that had been spread 
for him near the fire in an entrance room, for we were not 
invited to enter the family kitchen. I noticed, since my arrival 
in the Po country, that the inhabitants of that region were 
rather particular in that respect. In the Nu valley, and often 
in that of the Giamo nu chu, we were allowed to sleep with 
the people of the house in the kitchen; but the Popas seemed 
decidedly against it. 

We started at daybreak. The weather was cold and the 
wind blew hard, sweeping along the large open valldy 
toward the south, but we soon entered the forest again, and 
felt warmer. 

The Po valley, from its source, at the foot of the range 
which we had crossed, down to the Brahmaputra, offers a va 
riety of climates. We had found it amongst deep snows, and 
now it was flowing between barley fields, in January. 

The virgin soil of the valley seems to be very fertile. 
Attracted by the hope of better harvests, a number of new 
settlers coming from the adjacent protnnees had cleared small 
parts of the forest, and built rustic farms of logs, very like Russian “isbas.” The flr trees which sometimes surround them add to this likeness, and give a decidedly Russian or Siberian 
aspect to the landscape. 
Many of these primitive homes are no more than cabins, of 
which some are not larger than eighty to a hundred feet square. 

In one of these we found an idyllic pair of lovers. Youth 
had long since passed for both, though they were not yet old. 
The man had a wen on his neck, and his spouse herself was 
no beauty. In the hut, together with the couple, slept a 
cow, her suckling calf, two other youngsters of the same species, 
and a few baby black pigs. a true nursery of fourfooted 
young brothers, having, alas! no attentive nurse to lead the 
little ones outside when their needs required open air. In these 
surroundings we heard a most touching love story, though of 
the kind Western moralists call “sinful.” For the housewife 
of the Noah’s Ark had been mistress of another, better and 
larger dwelling, and had run away into the wilds, penniless, 
with a penniless Romeo. They had no children, and , a thing 
rare in Tibet , did not desire any. Their love for each other, 
though of long standing, filled their hearts to the brim. 

These poor people treated us well. We shared a turnip 
soup with them, and they then insisted on presenting us with 
sonie tsampa to eat on the road. 

Yongden was requested to make mos. He ended cleverly 
enough by saying that in order to please the Lu a they ought 
to clean their house carefully, and to offer milk“ to the snalce 
deities. 

We four then lay down to sleep, our hosts on one side of 
the hearth, Yongden and I on the other side, the cow near the 
door, the calves at our feet, and the lively little pigs running 
to and fro over us, as there was not much room left for them in 
the hut. 

When we heard the lovers snoring, Yongden muttered in 
my ear: 
“I will put five rupees in a pot on the shelf. They will find 
them when they clean the house and will think that the Lus 
have brought them. 

It was a wonderful joke; but I advised him to give them 
Indian rupees. This was a litde precaution for safetyas sake. 
Had we been suspected of being the donors, t;hese rupees 
would have proved almost certainly that we had gone from 
Lhasa (where these coins are available), to eastern Tibet, 
and were on our way back home. As the Indian money was 
in a separate bag, even in the dark it was easy to get at it. 

I should like to have been able to witness the finding of 
the five rupees. How great an opinion the two good people 
must have formed of the holy, learned lama whose blessing had 
attracted to them the bounty of the Lus! But as there are 
countless popular stories about Lus wandering about in human 
shape, perhaps our hosts would believe that we were ourselves 
Lus in disguise. 

That visit of gods to faithful lovers reminded me of the 
fable of Philemon and Baucis and I related it to my companion. 

New Year in the Po yul, as well as in some parts of Kham, 
docs not come at the same date as at Lhasa, where people 
follow the Chinese calendar. This peculiarity caused us to 
arrive at Showa, the humble capital of Pomed, on the very day 
of the Popas’ New Year. The King was at Lhasa with his 
wife, a sister of the present generaHnchief of the Tibetan  
army. We already knew this before reaching Showa, but a 
servant of the palace whom we met on the road repeated It to 
us. Nevertheless, as everybody would rejoice and be merry 
on that day, we wanted to get our own little private fun and 
the profit thereof. So we boldly began a loud recitation at 
the gate of the royal dwelling. Blessings on each and all 
flowed freely from our eloquent lips. I doubt that even in 
that country of noisy beggars they have often seen our equals. 
Heads appeared at the windows, people swarmed down the 
steep staircases. They were bewildered, bewitched. Our tri 
umph made us bold, and our boldness increased the strength 
of Yongdenas deep voice, trained in the choir in the lamasery. 

The dogs which had begun to bark were finally silenced, and 
disappeared as if terrorised, or fled to the farthest corners of 
the courtyard. 

I guess that, however uncommon our performance may have 
been, the men themselves must have felt anxious to see the 
end of it, for servants brought out a pot of spirits, tea, and 
tsampa, and we were invited to sit down in the courtyard and 
feast. We declined the offer of chang (spirits), saying that 
as Buddhists we never drank any. This increased the esteem 
of the palace stewards still further, and they showed it by 
ordering dried meat to be placed before us. But when we 
again declared that as Buddhists we respected the life of all 
things and did not approve of the slaughter of animals , a view 
which.necessarily meant vegetarianism , and that, above all, we 
would not begin the year with a cruel action, their admiration 
became extreme. 

Regarding the flesh diet, it is against the spirit of Buddhism, 
though one cannot find in the Scriptures a text which forbids 
it expressly, as is the case with intoxicating beverages. But 
the restrictions mentioned In connection with the partaking of 
flesh amount to a formal prohibition, for there is no way to 
avoid transgressing them. A Buddhist Is allowed to eat meat 
under the following restrictions: He must not have killed 
the beast himself, he must not have ordered anyone else to 
kill it. It must not have been killed by somebody with the 
intention of supplying it to him, he must not suspect that 
the animal has been killed. 
If the two first restrictions may be easily turned, the third 
one is already a trifle more embarrassing; but some get around 
it by saying that the butchers slaughter for the public at 
large and not to supply the requirements of any particular 
person. As for the fourth, it must be difficult indeed to 
eat a piece of meat without "suspecting” that the animal from 
which it has been taken had been killed! But in all coun 
tries there are able sophists. The band of jovial monks, in 
the mediaeval tales, who in Lent baptized a chicken “carp” 
so as to eat it lawfully, is a case in point. And the subtleties of the Oriental mind can easily provide many argu 
ments in favour of gluttony! 

As I am on that subject, I should like to point out a strik 
ing difference between Lamaism and the selfstyled primitive 
orthodox Buddhism of the Southern school. The discussion, 
being connected with Tibetan  custom, is not out of place. 

Meateaters amongst the Buddhists of Ceylon, Burma and 
Siam, try, as I have said, to justify their flesh diet by various 
sophistic interpretations of the abovementioned restrictions. 
When they belong to the religious order, they declare also that 
they are not allowed to choose the food begged by them, and 
must accept whatever they get from charitable people. This 
is altogether wrong. The genuine round of the Bhikshus a of 
yore has become nowadays a mere pretence, a ceremonial walk 
to appointed places to fetch a meal specially cooked for the 
monks. Moreover, they would not fail to withdraw if bad, 
dirty, or unhealthy food was poured into the ritualistic bowls 
they carry themselves, or into the various vessels that are 
brought behind them by their attendant boys. 

In Tibet, the situation is quite different. Certainly, many 
are those who repeat: “I have not killed the animal myself,” 
but they do it with complete scepticism as to the value of the 
excuse. In fact, there is not one Tibetan  who is not con 
vinced that eating flesh is more or less wrong. The usual 
practice of the lamas , I do not say the ttupas, or common 
clergy , ais to abstain from animal food on the eighth, fifteenth, 
and thirtieth days of the moon, and during the whole of the 
first month of the year, thus showing their regard for the right 
way of living which they have not the strength to follow 
continually. 

Men and women, either alay” or in the Order, who are 
strict vegetarians , awho feed on "white diet,” as it is called in 
Tibetan  , are not exceedingly rare in Tibet, and they are 
greatly praised for it. 

The "Tantrik” sects hold special views about killing. These 
are interesting in many respects, but it would take too much 
space to examine them here. They will find place, in due 
course, in a study on the philosophic and mystic doctrines.of 
Tibet. 
However, before continuing our story, I must add that, 
although at first sight the habit of eating meat causes the pre 
mature death of many animals and appears more important 
than spirit drinking or than the actual fact of being drunk, Thibetans are justified in their opiniona that sobriety is the most important factor in mental and spiritual progress. A sinner 
who knows what may come of his bad actions is likely to 
change his ways, but the drunkard is helpless, owing to the 
collapse of his reasoning faculty. They illustrate it by an 
amusing story: 

A Buddhist monk was made by an evil spirit to choose any 
of the following three sins: to kill a sheep, to break his vow 
of celibacy, or to drink strong drink. 

The poor monk, after having pondered the matter, shrank 
from the first two and thought that the last would bear the 
lightest consequences. Once drunk, excited, and having lost 
all control over himself, he took a woman, and this second kind 
of intoxication led him to kill the sheep to give a feast to his 
mistress! 

But enough! Tibetan  stories about monks and the 
lamaist church are a rich mine of fine humour, and if we are 
once sunk in it we shall never get to the end of the chapter. 

After being entertained with tea, tsampa, and different kinds 
of cakes, we received a full supply of provisions and went away, 
followed by many admiring eyes. 

At Showa, the main track of the Po valley crosses the river. 
The covered bridge, with its small watchtowers, is large and 
well built, all of wood. The gates can be shut on both sides 
when required. A considerable number of posters, on which 
are printed magic or mysdc formuls, cover it, and bundles 
of miniature paper flags, fluttering in the breeze, are hung in 
quantities on all its sides, The stream is supposed to carry 
with it the words of praise jor blessing that are printed on 
them. 

The Tibetans, as well as the Chinese, are fond of decorat 
ing the bridges, the roads, and the peculiarly beautiful sites of 
their country with inscriptions of a religious, philosophical, or 
poetic character. Some travellers have thought proper to 
ridicule that custom. I And it impossible to follow them. A 
few lines of delicate poetry, a page of a philosophical treatise 
such as one sees engraved on certain rocks in Tibet, the 
meditative image of a Buddha painted in a natural cave, or 
even a strip of paper hung above a river or swinging in the 
air at the top of a pass, bearing the old Sanskrit wish "Sarva 
mangalam" (Joy to all), seem to me greatly preferable to the 
advertisements of whiskey or ham which “decorate” the roads 
of Western countries. 

I beg my readers’ pardon. I am but a savage! 

At the end of the bridge there is a large mani lha khang 
with engraved stones, revolving mani wheels and a number of 
flags. From there one gets a general view of the Po king’s 
palace, merely a square squat building whose upper story 
is lighted by small windows and whose architecture has nothing 
especially striking. 
Our big meal and the time spent in inspecting the place had 
delayed us long. Nevertheless, as we were only at the begin 
ning of the afternoon, we preferred to continue our way rather 
than remain all night at Showa. 

The evening brought us to a village where we feasted again 
with some country folk. On the morrow we feasted in yet 
another one. 

If our Christmas had been somewhat dramatic, that first 
Tibetan  New Year proved really merry. Yet how much merrier was to be the real New Year at Lhasa! But at that 
time the enjoyments which we were to find in the sacred city
lay still shrouded in the mystery of the future. 

In the second village we were the guests of a large family 
of new settlers who treated us most cordially. While we were 
seated with the family around the, hearth, I watched one of 
the girls kneading a big ball of. dough. She worked at it for 
several hours. Yongden, as usual, had made mos several times, 
and we began to feel sleepy, yet she still kneadfd her flour. I 
was rather puzzled as to what would become of it, and I would 
very likely have continued to chat with the housewife in the 
hope of seeing the end of the girls work and its outcome; but 
Yongden asked permission to sleep, saying that I was tired and 
that we wished to start early the next morning. I could not 
say anything to the contrary, so we retired to a corner of 
the kitchen dormitory, and lay down under our tentblanket. 

Asiatics do not feel, as we do, the need of privacy and silence 
in sleep. Even sick people, unless they belong to the upper 
classes, lie amongst others who do not in the least refrain 
from noisy talk and loud laughter. I once saw an old, dying 
man, stretched on the counter of a shop while commercial 
transactions went on as usual between his son and the cus 
tomers. And this man was not a pauper but a welltodo 
trader, but neither he nor his son had ever thought it necessary 
to make special arrangements for sleeping. 

I know that even in Western lands one can find families 
whose dwelling is composed of but one room, but it is utter 
poverty which leads them to such a way of living. In Tibet, 
amongst country folk, the farm always includes a number of 
rooms, but none of them has really a special purpose. Wool, 
grain, provisions, ploughs, and so on fill the different parts of 
the house, and, for the most part, the familyas general living 
and sleeping room is the kitchen. 

Our hosts had not to stay their New Year revels on account 
of tramps such as we, and so the merriment continued. We 
were supposed to sleep undisturbed by the noise, as true 
pas would have done. But I naturally remained awake, and 
long continued to watch the Tibetans and to listen to their 
talk. Still fatigue prevailed, and I was dozing when a smell of 
frying dough aroused me to the reality of the situation. The 
girl had ceased to knead and was now frying New Year cakes 
in that sweet oil made with the kernel of the apricot stone, 
which is a peculiar product of Pomed. What a pity! Had we 
stayed longer, we would have had our share of them! And 
now they would, perhaps, eat them all and we would 
only get the smell of them.

I am not particularly gluttonous, but the daily dish of 
tsampa and scarcely anything else was rather austere. 
This smell of fresh, warm, crisp cakes. I was enraged with 
the lama. What was he doing? Perhaps he slept. That 
was too bad! I did not want to be tantalized alone. I ex 
tended my arm as far as I could, but it was too short to reach 
my hateful son. I managed to crawl toward him under our 
cover and discovered that his eyes were wide open. 

‘They are eating cakes,” I whispered in his ear. 

ah, I can see,” he answered in a subdued, desolate voice. 

"Do you think they will give us some?” 

“No hope. They believe we are sleeping.” 

What a disheartening answer! So I remained watching the 
happy ones. But they could not keep pace with the girl and 
eat as many cakes as she fried. Those which were left over 
were heaped In a large basket and my hopes were concen 
trated on them. Tomorrow the cakes would be cold, but 
still they would be different from our everlasting tsampa. 
Should we get some tomorrow? 

The family lay down in its turn, on the floor under blankets; 
the hearth fire burned low; darkness spread in the room. I 
fell asleep. 

In the morning there still remained some raw dough and 
we ate fresh, crisp, New Year cakes, and carried away a good 
number of the cold ones in our provision bag. 

Until then our journey through the Po country had been per 
fectly peaceful, and I began to think that there must be much 
exaggeration in the stories which are current about the Popas. 

Popas , so Tibetans say , aare born robbers. Each year 
gangs, sometimes to the number of a hundred, fall unezpectedly on their neighbours of the Kongbu or Dainshi provinces and loot their villages. Beside these brganized expeditions, 
most Popas , atraders, pilgrims, or mere villagers , afind it difficult to let any traveller they may happen to meet on their way pass without trying to levy an undue tax on his baggage, 
however miserable it may be. A few handfuls of barley flour, 
a wornout blanket, two or three copper coins , all is good to 
them. But if, as a rule, they let the poor folk who meekly 
submit to their demands go unmolested, they are quick to 
turn murderers when resistance is offered or a valuable booty 
expected. 

Truly, no wealthy travellers venture to go through the for 
ests of Po. Only the poorest of the poor , athe beggar pilgrims 
made bold by the fact of their utter destitution , are to be met 
along the tracks which cross the Popas’ hill. 

As for us, we had not met any outsider, either rich or poor, 
on our way. The few people whom we had seen on the solitary roads were all natives of the country, or settlers who had practically become Popas. 

Events were now to take another turn, and that gay New 
Year marked the end of a period of quietness. 

The very afternoon after we had left the hospitable house 
where such good cakes were baked, we passed by an isolated 
farm just as a number of people were emerging from it. The 
New Year festivities were still going on; some of the men who 
had enjoyed themselves were decidedly drunk, and the remain 
der were not very sober. All of them carried guns across their 
shoulders, and some made a pretence of shooting at us. As 
for us, we proceeded as if we had noticed nothing. 

In the evening I discovered a roomy cave in which we slept 
comfortably. We slept much too long, and delayed still further 
over some soup at breakfast. As we did so, a man appeared 
and asked us if we had nothing to sell. He regarded the con 
tents of our bags, which were still open. 

Our two common spoons especially attracted his attention. 
Then he seated himself, and taking a piece of dried, fermented cheese out of his dress he began to eat it. 

That kind of cheese is very much like French Roquefort. 
Thinking it would improve our menus, Yongden asked the 
man if he had some to sfll. He answered in the affirmative; 
he had some at home, not far. from the cave, and would barter 
one against needles, if we had any. We had a few which we 
had carried for this purpose. So the man went to fetch his 
cheese. 

We had not yet finished our packing when he came back 
with a cheese and followed by another man. The newcomer 
was much bolder than the first with whom we had dealt. He 
fingered the cloth of our tent and told us that he would pur 
chase it. He then took the spoons and examined them, while 
his companion cast glances in the direction from which they 
had come, as if expecting other arrivals. 

We had no doubt about the intentions of the two Popas. 
The bolder one had already put the two coveted spoons in 
his amphag and refused to give them back, while the other 
one endeavoured to take the tent out of the lama’s hands. 

I realized that others had been summoned and were to assist 
in the robbery. 
The matter would soon become serious. We must frighten 
these two away and start in haste. Perhaps we would be able 
to reach the next village, and the thieves would not dare to 
follow us. 

I endeavoured to appeal to the good feelings of the men, 
but it was of no avail. Time was of importance; we must 
put an end to the business, and show the others that we were 
not timid and defenceless folk. 

“Let that tent alone at once!” I commanded. “And give 
the spoons back!” 

In the meantime I had my revolver in readiness under my 
dress. The boldest of the thieves only laughed and, turning 
his back on me, he bent to pick up some other object. I shot, 
from close behind him, turning my revolver away from him. 
But his companion saw me and, being too terrified to warn his 
friend. He could do nothing but stare wildly at me. Whether or 
not the other fellow saw him, I cannot tell, but he threw 
himself backwards just as I shot, and the bullet passed dose 
to his head, grazing his hair. 

Flinging the spoons and the tenla on die ground, the two 
ran like hunted hares across the thicket. 

The situation was not entirely pleasant. The ruffians might 
have gone to fetch some of their kindred, the men whom they 
seemed to expect. I told Yongden to tie the loads in haste 
and be off as quickly as possible. 

What would have happened, had we remained alone, I can 
not say, for a party of about thirty pilgrims , athe first for 
eign travellers we met in Po yul, and the only ones we were 
ever to meet , suddenly appeared. They had heard the shot, 
and enquired as to its cause. 

It was annoying to be identified as carrying a revolver, for 
only chiefs and rich traders own these. Of course they thought 
that it was Yongden who had fired; and later on when thtey 
asked to see the weapon, we produced an oldpattern small one, 
instead of the automatic pistol that had nearly sent the Popa on 
to another world. 

We joined the party, and perhaps we owe our lives to this 
most unexpected meeting. 

We learned from our new companions that the Popaa truly 
deserved their bad name, and we were soon to confirm this 
from our own experience. 
The party which we had joined was mostly composed of 
people from Zogong in the Nu valley, the place that we had 
avoided by crossing the river and cutting through several 
ranges. 

The very day after we arrived at the dokpas camp where 
we had taken a guide and a horse to climb to the Aigni la, 
they had reached another cowmen’s encampment at the foot 
of the pass leading into the Nagong valley. 

Before crossing the mountain a number of the trapas unshed 
to sew new soles on their boots, and so the larger part of the 
band decided to remain one day more near the dokpas encampa 
ment to get this done. A few laymen and nearly all the women 
preferred to ascend the pass slowly, instead of lingering at 
the dokpas’ place. They set out and slept somewhere under 
the trees, lower down on the other side of the range. At day 
break a number of Popas appeared, proceeding, with loaded 
yaks, toward the Daishin province to exchange dried apricots, 
chillies, etc., for barley. When they saw the poor pilgrims 
they rushed at them and took away all their blankets and the 
few coins they had hidden under their clothes. Then, learning 
that others were expected, they ordered them to proceed, with 
out loitering on the road. They unloaded their yaks, drove 
them on the hills, and seating themselves near the top of the 
pass waited for the remainder of the party to appear. 

The trapas found them there, on the watch, like demoniacal 
spirits of the mountain, ready to prey upon travellers. The 
Popas asked them for some present, which is a polite way common to robbers of China and of Tibet. But many of the 
monks were armed with spear or sword, and preferred to do 
battle. The Popas had swords, too, but the pilgrims were 
more numerous, and the valiant sons of Po yul were defeated. 
The lamas joined their unfortunate vanguard the following 
day. 

Some of these, acting as guides to their companions, had 
already travelled to Po y%d through the Gotza la. When they 
heard that we had been able to force our way through the 
ranges, they very much regretted that fear of the snow had 
prevented them from following the summer road across the 
solitudes, where we had had a hard time but avoided robbers. 
Of the three passes on that side, they knew only the Gotza la. 

Like most Kampus of the Nu and upper Giamo nu chu 
valleys, these people were exceedingly pleasant. We greatly 
enjoyed their company, and accompanied them for several 
days. But then, in order to make up the time they had lost 
in the highlands of Po, they began to race vdth such speed 
that I left them to their sport, and fell back. 

On the second day that we spent vdth that gay party we 
left the banks of the Po lung river, which we had followed from 
its source in the snowburia highlands. It was now a beautiful, large blue stream, about to lose itself in the Yeru Tsangao. 

But before this merging of its personality it had still to 
receive a tributary as big as itself, the Yigong Tsangpo. We 
had to cross this river in the same a way as we crossed the 
Giamo nu chu, and before it the Mekong, that is Ko say, by 
hanging to a rope and being hauled from the opposite side. 

Our good luck had again brought us companions at that 
moment when they were so sorely needed. The tupasa who 
make a trade of hauling the travellers across would never have 
taken the trouble for two lone beggars. We should, perhaps, 
have waited for days, camped on the bank of the river, until 
a number of passengers had collected. 

An insolent lot they seemed, these ferrymen whose ferry 
was a woefully sagging leather cable spanning a river at least 
twice as wide as the Giamo nu chu where we had crossed it. 
Their chief seemed to be an old grandmother, who looked like 
a witch. She received the money paid for the passage and 
directed operations. 

At first the Popas told us to wait until the morninga but 
after repeated entreaties, and because we were a large party, 
they condescended to do the work that afternoon. Truly 
it was a difficult business. The tupas were at least a dozen 
strong. To begin with, some of them passed the towing rope 
across , a real acrobatic feat that requires an uncommon 
strength in the wrists and a complete absence of giddiness. 
These men were not towed, as we, the passengers, would be. 
They scrambled unaided over that sagging and swaying rope 
at a considerable distance above the rushing waters. When 
they had reached the opposite bank, the passage of the lug 
gage began, during which the old woman required from us all 
three needles or a little money as a supplement to the price 
already paid. Needles are in great demand in the interior of 
Tibet, and are very difficult to get. The mother tupa cer 
tainly made a profitable trade with those she exacted frpm 
the travellers. 

Most of the men in our party belonged to the lamaist order 
and to the great state monasteries of Lhasa: Sera, Depungt 
Ferrymen or Galden. The old woman did not show any regard for them, 
but she approached ’Yongden and asked him to make mos, 
telling him a quantity of things about her private concerns. 
She also let us go without any needle tax. My turn to cross 
came long before that of the lama. Passengers were sent 
two together, and I was tied at the hook with a woman in 
exactly the same way as at the Salween. No accident hap 
pened this time, but on account of the greater length of the 
cable the jolting over the river was much more lively and 
unpleasant. From the middle of the river the wonderful snowy 
peak of the Gyalwa Pal Ri (the victorious and noble moun 
tain) a appeared in all its splendour. Enclosed in the narrow 
frame of the river gorge, it had a peculiarly mysterious beauty 
which I had never seen in the wide snowy ranges. 
I hastened to find a shelter for the night, and came across a 
cave amongst the huge rocks which form the river banks. 
When Yongden arrived, I had already collected the necessary fuel. We had our food and went to sleep. The temperature was mild, and it was hard to realise that we were in the middle of winter. 

In the morning light the Gyalwa Pal Ri appeared still more 
glorious than on the day before. It was a perfect jewel; one 
might have fancied it to be the immaculate abode of some 
radiant god, feeding upon pure light. Our companions, who 
thought much more of the gifts which the Lhasa government 
grants to the monks of the three state monasteries who attend 
the solemn New Year gathering, than of any God, were now in 
a great hurry to reach the capital, and did not lose any time 
in contemplating the "victorious” peak. When we started they 
had already all gone, and we found the large cave in which 
they had slept quite empty. This looked like an annoying 
complication, for the right trail to follow was hard to find in 
the dense jungle which now reminded me of the lower slopes 
of the Himalayas. I noticed a large number of plants and 
creepers which I was accustomed to find in the Sikkin forest 
between 3,000 and 4,000 feet level. The air had also entirely 
lost that peculiarly strong and invigorating savour of the dry 
tablelands. It never freezes in that region. The ground was 
muddy, the sky cloudy, and the people on the other bank of 
the river Ygong had told us that we must expect rain. 

A number of trails crossed near the river. One led north 
toward the upper country of Potod where it joined tracks that 
allowed one to reach the grassy northern solitudes. Another 
went down toward the Brahmaputra, and a third one led to 
the Kongbu province. 

We started off correctly on the Kongbu track, but hesitated 
when it branched into a short cut and a main path. We 
decided in favour of the former, following mere intuition, with 
out suspecting that the two would join later on. This short 
trail was a true masterpiece of the “Public Works” engineers 
of Po yuL It was cut by perpendicular rocks against which 
ladders of a peculiar pattern had been placed to enable one to 
climb up and down. At other places it ran like a balcony on 
branches thrust horizontally into the ground, and the whole 
device was built for tall Popas, with much longer legs than 
ours. Our feet were left waving in the air on the primitive 
staircases, whose steps were shaky stones or llhe notched 
trunks of trees. What we could not do with our feet we had 
to perform with the help of our hands, hanging in the air 
until we touched a point of support, and relying on our 
strength to raise ourselves when climbing. Had we not carried 
baggage on our backs, we should have enjoyed the sport, but 
we were heavily laden. Knowing that no food would be 
available on our way, which lay through uninhabited fstfests, 
we had provided ourselves with a full supply of tsampa, which 
weighed heavily on our backs and put our acrobatic feats 
of equilibrium in jeopardy. 

But worst of all, we feared missing our road. Such a trail 
might lead to some forest village, but it could scarcely be 
the main highway from Kongbu to Poyula followed, as we 
knew by loaded horses and mules. We also failed to discover 
any trace of the party of pilgrims. Thirty men would have left 
the imprint of their feet in the soft mud. It was most certain 
that our former companions had not passed this way. Yet, as 
we were proceeding hi the right direction, I ventured to con 
tinue.a After all, we were again alone. We had no gift to 
expect from the Lhasa government, nor was our presence re 
quested to read the Scriptures. It would be enough for our own 
enjoyment if we reached the Lamaist Rome in time to witness 
the various New Year festivities. We therefore had time to 
loiter over the country. Fresh meetings with robbers were the 
only serious annoyance we had to fear. The Popas villagers 
themselves had told us to be careful on this forest track, which 
they call the Po southern road {Po Iho lam)a for robbers 
haunted it and people ventured on this side only in large 
parties. But as we were now in that illfamed region, being 
willingly or unwillingly compelled to cross it, it was useless to 
torment ourselves with the possibility of future danger, which 
could not be averted. 

This most uneven trail, on which we had expended so much 
exertion, ended near a beautiful, huge tree dedicated to some 
sylvan deity. And here, also, it joined the main track. Happily, we had not missed our way. 

This spot broke the monotony of the jungle in a pleasant 
way. The giant tree, from the lowest branches of which hung 
countless tiny paper flags bearing spells meant to protect 
travellers, appeared to be a mighty guardian against the dan 
gers that lie in the gloomy forest. Around it spread that 
queer psychic atmosphere peculiar to places consecrated to 
Nature’s gods, which tells of times long past when mankind’s 
heart%as still young and naive. 

Our progress became more rapid now that we were trading 
a tolerably good path, and I regretted having taken the diffi 
cult short cut. I ought rather to have blessed the very friendly 
sylvan deity of that road who had perhaps suggested the choice 
to me. 

A little farther on I found in the middle of the road a long 
shoot of wild orchids in full bloom and quite fresh, as if it had 
just i>een plucked. I relate the fact because, as we were then 
in January, it shows that the whole of Tibet is far from being 
an icycold, bleak country, like the region which extends from 
the south of Lhasa to the Himalayas. 

At the end of the afternoon we overtook the party of pilgrims, who were camped in a pretty clearing near the junction of the Po river and one of its tributaries. 

Our arrival caused some commotion, ‘and our new friends 
rushed toward us to ask us if we had met any robbers. We 
were astonished, and replied that we had not seen a single 
human being on our road. They could not understand how 
this could be, for they had met a gang of about thirty men 
who had tried to extract some presents from them. As they 
refused to give the least thing, a fight followed in which the 
robbers had been defeated and some of them wounded. Two 
of the travellers had been wounded with swords and had lost 
a quantity of blood. Another, who had been pushed violently 
and had fallen on a rock, complained of internal pains. 

At last, when we had explained that we had come by the 
narrow short cut, our new friends congratulated us on having 
escaped the robbers on the main path. For, angered as they 
must have been after their defeat, they would certainly have 
stripped us of all our belongings. 

After having heard this news I ceased completely to regret 
my tiring exertion on the short cut. Once more I had been 
uncommonly lucky. 

Encounters with brigands are common enough in Tibet, 
and fail to Impress travellers deeply, unless theya are extraordinarily bloody. In spite of the three who lay suffering near a fire, the others did not feel in the least sorrowful or depressed. 
On the contrary, it seemed as if this little adventure had 
relieved the monotony of their journey, and had joyfully 
excited them! We spent a very pleasant evening. The Lhasa 
trapas related a lot of stories told in the capital, and the latest 
gossip about the lamaist court, the high officials and the 
philings rulers of India. We heard, also, interesting details 
about the economic situation of the country and the political 
opinions of the clergy. Lastly, they took us into their confidence as to a number of private affairs in which some of their companions were concerned. Thanks to them, my store 
of observation was further enriched. 

The big fires which the party had lit, and the noise made 
in the forest by cutting wood, attracted the notice of a few 
Popas villagers living on the bank of the river. Several men, 
who did not look perfectly sober, came, inspected our camp, 
and chatted with some of us. I suspected  that they were 
scouting to ascertain our strength and would inform their 
friends of the chance they might have of successfully loot 
ing us. 

They came to Yongden and asked him to remain one day 
with them to bless their houses and properties. The lama, 
of course, declined the invitation, mentioning the necessity of 
making haste in order to reach Lhasa in time for the great 
New Year monlam} They understood his excuse and did not 
press him, but added that they would send him their wives and 
children to be blessed the next morning. 

In spite of these soft speeches, watchmen were posted at 
night around our camp, but the hours passed peacefully , so 
calmly and silently, indeed, that, having pitched our tent apart 
from the others, we did not hear our companions starting. I 
then Insisted on drinking our eafiy hot tea, a custom that I sel 
dom neglected and which, I am certain, had much to do with 
the good health that not only myself, but Yongden and all 
our servants during previous journeys, have always enjoyed; 
where is so many Tibetan  travellers whose habit it is to start 
before dawn without any breakfast, even during the winter and 
In the coldest regions, often suffer from severe attacks of fever 
and other ailments. 

But this most excellent and agreeable custom detained us, 
and Yongden felt very uneasy at remaining behind in that 
unsafe country. We were finishing our packing and I was 
bending over some pieces of luggage when he suddenly, 
announced the arrival of robbers. I glanced in the direction 
he pointed out, and saw a number of people coming toward us; but when they arrived we discovered that they were women and children. 

In spite of the spirits they had drunk, our visitors of the 
previous evening had not forgotten to send their womenfolk 
and youngsters to be blessed. The latter brought with them 
a very acceptable present of chillies, which are a valuable article of exchange at Lhasa, and also some butter and dried fruits. So the dreaded robbers became in fact our benefactors. 
The ceremony of blessing, packing our gifts, and some unavoidable gossip delayed us still further, and when we started we had but little hope left of being able to rejoin our companions. 

It was wonderful indeed to have escaped so many dangers 
of various kinds and to be there, just as I had planned it, in 
Po yuly en route for Lhasa. Nevertheless, it is always presumptuous to rejoice too soon about one’s good luck or success. I had not finished with the Popas. But they, too, were to see 
more of the first foreign woman who walked through their 
beautiful country, and while their acts were to be quite commonplace and not in the least surprising, mine will probably live long in the memory of those who witnessed them. Maybe 
a legend will arise out of it all; and who knows if, in the future, 
a learned student of folklore will not offer some interesting 
commentary on the story, being far from suspecting the truth 
of it. 

At dusk that very evening, weary after a long tramp and 
having definitely abandoned the hope of joining the travellers, 
at least that same night, we were following the rising course 
of the Tongyuk river which, hidden by the thick foliage, roared 
far beneath our narrow trail. I was walking ahead, looking for 
a campingplace, when I saw seven men coming toward me. A 
sudden foreboding seized me. I did not expect any good 
from this meeting. Nevertheless, as sang froid is the best of 
weapons, and as many years’ experience of adventurous life 
had accustomed me to situations of this kind, I continued to 
walk calmly, with the indifferent air of a tired woman pil 
grim. One of the band stood in the middle of the narrow 
track and asked me where I was coming from and where I 
was going to. I muttered the names of some holy places, 
and passed between him and the bushes. He did not attempt 
to stop me. I was already rejoicing inwardly at the thought 
that this time, once more, nothing would happen, when lock 
ing back, I saw that my son had stopped and was leaning 
against a rock and speaking with the men. However, the 
talk seemed friendly and the voices did not rise above the nor 
mal pitch. But I could not hear what was said. 

Then I noticed that one of the tall fellows was taking some 
thing from the handkerchief of the lama. I knew that he had 
a few coins in it. But I did not realize what was happening, 
and I thought that the Popas were selling us something. 
I only understood the truth when Yongden shouted to me, 
“They have taken my two rupees!” 

The amount was not worth a thought, but I saw that some 
of the robbers had laid their hands on the load he carried on 
his back and were about to open it. 

The situation was growing serious. Fighting was out of 
the question. Had I shot one of the men, the others would 
have immediately stabbed my defenceless companion with the 
long swords they carried thrust in their belts. 

On the other hand, to let them examine the contents of 
our bags would be dangerous. In them were a few foreign 
objects, unfamiliar to these savages, that would have appeared 
strange In the possession of ragged pilgrims and would have 
awakened suspicion as to our identity. And once on the track, 
the robbers might perhaps search us and discover the gold 
hidden under our clothes. What would follow? They might 
kill us on the spot, or take us before one of their chiefs, who 
would inform the nearest Lhasa government official if I confessed to be a foreigner In disguise, or would treat us as thieves if I persisted in my incognito. In a word, he would 
appropriate our gold and beat us both mercilessly. 

Most of all, I feared being recognised, and thus prevented 
from proceeding. At any rate, the robbers must be left with 
the quickly forgotten impression that they had but met a 
poor lama pilgrim with his aged and beggar mother. 

In much less time than I have taken to write it, all these 
thoughts passed through my mind. I found the plot of the 
drama to be played on that rustic stage and I began my part. 

Screaming at the top of my voice, howling in utter despair, 
with tears rolling on my cheeks, I lamented the loss of the 
two rupees; the only, only money we had got. What was to 
become of us? How would we feed ourselves during the long 
trip to Lhasa? 

And these two rupees were sacred money indeed, the offer 
ing of a pious householder whose father had died and for whom 
my son, the lama, had performed the funeral rites, dispatching 
him to the “Land of Bliss, the Western Paradise.” Now these 
miscreants had dared to steal It! But revenge would come! 

Here I ceased to weep and rose to imprecation. The task 
was not very difficult, well acquainted as I am with the vari 
ous deities of the Tibetan  pantheon. 

I called upon the most dreaded ones, uttering their most 
terrible names and titles. 

There was Palden Dorjee Lhamo, who rides a wild horse 
on a saddle made of a bloody human skin; there were the 
Angry Ones who devour the flesh of men and feast on the fresh 
brains served in their skulls; and the giant Frightful Ones, 
companions of the King of Death, crowned with bones and 
dancing on corpses. I conjured them all and implored them 
to avenge us. 

Verily I was the initiated and ordained wife of a black nagspa. His tutelar demons would not fail to avenge the harm done to his innocent son, who had taken to the pure saintly 
path of the gelong. 

I am a tiny woman with nothing dramatic in my appearance; 
but at that moment I felt myself rising to the height of a 
powerful tragedienne. 

The forest had become darker and a light breeze had arisen 
which caused a distant murmur to run under the foliage. 
Lugubrious and mysterious voices seemed to spring out of 
the unseen torrent below, climbing toward us and filling the 
air with threatening words in an unknown language. 

I was cool and did not fear the thieves , I had seen more 
than seven together on other occasions, yet I could not sup 
press a thrill born of the occult atmosphere I myself had 
created. 

I was not alone in this. The seven robbers looked petrified, 
some standing in one line against a rock behind my son, and 
others Ipwer down on the path , an awestruck group which 
tempted my photographic inclinations. But the hour was not 
ripe for snapshots. 

Then one of the Popas cautiously moved toward me and 
from a little distance uttered words of peace: 

“Do not be angry, old mother. Here are your two rupees. 
Do not weep. Do not curse us any more! We only want to go 
peacefully back to our village.” 

So I allowed my anger and my despair to be cooled, and I 
took the two coins with the air of one who recovers a unique 
treasure. 

My young companion had rejoined me. The thieves reverently requested his blessing, which he gave them, adding some 
good wishes. We then parted. 

There was no fear that the same band would retrace its steps 
to rob us. But this new adventure was a warning, not to be 
overlooked, to leave that specially dangerous area as soon as 
possible. 

That night we made a prolonged march in the forest, which 
seemed still alive with the phantoms of the deities I had 
summoned. 
A slow rain, mixed with halfmelted snow, began to fall, and 
a melancholy waning moon rose late amongst the clouds.' About 
two o’clock in the morning we came to a place near the river 
where there was a small level clearing. We were too tired to 
proceed farther, and discussed the question of how to camp 
there. Would we dare to pitch our miserable tent, or did pru 
dence command that we should sleep unsheltered on the wet 
moss, hidden under the trees? 

Supper was, once more, not to be thought of, although we 
had neither eaten nor drunk since early morning, nearly twenty 
four hours before. No dry fuel could be found to boil our 
Tibetan  tea, and the dim light was not sufficient to find a place 
amongst the rocks where we could safely fetch water from the 
foaming torrent. 

I thought we could at least give ourselves the comfort of a 
shelter. It was very doubtful that anybody would be travel 
ing at night in that bad weather. We therefore pitched the 
small tent, and lay down in our wet damp clothes and muddy 
boots on the damp ground. 

The moon, which appeared and disappeared between the 
clouds, cast fantastic moving shadows of branches and rocks on 
the white cloth above our heads. The river talked loudly with 
the many voices of a crowd. Invisible beings seemed to surround 
us. I was thinking of those I had invoked and, after all, 
I did not altogether disbelieve in that mysterious world that 
is so near to those who have lived long in the wilds. My heavy 
head resting on a small bag of tsampa, I smiled to unknown 
friends, and departed for dreamland. 

It was not the first time, in the course of my peregrinations 
in Tibet, that sham magic and robbers combined in the same 
adventure. I may perhaps be allowed to relate here a rather 
amusing incident which happened in the Desert of Grass some 
eighteen months before my meeting with the Popas brigands. 

I had lingered that day far behind my men to collect plants 
which I meant to send to the Botanical Society of France. It 
was the rainy season. The grassy desert had become a sea of 
mud. Under a dull sky low clouds rolled heavily, hiding the 
summits, filling the valleys, and wrapping the steppes in a 
grayish, melancholy shroud. I did not recognize the luminous 
solitudes, the scenes of so many of my joyful rides some years 
before, and I should easily have been overpowered by the 
depressing influence of that reaon of dampness, rain, and fog 
across which we had wandered, shivering and feverish, for 
weeks, had I not had many reasons to prevent me from giving 
way to lassitude and discouragement. 

My present party numbered seven, including myself. The 
six were Yongden, three servants, and a Chinese Musselman 
soldier, going back to his country with his Tibetan  wife and 
their little boy, whom I do not reckon in the number. 

Yongden and the woman had remained with me, helping me 
to gather the plants, and the other men were far ahead of us. 
The weather had now cleared. One could see, between the 
clouds, the sun almost setting. It was time to proceed to the 
camp, so we set out, riding slowly in full enjoyment of the 
peaceful evening. 

We had left the plain, and having turned the spur of a 
range, entered a narrow valley, when I saw on my left three 
men carrying guns slung over their shoulders, who silently 
disappeared in a recess of the mountains. Who they were was 
clear enough. Tibetan  travellers, in that country, never fail 
to salute one another with the customary greeting: "Oghiail, 
Oghiauaaa Then they habitually exchange questions about the 
country whence they came and toward which they go. The 
silence of these men looked very suspicious, not to mention 
the fact that they hid themselves. Instead of walking along 
the trail. 

I went my way, pretending to pay no attention to them, but 
feeling under my dress to see if my revolver was handy. I 
whispered to the woman who rode near me, aaDid you see 
them?” “Yes,” she answered. “They are robbers. Perhaps 
they are the scouts of a gang.” 

I looked at a flower that grew on a rock, as if deeply interested in it, and pointing it out to Yongden, I called him to me. To show any sign of agitation which the brigands, who 
were perhaps watching us, might Interpret as fear, would 
endanger our lives. The members of the special Order of 
Lamas, whose dress I wore, are believed to be fearless and to 
possess occult powers, and this was our best safeguard. 
This means: You have undergone hardship,” and the answer is: 
‘Lags, ma Kaa; kiai la oghlail I have suffered no hardship but you have 
had a hard time!” 


"Have you seen the men in the ravine?” I asked my young 
companion. 
"No.” 
"Three men carrying guns , athieves, no doubt. The woman 
has seen them. Have your revolver raady. As soon as we 
reach the turning of the trail, and are out of sight, we will 
ride on fast. We must reach the camp quickly and inform the 
servants.” As I had spoken in English, I did not fear being 
overheard. 

We had good beasts, and proceeded quickly. But what was 
this? We heard a shot in the direction of our people. We 
rode faster and soon discovered our four tents pitched in the 
high grass near a stream. 
"Have you seen three men on your road?” I immediately 
asked the servants who came to hold our horses. No, nobody 
had seen any human being for the last ten days. 
"I heard a shot.” 
They all hung their heads. "I have killed a hare,” con 
fessed the soldier. "We have no more meat, and my wife feels 
weak.” 
I always strictly forbid my servants to hunt, but the soldier 
was not my servant. I dropped the subject. 

"This woman and I have seen three armed men who ap 
peared to hide from us,” I said. "We must take special pre 
cautions tonight for the safety of the camp. It may be that 
these three have companions in the vicinity.” 

"There they are!” exclaimed my head servant, Tsering, pointing out two men who stood on the crest of the hill above 
the camp. 

I looked at them with my glasses. They were the very 
men that we had seen on our way. Where was the third one? 
Had he been dispatched to call still other ruffians in order to 
attack us?a The two remained watching us. 

"Let us take no more notice of them,” I said. "We will 
devise a plan while drinking tea. Put the guns and revolvers 
in such places that they may be seen by the robbers, if there 
are any besides these Wo. It is good to let them know that 
we are able to defend ourselves.” 

The tea was ready. One of the servants dipped a ladle into 
the cauldron and threw a few drops of the liquid toward the 
six quarters (including zenith and nadir), shouting “Drink tea, 
O Gods!” Then our bowls were filled, and, seated around the 
fire, we began to discuss the situation. 

The servants suggested that they might climb the neighbour 
ing hills and from there try to discover if any gang was in the 
vicinity. I did not like this idea. The robbers might arrive 
while they were roaming far from the camp, taking that opportunity to steal some beasts or other things. Yongden and I alone would have a hard time to defend our belongings, even 
if the three men whom we had seen, and who had good guns, 
were the only ones to attack us. 

“I know a better way,” said the soldier. “Let night come, 
and when darkness hides us, I and two of the men will ambush 
ourselves separately outside the camp at three different points. 
Another will remain here as watchman, and he will, according 
to the Chinese custom, beat a drum or make some such noise 
all night. The robbers will think that we are all in our tents, 
and if they appear, one or another of those who are hidden 
outside the camp will see them and shoot at them when they 
are between him and the tents. They will thus be surprised 
and fired upon from behind and in front at the same time!” 

This appeared to be the best plan for a small party like 
ours, and I decided to follow it. We tied the beasts as fast 
as we could, for when they do not dare to fight openly, Tibetan  
brigands fire volleys at short range to frighten the animals. If 
some of these break their cords and escape, they chase them 
away and seldom miss capturing a few. 

Yongden insisted on erecting a barricade with the bags and 
boxes containing our provisions. He meant it, of course, as a 
shelter for us, but, as distinguished a literatus as my adopted 
son may be, his knowledge does not extend to the art of war. 
As it was built, it appeared to me that we should rather pro 
tect the barricade with our bodies than be protected by it, 
but I am' myself far from being an expert in these matters, 
and no great general happened to be there to enlighten us. 

Seldom have I spent such a delightful night as that one, 
when at each minute we expected an attack! But it was hot 
this prospect which lent charm to my vigil. 

Seated at the entrance of his tent, a bowl of tea near him, 
Tsering sang ballads of the land of Kham, thousands of years 
old. He marked the cadence by striking with a small rod on 
a Tibetan  cauldron in which we boiled tea or soup over our 
camp fire. The songs extol the high deeds of rustic knights 
and the primeval forests in which arise shining peaks clad with 
eternal snows. Robbers these heroes are, like those whose pres 
ence in our neighbourhood compelled us to keep a watch, like 
the watchman himself, who , I was aware , had played his part 
in more than one hot encounter, like the three others who are 
now acting as sentinels, like everyone in that land of primitive 
braves who know of no field in which to show their prowess 
other than the trails followed by rich caravans. 

Tsering had a fine voice. His accents were now heroic, now 
mystic. The songs told not only of warriors, but of merciful 
goddesses and holy lamas. Some of the stanzas finished with 
ardent aspirations toward the spiritual awakening that puts 
an end to fear and all sorrow. The vulgar cauldron itself 
had risen to the level of that poetry; its metal sounded solemn 
as a bell. Tsering was indefatigable; he went on with his 
bewitching recital until dawn. 

The sentinels came back benumbed by their prolonged stay 
on the damp grass, and ran to revive the fire and make tea, 
Tsering’s song had ceased, and the harmonious cauldron, fallen 
back to its utilitarian role, stood already filled with water, 
among the flames. As for Yongden, he was fast asleep ■mth 
his head resting against his barricade. 

The robbers had not dared to attack us, but they had spent 
the night near our camp. As.we were finishing eating our 
breakfast the three men appeared, each one leading a horse. 
My boys leaped to their feet and ran to them. 

“Who are you?” they asked. ‘We saw you yesterday. What 
are you doing here?” ‘ 

“We are hunters,” answered the newcomers. 

“Indeed! That is good luck for us. We have no meat left. 
We will buy some game from you.” 

The selfstyled hunters looked embarrassed. ‘We have not 
yet killed anything,” they said. 

My servants did not need to hear more. 

“Do you know,” asked Tsering of the three Tibetans, “who 
is the noble, reverend lady who travels with such a beautiful 
tent and wears a toga (kind of vest worn by lamas) of golden 
brocade?” 

“Would she be the philing Jetsunma who lived in Jakyendo? 
We have heard about her.” 

“Yes, she is. And you understand that she does not fear 
robbers any more than wild beasts or any other thing. One 
who stole the least of her belongings would immediately be 
discovered and caught. 

“In that case, she has only to look in a bowl full of water, 
and at once she sees in it the likeness of the thief, together with 
the stolen articles and the place where both are to be found.” 

“So it is really true,” said the men. “All the dokpas say 
white foreigners have this power.” 

“Nothing is more certain,” confirmed my head servant. 

Tsering was well acquainted with the story which was re 
peated among the cowmen, and he had cleverly taken advan 
tage of it to frighten the robbers and to dissuade them from 
going to bring their friends to rob us a few days later. 

About ten days after that incident, we st<aped for the night 
in front of an encampment of dokpas. I retired to tdf tent 
before night had fallen, and I heard many visitors in the camp. 
They were bringing presents of milk and butter, and Yongden 
told them that the lama lady had shut herself up for religious 
meditation and could not be disturbed, but that she would see 
them the following morning. Then some whispering took 
place, and a servant having called the dokpas to drink tea near 
the kitchen fire, they all moved away and I heard no more of 
what was said. 

At dawn Yongden asked permission to enter my tent. 

“I must,” he said, “inform you, before the dokpas call again, 
about the request they made yesterday. They say that some 
of their horses have been stolen, they do not know by whom, 
and they wish you to look in a bowl of water in order to de 
scribe to them the thieves and the place where they are keeping 
the stolen animals.” 

“What did you tell them?” I asked. 
“I think,” answered Yongden, “that maybe these men have 
bad intentions. Perhaps they have not suffered any loss and 
they only wish to know If what is said about that bowl of water 
and the magic power of the awhitc foreignera is really true or not. 
Who knows whether they have not an eye on our line Chinese 
mules and would not be delighted to steal them if they were 
convinced that you could not trace the thieves, especially if 
the robbery happened at a few days’ march from their own 
encampment, at a place where the tribe to which the brigands 
belong could not be located? If you tell them that you have 
seen their horses, and that none have been stolen, they will be 
convinced that you have not been able to detect their lie, and 
that, therefore, as you are powerless in magic, they may loot 
us with impunity. I accordingly explained to them that you 
could indeed see all that they want to know in a bowl of water, 
but that the water needed is somewhat different from the 
ordinary water just drawn from the stream. This water must 
be prepared by ceremonies and the recitation of a ritual that 
lasts for three days. They understood this at once. I.theri said 
that it was doubtful if you would stay here three days, because 
you were called to Amdo for an important meeting with a great 
lama. Also, as I know how much they shrink from the idea 
of killing in cold blood a man who has only stolen property, I 
added that as soon as you had discovered the thieves you 
would hand them over to the Chinese magistrate to be put to 
death. It would be, I said, in the power of no one to spare 
their lives. The Towo, Wrathful Deity, by whose power this 
natatory rite is performed would claim them as victims and, 
if they were not sacrificed, he would turn his anger against 
the who had requested the rite to be performed, and he would 
take their lives instead. 

“On hearing this, they all became terrified. They declared 
that they feared to irritate the Totoo, and preferred to look 
after their horses in their own way, trying to get a good compensation from the thieves.” 

I smiled at his ruse, and when the dokpas came with some 
more presents, I repeated to them the very things Yongden 
had told them the day before, so that they definitely gave 
up all idea of requesting the celebration of the too tragic rite. 

The head servant, Tsering, had travelled in his early youth 
as far as Tachienlu, and had been in the service of foreigners. 
As a result of these associations he had acquired a skepticism 
which he liked to display before his more credulous companions. During the next few days, he did not cease making the incident a subject of his jokes, and laughing at the simpletons 
who had been so easily fooled. 

By that time we had reached the shore of the large blue 
lake, the most holy Kokonor, worshipped by thousands of 
Tibetans and Mongolians. The rains were over. I could 
again see that wonderful inland sea, bathed in bright sunshine, 
and its rocky islands, the largest of which has been for cen 
turies the dwelling of a few anchorites. 
Once when I was coming back to the camp after having 
bathed in the lake, I saw Tsering leaving Yongden’s tent and 
hastily putting something in his breast pocket. He looked a 
little aatated and proceeded quickly toward the kitchen place 
without noticing me. The same evening Yongden told me that, 
having been called away on some business while counting 
money, he had left his purse on a box in his tent and had 
forgotten about it. When he returned, three rupees were 
missing. 

I did not tell him about Tsering. I only scolded him for 
his carelessness, and the thing ended there. 

‘Three days later I arranged on my camp table a few blades 
of grass and some rice. I lighted several incense sticks, and in 
the middle I placed a bowl full of water. Then I waited until I 
knew that the servants were in, their tent, undressed and Ijdng 
down, if not yet asleep. At that time, according to their custom, 
all their most precious belongings, and especially their money, 
would be hidden beneath whatever they used as a pillow. 

For a while I rang the small bell and beat the tambourine 
used by lamas in their religious ceremonies. Then I called 
Tsering. 

“Tsering,” I said with a stern voice, when he appeared, 
“three rupees are missing from Lama Yongden’s purse. I have 
seen them under your head when you were lying down. Go 
and fetch them!” 

The skeptic dropped his manner of sneering incredulity. He 
turned pale, his teeth were chattering. He bowed down three 
times at my feet and without a word went to the servants’ tent 
and brought back the money. 

“Jetsun Kusho rimpoche,” he asked, trembling, “will the 
Towo kill me!” 

“No,” I answered, gravely. “I shall do what is needed to 
spare your life.” 

He bowed down again and went away. 

Then, alone in my small tent, open to the silent desert and 
the bright starry sky, I took once more the lamaist bell and 
the drum of mystic rites and, led by their archaic music, I 
meditated on the strength of ancestral faiths in the human 
mind and on the deep and mysterious side of the farce that 
had just been enacted. 

In Tibet, adventures with robbers have always a certain 
picturesqueness, of the kind, however, that one does not want 
in too large a quantity, so that I was glad to meet no more 
rufiians on my way during the days that followed my dramatic 
performance in the. forest. 
We were now nearing Tongyuk, where a zong has been cunningly placed at the intersection of two roads for the examination of travellers proceeding to Lhasa. Like many things in Tibet, this clevernesses a little childish, and a pedestrian can dodge it without making extraordinary efforts. 

From Tongyuk one can reach Giamda, the capital of the 
Kongbu province, by a much more direct track than that which 
winds far to the south touching the Brahmaputra. I have 
been told that it crosses uninhabited regions, and for that 
reason travellers prefer the long bend on the south. Time has 
but little value in the East, and the safety and convenience 
of a road are the main concern of all Tibetan  travellers. It is 
also possible to travel northwards from Tongyuk toward the 
grassy solitudes. ' 

Although only a few of them are shown on the maps, Tibet 
is crossed by a large number of tracks, some easy, some rough; 
and, save in exceptional circumstances, the future explorers of 
the unsurveyed regions need not fear the necessity of cutting 
their way with axes through impassable jungles. What I say 
applies, of course, only to people who can travel according 
to the native fashion, as I have done on all my journeys. If 
one needs large tents, tables, chairs, tinned Western food, an 
oven to bake the bread, and a gramophone which some ex 
plorers carried in their luggage, then perhaps he will get into 
trouble with the rustic Tibetan  paths, and also, perhaps, with 
the sturdy hillmen who have made them. 

The toll bridge of Tongyuk spans a narrow but rather deep 
mountain stream, which throws itself into the river Tongyuk 
a litde farther on. It is cleared by a gate, and near by is the 
house of the bridgekeeper. When we knocked at the gate, 
the latter set it just ajar to look at us. Without leaving him 
the time to put any question, we asked, hurriedly, as if in 
great anxiety: 

“Are our friends there?” 

“Which friends?” enquired the man. 

‘That large party of Sera and Depung monks.” , 

‘They left this morning.” 

“What a pity!” we both lamented. 

The keeper bad opened the door a litde more. We took 
immediate advantage of this to step in, continuing the while 
to make the poor fellow giddy with our questions. We wished 
to know if the trapas had not left a message for us, and also 
a bag containing some dried meal which belonged to us. 
Yongden eyed the Tibetan  in a suspicious way, and the lat 
ter endeavoured to convince him that no one of the party had 
handed him anything, protesting that he was too honest to 
keep the property of a lama! 

My companion, intent upon the question of the dried meat, 
seemed to have forgotten everything else, especially the fact 
that travellers had to apply at the zong to get permission to 
proceed. His pretence was played in a masterly fashion. Yet 
I thought that the keeper, although he looked bewildered, 
might still bear his duty in mind and remind us of the per 
mission we had to secure before proceeding farther. I asked 
in a whining voice: “Has the ponpo given some solra [alms] 
to our friends?” 

“I do not know,” was the answer. 

“Well,” I replied, “I shall try to get some. My son, the 
lama, has hurt his foot. We have fallen back and have no 
food left, now that this bag of dried meat Is not here.” 

“About the bag I will know through a wo,” said Yongden, 
sternly, “My mos never fail to be true.” 

“Yes, yes,” the suspected innocent gladly agreed, “wo gyab, 
lama. You can see the ponpa afterwards.” 

“I am going at once,” I declared. “Maybe he will be kind 
to me.” 

This was a matter of indifference to the keeper. 

I went, and on nearing the officiaFs residence I met a rather 
welldressed man. I saluted him most politely, and enquired 
if I could be shown the way to the ponpo, 

“What do you want?” he asked. 

I explained that my son, a trapa from Sera monastery, be 
longed to the party which had crossed Tongyuk the day before, 
and that, owing to his bad foot, we had lingered behind, and 
were now making haste to join our companions, since we had 
no food. I then produced with affected shyness two trankas, 
to be offered, I said, to the ponpo when my son, the lama, 
came, which would bo very soon. At present he was enquiring 
at the gatekeeper’s about a bag that our friends should have 
left behind for us, and in the meantime I wished to beg a solra. 

The man snatched the two silver coins , I expected this!, 
and told me to wait. Then he went away. A few minutes 
later a servant brought me a small bowl full of tsampa and, 
from a distance, I heard the voice of the one who had taken 
my money commanding: ‘Take her down. It is useless for 
the trapa to come here.” 

So the servant went ahead. What he said to the gate 
keeper I do not know. I found the latter rejoicing proudly 
because Yongden, whose mos were infallible, had discovered 
that our friends had not handed our dried meat to him! I 
deemed it wiser not to remain to investigate the identity of the 
man whom I had seen near the zong. 

Once more we had escaped. We made haste to be off, which 
did not appear strange, since we were supposed to be anxious 
to overtake our party, and that evening we camped in a beautiful forest. Only the toll bridge of Giamda now remained on our way. But this was still a long distance ahead, and we had 
time enough before us to devise some plan. 

I was heartily thankful for our lucky meeting with the 
party of travellers. In the first place, they had prevented the 
Popas from robbing and perhaps injuring us. In the second 
place they had made our crossing over the river Ygong both 
eaasy and speedy. And lastly, although we were no longer with 
them, we had been able to make use of them to get smoothly 
through the Tongyuk Post. May they be justly rewarded for 
their aid! 

We were now nearing the end of the track which is called 
the “Po Southern Road”, a borderland region 
that joins the ‘"Kongbu Southern Road”. 
It is mostly covered, by forest, and villages are scarce. Although the inhabitants of that zone have no better name than those of the upper country, we passed through it without any trouble. 

The women of this part of Tibet wear, as do those of Po yul 
a fur dress over which they slip a kind of large chasuble, made 
of bearskin for the rich, and of dark goatskin for the common 
lot. Both garments are worn, like all fur in Tibet, with the 
hair inside. Men also wear a scapular, but it does not reach 
farther than the waist, while those of the women fall nearly 
to the knees. 

What struck me was the sight of the women with black 
round felt hats of a Westernlike shape. Had these been 
trimmed with a ribbon, a feather, or a bunch of flowers, 
they could have been shown in the window of any millinery 
shop. 

More remarkable still were the mournful and pathetic tunes 
which I heard along my way. At first I was led to think that 
they belonged to some peculiar religious rites performed in 
the depth of the forest. But circumstances disclosed a less 
poetic truth. 

Hearing from a distance a slow, poignant, and really impres 
sive dirge, I walked across the jungle in the direction of the 
invisible choir. As I progressed, my imagination already pic 
tured a funeral or some still more dreadful spectacle. Slightly 
excited, as the traveller may well be on nearing an interesting 
situation, I strode through the thicket and reached the border 
of a clearing. There were the mournful singers , about thirty 
women clad In goatskin, wearing the national black felt hat. 
The work in which they were engaged had nothing of a dramatic character. They were merely carrying logs of wood 
which the males of their tribe had felled higher upon the hill, 
and the dirge helped them to keep step when the heavy loads 
were borne by several of them together. The words of the song 
were not especially melancholy. Where could that strange 
tune have originated? I never heard anything like it in other 
parts of Tibet. 
The women rested in the clearing, and a loud prattling took 
the place of the singing. Their gossip occupied the woodcarriers enough to prevent them from noticing me through the foliage. I remained hidden, for had I shown myself I could 
not have avoided having to talk. Also I should have heard no 
more of the song. 

After a while, the blackcapped village girls and housewives 
got up, loaded their logs, and the melodious lament of their 
deep contralto voices spread again through the forest. 

I followed them at a distance as far as the path where I 
joined Yongden. While I was away, two travellers who were 
returning to the Ygong district had asked him to make mos. 
He had just finished with these and had received his hon 
orarium, some tsampa and two handfuls of dried apricots. 

When we emerged from the Po forests, we reached an open 
country formed by the wide intersection of several valleys. A 
number of important villages were scattered in this large area, 
which is partly cultivated and partly left as pasture land. The 
scenery is exceedingly beautiful and looks a little , but on a 
much larger scale , like some landscapes in the French or Swiss 
Alps. 

The region extending to the north is still unexplored. I felt 
very much tempted to undertake a scouting tour over the 
ranges which rose between the Tongyuk river and the Giamda 
river. 

Time, unfortunately, was short. I should have to make haste 
if I wanted to be in Lhasa to witness the New Year festivals. 
I also feared to attract the attention of the villagers if I was 
seen wandering out of the main paths. What could I answer, 
in that case, when asked where I was going? In Tibet, no one 
roams for pleasure. Tibetans deem it absurd to walk if not 
compelled to do so by some definite business. 

When the people of the borderland hear about foreigners 
climbing the hills, travelling through distant lands or merely 
taking photographs, they cannot believe that this is done for 
personal satisfaction only. According to their opinion, explorers 
and tourists are all working for a salary paid by their govern 
ments. What sensible man, think the Tibetans, would take 
the trouble to move when he could remain seated at home? 
Only the necessity of earning money, or the desire to acquire 
religious merit, could induce them to do such a thing. 

Had I know the name of a monastery or of a zong situated 
in that direction, I could have used it to explain my journey. 
But I did not even know where to find the track which led to 
the opposite side of the range. I was not even certain that 
such a track existed; I only suspected it. 

Nevertheless, I started, but at night, in order to be out of 
sight when the villagers went to work in their fields the next 
morning. 
I reached a wooded ridge, descended it, and, having climbed 
another one, I came in sight of snowy crests. I had walked 
for two days, and could be nearly certain that I was about to 
reach the Giamda river. On the other hand, I desired to see 
the Brahmaputra, and as I have just said, time was short , too 
short to allow me to turn back south toward the Brahmaputra, after reaching the Giamda river, and then having to retrace my steps to reach Lhasa via Giamda Zong. 

On the evening of the second day, while Yongden boiled the 
tea, I was still pondering over the itinerary I should choose, 
when suddenly, like a ghost in an olden tale, a lama appeared 
on the scene. We had not heard him coming. In fact, he did 
not seem to have come. One would almost have believed 
that he had just sprung out of the ground in front of us. 
Tibetans who wear dokpas boots with soft flexible soles do 
not make any noise In walking, yet there was something so 
unexpected, so instantaneous in the apparition of the lama, that 
Yongden and I looked at him in wonder. 

He was dressed in the very plain garb of the gompehens, 
which is somewhat different in shape from that worn by the 
inmates of the monasteries. The tentreng was hung round 
his neck, and the long irontipped staff which he carried was 
surmounted by a trident. 

He sat down near the fire without uttering a word, and did 
not even answer our polite greeting, aKale jou den jags/aa 
Yongden tried, but without success, to engage him in conversa 
tion. We then concluded that, according to a custom often 
followed by ascetics, he had made a vow of silence. 

This mute stranger, who looked at me fixedly, proved embarrassing. I should have liked to see him get up and go away, or do something that was natural to travellers , eat or drink. 
But he had no baggage with him, not even a bag of tsampa, 
which was an extraordinary thing in this country devoid of 
inns. What did he 'feed on? Seated crosslegged beside his 
trident, which he had stuck in the ground, he looked like a 
statue with only the eyes alive. Night had fallen. Was he 
going to stay? 

The tea was ready; the enigmatic wayfarer drew from be 
neath his robe a skull fashioned to serve as a bowl, and held 
it out to Yongden. As a rule, into these lugubrious cups used 
only by followers of the tantrik sects, no beverages except 
spirits are poured. My young companion made a gesture of 
excuse, saying, “Gompehen, we have no chang} We never 
drink any.” 

“Give me what you have,” replied the lama, opening his 
mouth for the first time. “It is all the same to me.” 

Sunk again in silence, he drank and ate a little tsampa. He 
did not seem to be going away, neither did he appear to want 
to sleep by the fire. 
Suddenly, without departing from his immobility, he ad 
dressed me: 

“Jetsunma,” he said, “what have you done with your tentreng, your %en, and with your ‘rings of the initiate’?” 

My heart stopped beating. This man knew me! He had 
seen me dressed as a gompehenma, either in Kham, in the 
northern solitudes, in Amdo, or in Tsang ,where, I did not 
know. But his words showed clearly that I was not a stranger 
to him. 

Yongden tried to prevaricate. He did not know, he stammered, what the lama meant. 
But the strange traveller did not give him time to invent a story. 

away!” he commanded in an imperious tone. 
’ Beer or barley spirits. 

I had recovered my sangfroid. Deception was useless. I 
could not recall this man’s features or anything else about 
him, but as it was evident that I had been detected, it was 
better to brave the situation out, for this lama probably would 
have no interest in denouncing me. ' 

“Go,” I told Yongden, “light a fire for yourself a little 
further off.” He took a handful of wood, a blazing ember, 
and went away. 

“Do not try to remember, Jetsunma,” said the ascetic to 
me when we were alone. “I have as many faces as I desire, 
and you have never seen this one.” 

The conversation which followed was a long one on sub 
jects pertaining to Tibetan  philosophy and mysticism. Finally 
he arose and, staff in hand, vanished like a phantom, as he had 
come. His footsteps made no sound upon the stony path. He 
entered the jungle, and seemed to melt away in it. 

I called Yongden and put an end to his questions by saying 
laconically: “This gompehen knows us, though I cannot remember having seen him, but he will not denounce us,” 

Then I lay down, making a pretence of sleeping so that 
I might be left undisturbed with the thoughts that my talk 
with the lama had aroused. Soon a rosy light spread in the 
sky and day broke. I had been listening to the mysterious 
traveller the whole night long without noticing how time passed. 
We revived the fire and prepared our humble breakfast. 

The nature of my conversation with the lama should have 
completely reassured me as to the possibility of denunciation 
by a man of his character. But my mind was overtired by 
months of painful watching and anxiety, and I could not en 
tirely prevent fear from creeping back into it. I did not feel 
any longer inclined to continue toward the Giamda valley. 
By going forward in that direction, the strange gompehen had 
more or less answered my enquiry about the existence of a 
way across the range. Unless he was going to some anchoritic 
dwelling hidden in the recesses of the mountain, he would most 
probably descend the slopes of the Giamda basin. Moreover, 
though I had been deeply interested In our nocturnal talk, I 
preferred to avoid following in the steps of anyone who knew 
me. 

“Let us turn back,” I said to Yongden. “We will cross the 
Temo pass and see the large Temo monastery. You may be 
able to purchase there the warm dress which you need so 
badly” 

We went down again into the broad valley, followed it 
toward the head, skirting several villages, and finally reached 
the foot of the Temo pass. I preferred it to the Nyima pass,
situated to the southeastward, because the road to the latter 
has been surveyed, which is not the case with the track crossing 
the Temo. 

At dusk we reached a large wellbuilt house that stood 
alone in the pastures near the river. In spite of its com 
fortable appearance this massive building of grey stone looked 
rather disquieting. Perhaps its surroundings of densely wooded 
black ranges were responsible for that impression, or it was 
perhaps its greyish colour. Be this as it may, hospitality was 
Immediately granted to us and we were led upstairs to a large 
and comfortable but dim room. Yongden and I boiled some 
soup and we had begun to eat it when a lama entered, followed by the mistress of the house, who carried his few pack ages. We understood that we were to be given a companion 
for the night. This did not please us, but there was no way 
of avoiding it. The apartment in which we had been allowed 
to stay was the best after the host’s private quarters. Traders 
returning from Lhasa occupied the other rooms, and in puttying 
two lamas together the housewife had shown courtesy to both. 

The traveller appeared to be a polite and quiet man. He 
spread out his carpet at the end of the room opposite to us. 
He then approached the fire to boil his tea. Politely Yongden 
told him that he could dispense with that trouble, for soup was 
ready and we would make tea afterward. The lama accepted
the invitation, at the same time producing some bread and 
other provisions which he placed at Yongden’s disposal to add 
to the meal he was to share with us. Having done this, he sat 
down and began to eat. 

Tibetan  custom required me to remain humbly at some distance, and I took advantage of this to observe from my dark 
corner the lama taking his meal near the blazing fire. 

A gomthaga slung across the shoulders of his Chinese travelling robe, some other details of his dress, and the staff mounted with a trident which he had thrust upright between 
two boards of the floor on entering the room, revealed to me 
that he belonged to one of the “Red Cap” sects, most likely the 
Zogs chen. 

The mystic dung khatanga lighted by the flames leaping 
from the hearth, cast moving shadows on the red wall. It 
brought to that commonplace country house something of the 
fascinating occult atmosphere of the Tibetan  ascetic dwellings 
and reminded me of other anchorites with whom I had so 
journed or whom I had visited on my way. It would have 
especially recalled the gompchen to whom I had, a few days 
before, listened a whole night through, had I forgotten him, 
which was far from being the case. 

But aside from that symbolic implement, common to all 
Tantrik lamas, our new companion had nothing of the silent 
mystery of the one who had so unexpectedly Joined us In the 
forest. He turned out to be a most pleasant and wellread 
literatus of the Kham province, quite ready to converse. 

At first I listened to him from a distance, as my disguise 
compelled me to do, but after a while, seeing that Yongden 
could not follow his really very erudite and highly philosophical 
colleague, and that I should thus miss hearing the latter’s view 
on a question which interested me, I forgot prudence and 
intruded upon the lama’s talk. The stranger did not appear 
astonished at the knowledge , quite uncommon for one of her 
kind , showed by the poorly dressed lay woman who seated 
herself before him. Deeply absorbed In his subject, he perhaps 
did not pay much attention to his questioners. 

We remained far into the night, quoting from the old books, 
offering explanations, referring to the commentaries of famous 
authors. I was delighted. 

But when I awoke, before the daybreak, the fear which 
had tormented me so much at the beginning of my journey 
made me tremble again. It was not enough that I had been 
recognized by the mysterious gompchen. I had now impru 
dently shown myself well acquainted with Buddhist and Tan 
trlk philosophies. Perhaps I had made the lama who spent 
the night with us suspicious! What a fool I had been! What 
would come of it? Should I reach Lhasa? 

It was in this cheerless mood that I began the climb toward 
the Tempo pass, after having left the philosopher traveller still 
asleep in the grey stone house. 

We crossed the pass without difficulty, though the snow 
was rather deep near the summit. The road lay through 
woods all the way. It was good, but it is a long tramp from 
the top of the pass to the foot of the hill, on the slope looking 
towards the Brahmaputra. Temo, an important place with 
several gompas and lhakangs, besides the large monastery, was 
reached at dusk. 

We pitched our tent in an out of the way spot in the fields, 
when we felt confident that village people were shut indoors 
and asleep. The moon was full, the sky was wonderfully clear, 
and at the same time a bank of mist, about ten or twelve feet 
from the ground, extended all over the valley and created the 
bizarre illusion of an immense veil shrouding the earth. 

After a peaceful rest I awoke early, or rather I thought that 
I awoke, for, most probably, it was only a dream born of 
my anxieties and of the recent meetings. The day had just 
dawned: I saw a lama standing before me. He did not resem 
ble gompchen nor the literates I had left on the other side 
of the range. He was clothed in the white habit of the reskyangs,a his head was bare, and a long tress of hair fell to his heels. 

aaetsunma,” he said to me, at his dress of a poor laywoman, 
and the role of old mother which you have adopted, do not suit 
you at all. You have taken on the mentality proper to the 
part. You were braver when you wore your zen and your 
tentreng. You must put them on again later, when you have 
been to Lhasa. You will get there. Do not fear

He smiled with a sort of benevolent sarcasm: Jigs med 
naljorma nga, means I, a fearless yogini,” he quoted, from a poem 
I was very fond of reciting. 

I wanted to answer him, but now I really began to wake. 
The first rays of the rising sun gleamed upon my forehead, 
the space before me was empty, and through the open curtain 
of the small tent I only saw, far away, the shining golden roofs 
of the Temo gompa. 

Most luckily, Yongden found, at the very first place of call, 
all that he needed for provisions and clothing. It was quite 
time! His monastic dress was in rags, and now that we were 
out of the cover of the forests he felt the cold at night. He 
got an old lama travelling robe, which fitted him well enough; 
the material was of good quality, so that, clothed in it, my 
companion looked like a welltodo pilgrim whose dress had 
been worn out during the journey. A kind man presented him 
with a goatskin for a carpet to sleep on, a luxury which he 
much appreciated. 

At Temo I heard for the first time some news which caused 
me great anxiety. The Penchen lama of Tashilhumpo had 
fled from his residence. Soldiers had been sent to Capture 
him and what had happened afterward was not known 
by those who told us the story. 

The Penchen Tashi lama, as I have explained in the Introduc 
tion of this book, had been my host, and a very kind one. 
For years I corresponded with his mother, who never failed 
to send me, at the beginning of each winter, a pair of felt 
boots and a bonnet of yellow brocade which she had embroidered and sewn herself. 

•How could it be that the mighty spiritual lord of Shigatze 
had become a fugitive? Truly, I did not altogether forget that 
he was far from being in good odour at the court of Lhasa. 
His avowed sympathy for China and his aversion to the mili 
tary expenditures had greatly displeased the Tibetan  king. 
I knew that on several occasions heavy contributions had been 
exacted from him, but I had never thought that he might be 
forced to fly from Tibet, where he is worshipped as the incar 
nation of a most high spiritual entity. Later on, I got some 
details about that truly Oriental political drama. The story 
may be of interest. 

As years elapsed, the hatred of the Dalai lama and of the 
Court party, won over to the British influence, had increased 
against the Tashi lama. He had been ordered to levy more 
money in his Province and hand it over to the Lhasa govern 
ment. People from whom I got these details said that the 
officials dispatched to collect it could not gather the amount 
required, and that the Tashi lama proposed to the Dalai lama 
to go himself on a collecting round in Mongolia, where his per 
sonal prestige might achieve the result which had not been at 
tained by his envoys In the already impoverished villages of 
Tsang. This permission had been refused, and the Penchen 
Tashi lama was asked to go to Lhasa. 

A new house was built for him in the park of Norbu ling, the 
habitual residence of the Dalai lama. (I saw it, apparently 
unfinished, in a rather remote part of the estate.) It was said 
that a jail was attached to the house, and that it was on learn 
ing of the imminent danger which threatened him that the 
Tashi lama had run for his life with a few followers’ across 
the northern wilds. 

Did the Court of Lhasa really mean to imprison the Griand Tnng, a large Tibetan  province situated to the west of the  province whose capital is Lhasa. The capital of Tsang is Shigatze, where stands the great monastery of Tashilhumpo. 

The revenge of the Court party on 'those who had sided with 
the Chinese after the latter had been driven out from Tibet 
seems to have been sometimes cruel. I have been told of a 
Grand Lama who, on account of his dignity as a a‘tulku,” a could 
not be openly executed. The poor man was imprisoned, and 
allowed to die of starvation. But the members of his ecclesialtic household, dignitaries of his monastery, were tortured, iron nails being trust in their bodies day after day until death 
came. 

Is there any exaggeration in such stories? I do not know. 

At about the same time, a member of the high Tibetan  
nobility who as a state minister had supported the Chinese 
was killed at the Potala. It is said that he was summoned 
before the ruler, who had just returned to the capital. There 
he was first stripped of his silken robes, beaten mercilessly, 
then bound, and thrown down the long flight of steps which 
go from the top of the Potala to the foot of the hill. He was 
still alive when he reached the bottom and was there executed 
on the post. His son, having heard about the dreadful execu 
tion, and foreseeing his own fate, attempted to flee, but was shot 
as he rode away. 

As a peculiar specimen of the Tibetan  mentality I will add 
that the widow of the unfortunate minister, his daughter, and 
his daughter-in-law, were all three given as wives to a favourite 
of the ruler who, being ennobled, received the title and the 
estate of the late minister. 

I deem it useless to give any name. The man who has taken 
the succession of the late Tibetan  lord is perhaps quite inno 
cent of his tragic end.

I can state that, even now, more than twelve years after the 
victorious revolt against China, three high ecclesiastical dignitaries are still detained as state prisoners at Lhasa. One of One of those lamaist dignitaries whom foreign writezs call im properly a incarnated lamas and "living Buddhas.’ 

But to return to the Tashi lama. Whether entirely true, or 
even only pardy true in its detail, the account of his flight, as I 
heard it, was really dramatic. 

For nearly two years, one of his faithful friends with whom 
I am personally acquainted had scoured the country disguised 
as a pilgrim in order to discover the roads that offered the 
greatest safety for a speedy flight. He had not yet come back 
from his last tour when the Tashi lama, deeming that things 
had now grown too threatening to admit of further delay, left 
Shigatze hurriedly. His friend, the lama Lobzang, arrived there 
the following day. He ran after his master, but was compelled 
to turn back because of a fresh fall of snow which completely 
blocked the pass. 

Tibet was no longer safe for him. He crossed the Indian 
border, but his movements were known. Telegrams were sent 
in all directions, giving orders to arrest him. Nevertheless, he 
succeeded in sailing for China a few hours before the order to 
seize him had reached the harbour. ' 

As for the Tashi lama, a Tibetan  official in charge of a small 
ion (that of Reading or another in the same region) had 
detected him amongst a party passing near his residence. Fear 
ing to make a mistake, afraid also to lay his hands on the 
exalted person of Gd pa med, before whom all Tibetans, 
Mongolians, Manchurians, all lamaists of Siberia and even of 
the far away shores of the Volga, prostrate themselves with 
utmost reverence, he dispatched a messenger to Lhasa to inform 
the ruler. 

At Lhasa, everybody believed the Tashi lama was at Shigatze, and the inhabitants of that town, as well as the monks 
of the Tashilhumpo monastery, were not aware of his flight. 

When the official dispatched by the Dalai lama had ascertained that the Tashi lama was truly gone, three hundred soldiers were mustered under a depunga and were ordered to 
bring back the fugitive. But much time had been lost.  The 
Tashi lama and his companions had doubtless excellent horses. 
I remembered the large stable full of fine beasts which I 'an sited 
at Shigatze, and could easily understand that the regiment 
reached the Chinese border after the Tashi lama was safe on 
the other side. 
No need to add that the simple account of a political drama 
could not satisfy the mind of Oriental masses. The flight of 
the Tashi lama was only a few months old when I reached 
Lhasa, only to find that it had already become a legend. After 
he had fled from Shigatze, said some, the lama had left there 
a perfect likeness of himself, a phantom who acted exactly as 
he used to do, and thus all those who were not in the secret 
were deceived. It was only when the Tashi lama was safely in 
China that the phantom vanished. But others told the tale 
in a different way. According to them (and they were many) 
it was the phantom which had fled to China, and the real 
Penchen Rimpoche was still at Shigatze, invisible to his enemies, but visible to his fa,ithful subjects and the pilgrim devotees. ' 

I was to learn all these details later on, but the first vague 
news received at Temo made me fear that my host was not 
yet safe. I thought of his good mother, my friend. What had 
become of her in that storm? This also I did not know, 
namely, that before her beloved son had fled, death had liberated the kind lady fr6m all her earthly troubles. 
As I proceeded toward the Brahmaputra, brooding sadly 
over this strange event, a sudden memory came back to me. 

A little more than Jtwo years before, while I was staying at 
Jakyendo, a bard from Kham chanted for me the famous 
Tibetan  Iliad, the poem of aaKing Gesar of Link.” In the 
course of his recital the man related to me some old prophecies 
connected with the coming of the northern warrior Messiah, 
expected by the Tibetans. One of them actually announced 
that the Tashi lama would leave Tibet, proceeding to the 
north. 

I listened with the utmost incredulity, and jokingly asked 
him in how many centuries the event would take place. My 
bard, who was a rather enigmatic person, seriously declared 
that I should see the fulfilment of the prophecy, and that the 
Tashi lama would leave Shigatze before two and a half years 
had gone by. 

This seemed to me still more improbable, even absurd, and 
yet there I was. In the heart of Tibet, hearing about the 
flight into the northern solitudes of the mystic lord of Tash 
ilhumpo,a which actually happened just two years and one 
month after the prophecy. 

Strange coincidence? But what next? Would the other 
prophecies also prove true? Would a hero arise in the mythi 
cal Shambala, which modern Tibetans identify with Siberia, 
surround himself with an army of stern, invincible soldiers 
and unite all Asia under one rule?. A dream, maybe, but 
thousands, nay, millions, dream it in the East. 

From Temo, we reached the sandy banks of the Brahma 
putra. The large majestic river, in its setting of high hills, 
breathes a spirit of calm and peace which takes a firm hold 
of one’s inner consciousness. Landscapes' have a language of 
their own, expressing the soul of the things, lofty or humble, 
which constitute them, from the mighty peaks to the smallest 
of the tiny flowers hidden in the meadows grass. The Brahmaputra spoke of serenity, and in this serenity all our preoccupations, fears, and cares were drowned. 

Amongst the interesting sights on our road, before we turned 
northward, following the Giamda river upstream, were parties 
numbering hundreds of Bon pilgrims who circumambulated the 
Kongbu Bon hill,a one of the most sacred of the holy places of 
their religion. 

The Bons are followers of the faith that prevailed in Tibet 
before the introduction of Buddhism. Their beliefs may orig 
inally have been much like those of the shamanists of Siberia, 
but it is most difficult to be certain of this, for at the time 
when primitive Bon doctrines existed in Tibet, writing was 
probably not known in the country. Consequently, there is 
no hope of finding any genuine Bon scriptures.. The Bons 
themselves affirm that they possess books of a high antiquity, 
written before Buddhism entered Tibet. There may be some 
thing true in these affirmations, but up to the present no au 
thentic proofs have come to light. Nowadays Bons resemble, 
in so far as their religious practices are concerned, the old “Red 
Caps” sect, called ningmamngma, means “the most ancient of the 
ancients”, with the difference that they slaughter animals for 
sacrifices. As for their monasteries, they have copied those of 
the lamas; their clergy wear a habit identical with that of the 
lamaists and they style themselves lamas as well. ' 

In brief, the White Bons are merely lamaists who have kept 
a part of the old religious practices, just as the lamaists have 
incorporated in Buddhism an almost equal part of the same. 
The Black Bons are more original and nearer the primitive 
shamanism. Most of them are only ignorant, vulgar sorcerers, 
but a few interesting and intelligent men may be found here 
and there in their midst who hold peculiarly bold philosophical 
views, and some of them are believed to be powerful magicians. 

However, the common run of the Sons distinguish themselves 
from the lamaists only by keeping their sacred edifices on the 
Iftft when circumambulating these, whereas the lamaists keep 
them on the right. One may add that, instead of the formula 
“Aunt Manx Padme hum” recited by the lamaists, the Bons 
repeat “Aum MatriyS salendu” which some travellers have 
understood as “Matri Matris da dzu” Space forbids treating 
the subject in fuller detail. 

Many of the pilgrims went round the mountain, prostrating 
themselves at each step, that is to say that, stretching their 
arms as they lay on the ground, and marking with their fingers 
the length they had covered with their bodies, they would 
then get up and stand at the exact place which their fingers 
had touched, after which they would again prostrate them 
selves and measures their length once more, and so on, all the 
way.
Lamaists perform these repeated prostrations around the 
monasteries containing especially holy relics, such as the grave 
of Tsong Khapa. During my stay at Lhasa I saw men circum 
ambulating the sacred city in this fashion. One even hears 
of people who come thus from distant Mongolia to Lhasa, pass 
ing years on the road. 

The Bon pilgrims were mostly tall, athletic fellows with bold 
energetic faces. To see them stretched head downwards when 
descending steep, rocky slopes was indeed a striking sight. 
A large number of women also walked around the hill, and 
some accomplished the exhausting and endless prostrations with 
remarkable courage. 

We left the Brahmaputra, continuing upstream along the 
river Giamda. We visited on our way the Pu chung ser kyi 
Lhakhang, a small goldenroofed temple with a golden altar. 

Then, as I made my way along the valley, I noticed the 
air of abandon, of ruin, which prevailed all over the country. 
Deserted villages had fallen in ruins, the jungle triumphed, 
the lands which had been cleared and cultivated. 

Chinese posts had existed on the road , at that time the main 
road , which follows the left bank of the river. One could 
see, here and there, high watch towers crumbling into ruins. 
Around them a Chinese population had settled and cultivated 
the country. The track along which they stood was now 
haunted by daring robbers from the mountains I had thought 
of crossing before my meeting with the strange gompehen. 
People of the neighbouring villages had strongly advised me to 
cross the river and proceed on its right bank, although it was 
a longer way round, because the country was a little more 
populated and safer on that side. Yet even this bank was 
sparsely populated. Indeed, after Chimazong, we saw little 
but solitary forests. 

On that road I twice met lonely pilgrims, like the man I had 
seen at the beginning of my journey dying near the Kha Karpo, 
but In this case both were women. One of them, In spite of our 
pressing advice and the little money we had given her, did not 
appear inclined to ask hospitality in a village house. We left 
her behind, but she overtook us by walking at night, though 
this time she appeared to be at the end of her tether. We 
offered to lead her to a hamlet near by, but she refused. She 
wanted to light a fire under the trees on the border of the road; 
Yongden collected some wood which he placed near her, and 
then we went away. The last sight I had of her showed me the 
abandoned devotee seated next to the fire that was beginning to 
burn. A thin bluish spiral of smoke rose straight before her and 
dissolved in space , a symbol, it seemed, of the life which was 
about to depart. 

The second wanderer I met lay under a thin shelter made 
of branches by some halfcompassionate villagers whose kindness was strong enough to help the sick and lone pilgrim, but did not go so far as to give her a corner in their homes. With 
the woman remained her little dog, which barked ferociously 
and tried its best to frighten away those who approached its 
mistress. The poor faithful thing was really touching. Here 
again I could do no more than give her a little money and pass 
on my way. Is there a more cruel torture than to have continually to pass on one's way, powerless to relieve the countless sorrows which lie along all the roads of the world! 

Giamda, which is considered all over Tibet to be an impor 
tant town, is little more than a village, but its situation at 
the intersection of the main road from Lhasa to Chlamdo and 
the road to the Brahmaputra gives it perhaps a strategic and 
trading interest. Although the town is situated at a height of 
nearly 11000 feet, the climate of the valley is warm and, during the day, when the sun shines, equals even in January that of summer in such European countries as Belgium. 

Travellers on their way to Lhasa, after having crossed a 
toll bridge, must appear before an official to get permission to 
proceed. 

How often I had discussed with Yongden the best way in 
which to surmount this obstacle! As a rule things appear much 
more difficult and terrifying in the course of such discussions 
than when the moment of action has arrived. 

To pass through Giamda was an easy matter. We crossed 
the bridge, paid the toll, and were led by a boy to the official's 
house. I sent Yongden in and sat down on a stone in the 
dust, at the door. Many people passed through the narrow 
street, and no one took any special notice of me. 

Yongden saluted the gentleman of the zong, or perhaps he 
saw only his secretary or some pretty clerk of the place. After 
a few minutes he came out, and we took up our loads the 
dreaded Giamda was left behind. 

We were now on the post road,a the only one which crosses 
Tibet. The progress of civilization along it is seen in the 
shape of small buildings like shrines which mark the miles. 
Indeed I took the first one I saw to be a rustic village chapel, 
or tsa tsa house.® What added to the illusion was that on some 
of them lay carved stones bearing the usual Aunt mam padme 
hum, or other such formulas, and that I could see around them 
the trace of circum ambulation in the little path made by the 
feet of the devotees. It was one of these which helped me to 
discover my mistake. Seeing an old man walking round with a 
pious mien, I wished to see the picture of the deity enclosed in 
the little shrine. To my astonishment I was confronted with a 
piece of reddish stone, on which some figures , 135, I think , 
were inscribed. Strange! All my notions concerning lama 
ism were disturbed. It took a few minutes of reflection before 
the mystery of that uncommon cult was revealed to me. Never 
should I have thought that my Oriental researches would lead 
me to discover the worship of the milestone I 

Many were the sights, the talks and the observations, all 
well worthy of being related, which filled the last part of my 
journey to Lhasa. But I must omit them to make room for 
the account of my stay in the capital itself. 

Our crossing of the Kongbu Ba Pass was saddened by a 
painful spectacle. A party of pilgrims, mostly women, had 
been robbed there of all their belongings by some of their trav 
elling companions who had suddenly turned brigands, a thing 
not so rare In Tibet. Some of the unlucky women had not 
been able to continue their Journey and had sheltered them 
selves in a mountain cave. One of them had a gash in her 
head; another had a terrible wound in the breast; the arm 
of a third one was broken; others were more or less injured. 
Their vile and wretched countrymen, though hailing from the 
same district, almost the same village, had attacked them vdth 
spears. At a short distance from the cave the corpses of two 
men were lying. All this happened \tithin a hundred miles of 
Lhasa, on the main route. Horse soldiers could easily have 
overtaken the murderers, but what official would trouble him 
self about such a common occurrence in that lawless country? 



CHAPTER VII.

AT last, after four months of tramping, filled with adventures and observations of which I have been able to 
relate but a very small part, I left Dechen one morning at 
dawn, and set out upon the last stage to Lhasa. 

The weather was clear, dry, and cold, the sky luminous. In 
the rosy light of the rising sun, we sighted the Potala, the huge 
palace of the lamaist ruler, still far away, yet already majestic 
and impressive. 

“This time we have won,” I said to my young friend. 

He silenced me. 

“Hush! Do not speak too soon! Do not rejoice yet We 
have still to cross the river Kyi. Who knows if there is not a 
post of watchmen there?” 

So near were we to our goal that I refused to believe failure 
to be still possible. Anyhow, I dropped the subject. 

As we advanced, the Potala grew larger and larger. Now 
we could discern the elegant outlines of its many golden roofs. 
They glittered in the blue sky, sparks seeming to spring from 
their sharp upturned corners, as if the whole castle, the glory 
of Tibet, had been crowned vdth flames. 

Our eyes fastened upon it. We walked at a good speed, for 
success was near and gave us wings. 
The valley which we followed since leaving the Bala had 
become quite open. The slopes which border it may, in days of 
yore, have been covered with forests, but not a single tree was 
now to be seen there, except a few that had been planted in 
certain gardens. 

Villages stood closer as we proceeded toward the capital, 
but I felt very astonished to meet so few people on the high< 
way. I was told by countryfolk that a much larger traffic 
used to pass during, the Chinese suzerainty. Their remarks 
reminded me of what I had observed in the Kongbu province , 
abandoned and ruined villages at the feet of crumbling watch 
towers, and large tracts of formerly cultivated land on which 
the forest had again encroached. 

The Lhasa valley did not present so desolate a spectacle in 
the part that I was crossing. But how much ground remained 
uncultivated on which barley could have been grown for the 
town near by, where the cost of living is so high! a 

Tibetans have lost much in parting with China. Their 
sham independence profits only a clique of court officials. 
Most of those who rebelled against the far-off and relaxed 
Chinese rule regret it nowadays, when taxes, statute labour, 
and the arrogant plundering of the national soldierly greatly 
exceed the extortions of their former masters. 

Arrived at the river, which in the winter is but a narrow 
stream, we embarked on a rustic ferry adorned with the head 
of an animal, which the artist probably intended to be a horse. 
A mixed crowd of men and beasts was packed on the boat. 
A few minutes later we landed on the opposite bank. Neither 
the busy ferrymen nor any of the passengers had given us so 
much as a glance. Hundreds of ragged pilgrims cross the Kyi 
chu each year, and nothing distinguished us from our fellow 
arjopas. 

We were now in Lhasa territory, but still far from the city 
itself. Yongden once more repressed my desire to rejoice, 
even in a whisper. What could he still fear? Had we not 
reached our goal? And now, nature itself gave us a token of 
her maternal complicity.  

As on the night of our starting, when we disappeared in 
the Kha Karpo forests, "the gods lulled the men to sleep and 
silenced the dogs.” A miracle seemed to protect our entrance 
into Lhasa. 

No sooner had we landed than the air, till then so calm, 
became agitated. All of a sudden a furious storm arose, lift 
ing clouds of dust high into the sky. I have seen the simoon 
in the Sahara, but was it worse than this? No doubt it.
Yet, that terrible, dra lashing rain of dust gave me the impres 
sion of being once more in the great desert. 
Indistinct forms passed us, men bent in two, hiding their 
faces in the laps of their dresses, or whatever piece of cloth 
they might happen to have with them. 

Who could see us coming? Who could know us? An im 
mense yellow curtain of whirling sand was spread before the 
Potala, blinding its guests, hiding from them Lhasa, the roads 
leading to it, and those who walked upon them. I interpreted 
it as a symbol promising me complete security, and the future 
justified my interpretation. For two months I was to wander 
freely in the lamaist Rome, with none to suspect that, for the 
first time In history, a foreign woman was beholding the For 
bidden City. 

"The gods threw a veil over the eyes of his adversaries and 
they did not recognise him.” So went an old Tibetan  tale 
which I had heard long ago in the Land of Grass. 

At that time of the year, a large number of people from all 
the provinces of Tibet congregate in the capital to enjoy the 
various festivals and merrymakings, which take place there. 
The Inns are full. All those who can vacate a room or any shelter rent them. Travellers sleep in the stables and camp in the courtyards. 

I could have gone from door to door for hours, in quest of 
a lodging, without any other result than showing myself to a 
number of householders of both sexes and being compelled 
to answer a lot of questions. Fortunately, I was spared the 
trouble and danger of this. 

The storm abated as suddenly as it had arisen. Newcomers, 
unacquainted with the city, we stood a little at a loss amid 
the crowd without knowing where to go. Unexpected help 
came again to me in the shape of a young woman. 

“You want a room, Mother?” she said. “You come from 
very far. You must be exceedingly tired. Follow me. I know 
a place where you will be all right.” 

I only smiled at her, uttering thanks. I felt rather aston 
ished. Obliging people are many in Tibet, and the kindness 
of the unknown woman was not altogether extraordinary, but 
how did she know that “I had come from very far”? This 
puzzled me a little, but no doubt she had gained that idea from 
the sight of my pilgrim staff, and I jwas lean enough, after so 
many fasts and so much fatigue, to inspire compassion. 

Our guide was not communicative. We followed her like 
sheep, a little bewildered by the noise and the traffic after 
months spent in the solitudes, and perhaps still more bewildered 
by our good luck. She led us outside the town to a place from 
which one enjoyed an extended view of most beautiful scenery, 
including the Potala. This detail struck me particularly; for 
all along the road I had wanted to get a lodging from which I 
could see it. 
I was granted the use of a narrow cell, in a ramshackle cottage occupied by beggarly people. This was indeed the best hostelry one could have wished for the security of my incognito. 
The idea of looking there for a foreign lady traveller would not have occurred to anybody; and the poor beggars who frequented the place never suspected my identity. 

The woman went away smiling after a brief farewell. All 
had happened so quickly that it seemed a dream. We never 
saw our guide again. 

In our hovel that evening, lying on the ground amongst our 
miserable luggage, I said to my faithful companion: “Do you 
allow me now to say that we have won the game?” 

“Yes,” he said, and he shouted in a suppressed, yet most 
triumphant tone: “Lha gyalo. De tamche patn! We are at 
Lhasa.” 

I was in Lhasa. No doubt I could be proud of my tdctory, 
but the struggle, with cunning and trickery as weapons, was 
not yet over. I was in Lhasa, and now the problem was to stay 
there. Although I had endeavoured to reach the Tibetan  
capital rather because I had been challenged than out of any 
real desire to visit it, now that I stood on the forbidden ground 
at the cost of 90 much hardship and danger, I meant to enjoy 
myself in all possible ways. I should really have felt ashamed 
of myself had I been caught, locked up somewhere, and taken 
back to the border, having only had a superficial and brief 
glance at the exterior of the palaces and temples. This should 
not be! No! I would climb to the top of the Potala itself; 
I would visit the most famous shrines, the large historical mon 
asteries in the adcinia of Lhasa, and I would witness the 
rellaous ceremonies, the races, and the pageants of the New 
Year festival. All sights, all things which are Lhasa’s own 
beauty and peculiarity, would have to be seen by the lone 
woman explorer who had had the nerve to come to them from 
afar, the first of her sex. It was my well won reward after 
the trials on the road and the vexations by which for several 
years various officials had endeavoured to prevent my wander 
ings in Tibet. This time I intended that nobody should 
deprive me of it. 

Lhasa, the largest town of Tibet, its capital and the Rome 
of the lamaist world, is by no means a big city. It is pret 
tily situated at a little distance from the bank of the river 
Kyi, in a large valley with a commanding horizon of high bar 
ren mountain ranges. Still, in a country of wonderful land 
scapes, as Tibet is, the scenery of Lhasa would be quite ordinary, but for the huge palace of the Dalai lama erected on the Dsi Potala, one of the two summits of a small, isolated ridge 
that shoots up in the middle of the valley. The other summit 
is called Chog bu ri and is crowned by the buildings of the 
Clerical Medical College. Better than any description, pictures 
can give some idea of the gigantic edifice, but even the best 
photograph will fail to convey a true idea of its imposing 
appearance, as it stands, a red palace capped with golden roofs, 
uplifted high in the blue sky, on a shining pedestal of dazzling 
white buildings. With the riches contained in that enormous 
cluster of habitations, rising one above another, without any 
order or plan, on the slope of the Tsi Pptala, there could have 
been built a real wonder palace, but Tibetan  architects never 
were artists. The most precious materials, when handled by 
their rough hands, succeed only in expressing might and wealth 
and fail to reach beauty. Yet that barbaric treatment of silver, 
gcdd, and precious gems gives the temples and palaces of 
Tibet a peculiar character, in harmony with thfe rough 
in which tha stand. And this, in itself, makes a powerful 
impression.

Chinese painters or students of. Jhinw art are responsible 
for a great part of the Potala’s 'decoration, as well as that of 
the Jo Khang, the holiest temple of Tibet. ' One could spend 
weeks in the many galleries and corridors of the Dalai lama 
palace, reading in pictures on the walls the legends of gods and 
the lives of saintly men, gracefully and wittily rendered in 
millions of tiny figures full of lifelike animation. 

Here and there amongst the apartments are scattered a large 
number of Lha Khang, (God's Houses), in which may be seen 
a variety of images of all the symbolic and mystic deities of 
MahSyana Buddhism. Most of them are sumptuously decked 
with golden ornaments inlaid with turquoise, coral, and precious stones. A special room contains the images of the previous Dalai lamas, and the present one is seated amongst them, but in miniature only. 

Darker recesses are devoted to some of the aboriginal gods 
and demons of the pre Buddhistic religion, which Tibetans 
have never been able to forsake, A few words about them may 
perhaps not be out of place here. 

The story of the admission of these personages into the lama 
ist Pantheon, as told in the old books, is always the same. It 
depicts the struggle of the Indian missionaries, or the first 
Tibetan  members of the Buddhist Order, against beings who 
opposed their preaching and harmed their converts. These 
holy men were always endowed with magic powers, and when 
they succeeded to a certain extent in conquering their malig 
nant enemy, they took advantage of his momentary defeat to 
extort from him the oath to renounce his hostile state of inind 
and to become a protector of the Buddhist doctrine. In exchange, the title of Choskyong (protector of the religion) was bestowed upon the god or the demon, and a place was granted 
to him in the temples. 

The Market Place there stand as a substitute for the more realistic and bloodier 
sacrifices of the pre Buddhistically cult. It is only , so Tibetans believe , strict attendance to their needs, and a due reverence, that keep human 'beings and animals safe from their 
ferocity. Other dread Malevolent and Invisible Ones are 
chained by the power of magic charms, and a perpetual watch 
has to be kept in order that the spells and other occult devices, 
whose strength prevents the dangerous beings from escaping, 
shall be recited and performed at the right time. 

Needless to say, all these rites have nothing to do with true 
Buddhism, which does not admit of any rite at all. But in 
Tibet they are favoured even by the literati; for, so these say, 
such performances suit their country and the mental level of 
its masses. Be that as it may, all kinds of worship are practiced in Lhasa, even in the palace of its king, as well as all over Tibet. 

The Potala contains sumptuous suites of apartments, and 
the upper terrace, on which stand Chinese pavilions, could be 
made into an ideal roof garden, such as the world has never 
seen; but the desire, or even the idea, of creating such a thing 
has probably never entered the minds of any of the Dalai lamas 
who have successively sat upon the throne of the Potala. 

From the top of the palace, the view embraces, in front, the 
whole of the valley, with Lhasa outspread in the plain. 
Behind it a desert extends for a long distance, until a high range 
rises suddenly like a Cyclopean wall. Seated at its foot, the 
large monastery of Sera (the hail), snowy white, rears red 
temples and golden roofs like the Potala itself. Its monla are 
a formidable power in the state, which even the master of the 
Potala must reckon with. 

The comic element which had been to 'me the breath of life, 
even in the midst of die most trying circumstances, did not 
desert me at the gates of the Potala. The story of my visit to 
the Tibetan  Vatican may well be worth the telling. 

As the future was uncertain and my incognito precarious, 
prudence advised me to hurry , a pth my sightseeing tour, 
and to begin with the most t||atant places of interest I 
therefore decided that, before anything else, I would visit the 
Potala. 

As I was on my way with Yongden, I thought it would 
be safer for me either to join some' pilgrims or somehow to 
manager to enter the Palace with a group of people. The 
unquestionable authenticity of real Tibetan  companions would 
save me from suspicion. Unfortunately, we did not meet any 
dokpas or other border folk, and I was already resigned to 
proceeding with Yongden alone when I noticed two men, clad 
in the plain white dress of coarse serge worn by countryfolk, 
strolling at a little distance from the first gate. 

“Let us take those men with us,” I said to Yongden. 

“How could we ask them such a thing?” he replied. “Perhaps they do not wish to go to the Potala.” 
“Let us try,” I continued. “They look just the dear, good, stupid fellows we need.” 

In a few words I instructed Yongden in the part he was to play. 

At that moment a group of workmen came along, carrying 
huge trunks of trees. People threw themselves hurriedly aside 
to get out of their way, and Yongden took the opportunity to 
give one of the peasants a push in the back. 

"Atsi!” he exclaimed, politely. “I did not see you.” 
“No harm. Lama,” answered the man. 
“Where are you from?” enquired my companion, in the 
patronising tone of a full-fledged denizen of the capital speaking to countryfolk. 

They gave the name of their village and informed us that 
they had come to Lhasa to sell barley. They had finished 
their business and now thought only of enjoying themselves a 
little in the big city, before leaving on the morrow. 

“You are going to meet the Potala,” said Yongden, as if 
quite sure of what he was saying. 

The men confessed they did not intend to do so, as they had 
“met” it on several occasions already. Then Yongden, speaking 
with the authority of one of the monks of the Potala, told them 
of the religious merit that such a visit produced and said that 
the New Year was ‘the proper time to perform meritorious 
deeds. Rather than loitering in the streets, drinking spirits in 
the public houses, they ought to pay reverence to the Potala 
shrines. Assuming an air of" profound compassion and kindness, he added that, as they had been brought together, he 
was willing to lead them around the shrines and tell them the 
names and stories of the deities. This was, of course, a won 
derful opportunity. The faces of the two simpletons were 
beaming and they followed the lama, rejoicing and thankful. 
Like all Tibetans, they were very religious minded. 

Behind them, full of confidence, I climbed the long flight 
of steps and reached an upper gate. The three men walked 
in first, strong in the superiority of their sex. I was about to 
follow humbly, when a boy, ten or twelve years old, a novice 
lama, short and fat, with a red face, flat nose, and large ears, 
looking like a gnome In a clerical robe twice too large for him, 
stopped me. He was acting as doorkeeper, and he ordered me 
rudely to take off my fur lined bonnet, such headgear not being 
allowed inside the Potala. 

What a calamity! I had forgotten that these bonnets were 
not allowed there. I had worn mine a long time, in fact ever 
since it had been sent, by some friends from an invisible world, 
to provide me with a most useful piece of disguise. It screened 
my face and I felt protected against detection when I had it 
on my head. What now? 

My hair had resumed its natural brown shade. The Chinese 
ink I used as a dye had worn away before I reached Lhasa, 
and in my present dwelling, with the cracks in its doors, and 
walls, through which my neighbours could peep at any time, I 
had not dared to darken it afresh. It no longer matched the 
braids of jet black yak hair that I wore, and the latter had 
gradually lost a large part of their substance, until they had 
become as thin as rats tails. They were all right, however, 
with the bonnet on. They shadowed my forehead enough to 
reproduce vaguely the hairdress of some dokpa tribes. But now 
that I had to obey that horrid little toad and take my bonnet 
off, I knew that I should look funnier than any clown in any 
circus in the world. 

However, escape was impossible. I had my bonnet under 
my dress, as I was ordered to dp, "and rejoined my companions. 
Yongden had lingered a little, waiting for me. At the first 
glance, stricken with terror, he opened his mouth wide and 
hardly suppressed an exclamation. 

“What have you done?” he said, in dismay. “Who took 
your bonnet away?” 

“I am not allowed to proceed wth it on,” I answered hurriedly. 

“You look like a demon,” he continued, trembling. “I never 
saw such a face in my life! Everybody will stare at you.” 

A little more, and I should have cried. However, I derived 
some comfort from the complete indifference of the two vil 
lagers, who did not appear to notice anything wrong or peculiar 
in my appearance and listened eagerly to their guide, as he 
related stories about gods, holy men and Dalai lamas of yore. 
Others joined them, commenting on the profound' learning of 
the kind lama. I followed with the crowd, jostling along the 
corridors, in the steep staircases and narrow shrine doors, and 
none of them looked at my extraordinary head. I was the only 
one to feel it, and I began to enjoy the fun myself. As for 
Yongden, a little reassured now, he did not dare to look at me 
too often, lest he should laugh aloud. 

At last I reached the upper terrace, which is' occupied by 
the Chinese pavilions, whose elegant and glittering roofs had 
appeared to me the day I arrived from China, announcing that 
the goal was near. 

After a few hours I went down, and only then a pilgrim 
seemed to realise that there was something unusual in my 
appearance. I heard him saying to his friends: “Where do you 
think she came from?” 

But he at once found the answer himself. 

“She must be a Ladki,” he concluded. 

So we went on, having reached the top of the dominating 
Potala, and enjoyed the beautiful sight of Lhasa, its temples 
and monasteries, lying at our feet like a white, red, and gold 
carpet spread in the valley.  

The two countrymen were delighted. They thanked the good 
lama profusely, and offered him a few copper coins as a token 
of gratitude and reverence. 

“All is well,” said Yongden as we went away. “I have pre 
vented them from drinking and they have served us.” He put 
the coins into the hand of a blind beggar, and thus some one 
else rejoiced also! 

In spite of the splendour of the Potala, the present Dalai 
lama does not seem to find much charm in it. He goes there 
only occasionally, at the time of certain festivals. His habitual 
residence, Norbu ling,a is situated outside of the town in a 
large park which, owing to the lack of capable gardeners, is 
not much more than a wooded tract of land cut by a few 
avenues and paths. 

A miniature zoo is one of the attractions of the place. This 
includes a strange poultry yard where only cocks are admitted. 
The celibate birds number at least three hundred, and the 
absence of any ladies of their species appears to have softened 
their combative instincts. They peck their grain peacefully 
side by side, and battles are rare. The animals live near one 
of the gates opening on the high road and even wander on 
the road in the hope of being fed by people as they pass. 
Pilgrims, and even inhabitants of Lhasa, go on purpose to throw 
grain to them, for they belong to the Dalai lama, and such 
offering is considered to be meritorious.

Several houses reserved for the use of the Tibetan  Lama 
King are scattered in the grounds of the Norbulinga. 

The rooms of one of them are furnished in different styles, 
or at least what Tibetans believe to be different styles. One 
room they call the English room, another the Indian, another, 
again, the Chinese room, and, as on the flat roof of the building 
stand the gilded ornaments called gydtsen, emblem of 
power and victory, the courtiers of the Dalai lama repeat to 
satiety before him: “All these various rooms, English, Chinese, 
Indian, and so on, are under the Tibetan  roof whereon stand 
the Tibetan  gyaltseuy and so Tibet is above all nations, and 
you are the highest among all rulers ” 

I have been told that this clerical King of Tibet smiles and 
takes pleasure in these flatteries. One may well doubt his 
taking them seriously. He has been twice In exile, first in China 
and then in India, and hence must have learned many things 
about the world outside Tibet. But if the ruler Is perhaps 
aware of his true situation, it is not the same with the common 
folk, to whom most extraordinary stories are told about the 
greatness of the Dalai lama and the position in which he stands 
before Great Britain. Very likely the court of Lhasa spreads 
these absurdities in order to increase the prestige of the Dalai 
lama, with which its own is bound up. I will venture to relate 
one of these stories, as It is rather amusing. 

At the time when the Dalai lama was in India, he happened 
to be the guest of the Viceroy. Once, being seated with the 
latter and many distinguished guests in a large drawingroom 
he stretched out his two arms. And behold! On each of his 
upturned palms appeared one of the hills of Lhasa. On one 
hand one could see the Potala, on the other the great Medical 
College of Chog bu ri. At the sight of 
this marvel the Englishmen were all awe struck. With the 
Viceroy at their head, they all fell on their knees and bowed 
down at the feet of the Tibetan  pontiff, begging his protection. 
The King of England was immediately informed of the miracle. 
He, of course, shared the feelings of his eminent subjects and 
entreated the Dalai lama to become the patron of his kingdom, 
and to grant him his help if he were ever attacked by enemies. The compassionate lama promised graciously to send 
him his army should the security of England become en dangered. 

Relying on stories of this kind and misunderstanding some 
facts the details of which are beyond my present subject, most 
Tibetans are convinced that they have in some way become 
suzerains of Great Britain. Thus are explained to them the 
temporary stays at Lhasa of a British political agent. He 
comes, they think, to ask respectfully the orders of the Dalai 
lama, and to convey them to His British Majesty! 

This is, of course, funny, but there is to fun of this kind a 
side fraught with danger for white residents all over Asia, 
which only those who have lived long in out of way regions 
of the East are able to detect clearly. 

In Lhasa, one does not see the quaint shops and bazaars that 
offer such an exciting huntingground to the collector in China. 
Nowadays, the most conspicuous articles in the Lhasa market 
are aluminum wares. For the rest, the display Is exclusively 
composed of inferior goods exported from India, England, 
Japan, or a few other European countries. I have never seen 
elsewhere uglier cotton cloth, more hideous crockery than that 
which one finds on the stalls of the Lhasa merchants. The 
trade with China, formerly very prosperous, has been so greatly 
hindered in favor of the goods Imported from India that it 
hardly exists any longer. The importation of tea and manu 
factured silk still continues, but efforts are being made to drive 
Chinese products entirely out of the Tibetan  market. 

Coming from China, where silver was plentiful, both in coins 
and in bullion, a surprise awaited me at Lhasa. There Is no 
more silver In central Tibet. The national money, the tranka, 
a small thin coin of very low standard, quantities of which were 
circulating when I was at Shlgatze, has nearly disappeared, and 
the few which remain can only be had at a premium. As for 
the ‘silver shoes” of fifty teals, the tamigma, as the people 
of Lhasa call them, which were current money when the Chinese occupied the Tibetan  capital, they have completely disappeared. 

The Lhasa government has cast an ugly copper coinage. 

Potala it is no longer accepted, since it cannot be taken at its 
face value in any transaction with people who have no business 
at Lhasa. The Lhasa government has also issued some notes, 
but they remain an object of curiosity and the traders refuse 
them. There exists a place near Norbu ling where golden coins 
are stamped, but they do not circulate. 

I have enquired of many people concerning the cause of this 
strange disappearance of the silver from central Tibet, seeing that it continues to be plentiful in Chinese Tibet. The answers I have gathered differ according to the social condition 
and the special turn of mind of those to whom I put the question. Some only smiled when asked where the silver had gone. 
Others declared: The government hoards it.” But a number 
of more outspoken fellows told me brutally: Our government 
gives it to the philing masters of India (Englishmen) to pay 
for the old guns, no longer good for their own soldiers, which 
they sell us. We can fight badly armed Chinese with them, but 
they would be of no use against a  army.” The same 
idea was several times expressed before me in a more original 
and superstitious way. Before being dispatched to Lhasa, said 
some Tibetans, the guns sold to their country were deprived 
of the power of harming the white foreigners or their servants 
by the magic practice of the philing priests. 

In the part of Kham conquered by the Lhasa troops, when 
the country people lament about the considerable rise of the 
taxes, the Lhasa appointed officials answer that their most kind 
protector, the Dalai lama, is not responsible for these hardships, 
but that the philings tell him to collect money. Why he obeys 
them, what he receives in exchange for his silver, and many 
other things, are not of course explained to the simple minded 
ones whose brains are not those of a logician. They only remember and bear in mind that these hated wide-eyed” foreigners are the cause of their ruin. 

 A very famous festival takes place each year at Lhasa on the 
evening of the full moon of the first month. Light wooden 
structures of a large size are entirely covered with ornaments 
and images of gods, men, and animals, all made of butter and 
dyed in different colours. These frail frameworks are called 
tormas. About one hundred of them are erected along the 
par kor , athat is to say, the streets that form the middle circle 
of religious circumambulation around the Jo khang, and in 
front of each one, a large number of butter lamps burn on a 
small altar. That nocturnal feast is meant to entertain the 
gods, just as are certain concerts on the roofs of the temples. 

The butter tormas festival at Lhasa is famous all over 
Tibet, and even In Mongolia and China. It is no doubt 
truly glorious, yet, I think the feast is much more beautiful in 
its sumptuous surrounding at the great Kum Bum lamasery, 
where I have seen it several times during the years I lived in 
that monastery. However, I very much enjoyed that part of 
the New Year merrymaking at Lhasa. 

As soon as darkness had come and the lamps were lighted, 
Yongden and I went to the Par Kor. A dense crowd was there, 
waiting for the Dalai lama, who was to go round to inspect the 
tormas. I had more than once seen big Tibetan  gatherings, 
but I had gone through them with servants and other attend 
ants who made a way for me. This was my first experience 
of being part of the crowd myself. 

Groups of sturdy giants, cowmen clad in sheepskin, holding 
on to one another, ran for joy in the deepest of the throng. 
Their big fists belaboured the ribs of those whom bad luck had 
placed in their way. Policemen, armed with long sticks and 
whips, growing more and more excited as the time of the Dalai 
lama’s coming approached, used their weapons indiscriminately 
against anybody. In the midst of this tumult, trying our best 
to guard ourselves against hustling and bbws, we spent some 
lively moments. 

At last the arrival of the LamaKing was announced. Then 
more policemen appeared, followed by soldiers. The knock 
ing, beating, boxing increased. Some worfien screamed, others 
laughed. Finally there remained along the walls of the houses 
that confronted the tormas only a few rows of people, more 
tightly pressed against one another than tinned sardines. I was 
amongst them. From time to time a man seated at a ground 
floor window, whose view I was blocking, gave me a strong 
push in the back, but it was of no use whatever. Even had 
I wished it I could not have moved a single step. Finally he 
understood this, or my Insensibility disarmed him. Anyway, he 
ceased from using unnecessary violence. 

The whole Lhasa garrison was under arms. Infantry and 
cavalry marched past the dazzling butter edifices, lighted up 
by thousands of lamps. In a sedan chair covered with yellow 
brocade, the Dalai lama passed in his turn, attended by the 
Commander-in-Chief of the Tibetan  army and other high officials. Soldiers marched In the rear. The band struck up an English musical tune. Crackers were fired and meagre Bengal lights coloured the procession red and green for a few minutes. 

That was all. And the lamaist ruler had gone. 

I For a long time after the regal cortege had passed, private 
processions followed: people of rank surrounded by attendants 
holding Chinese lanterns, high ecclesiastics with clerical fol 
lowers, the representatives of the Nepal Maharaja, and many 
others; clergy, nobility, wealthy traders, and their womenfolk 
all dressed in their best, laughing , all more or less drunk and 
happy. Their gaiety was contagious. Yongden and I went 
with the crowd, running, jostling, and pushing like everybody 
else, enjoying as youngsters might have done the fun of being 
there in Lhasa, feasting the New Year with the Tibetans. 
 When at last the time came to go back to our hovel, we 
noticed on our way that the streets which ought to have been 
well lighted by the full moon were growing darker and darker. 
What did it mean? We are teetotallers, and could not have 
the same reason as most citizens on that night, for clouded 
vision. We reached a scauare, and noticed a black shadow in 
a corner of the mooi). It wis the beginning of an eclipse, and 
soon we heard a noise of drums made by the good people to 
frighten away the dragon which was trying to swallow the nocturnal luminary! The eclipse was total. I observed it during the night, and it was the most interesting one that I had ever witnessed. 

“This is still better than the curtain of sand before the 
Potala, on the day of our arrival,” said Yongden, jocularly. 
“Now your gods are screening the moon so that we shall not 
be seen too distinctly. I think you had better ask them to 
stop their kind protection of our incognito. They might put 
out the sun!” 

Whatever may have been the protection with which I was 
favoured, the day came when the safety of my disguise was 
again endangered and I had to defend myself in my own way. 

I was wandering in the market when a policeman stopped 
and gazed at me intently. Why? Perhaps he only wondered 
from what part of Tibet I might hail, but it was better to be 
prepared for the worst. A new battle was to be fought, and 
I began it, my heart beating rather quickly, but brave as usual. 
I chose, amongst the things for sale, an aluminum saucepan, 
and began to bargain for It with that ridiculous obstinacy 
shown by the people of the halfwild tribes of the borderland. 
I offered an absurd price and talked nonsense in a loud voice, 
hardly stopping to breathe. People around the booths began 
to laugh and exchange jokes about me. The cowmen and 
women of the northern solitudes are a habitual subject of 
mockery for the more civilized people of Lhasa. 

“Ah!” said the merchant, laughing, and yet irritated by my 
continuous twaddle, “you are a true dokpa, there can W no 
doubt of that!” And all present ridiculed the stupid woman 
who knew nothing beside her cattle and the grass of the desert. 
The policeman passed on, amused like everybody else. 

I bought the saucepan, and, as I feared being followed, I 
compelled myself to loiter about the market, playing a comedy 
of admiration and stupidity before the ugliest and cheapest 
goods. Then my good luck caused. m'e to fall in with a group 
of true dokpas. I began to talk With them in their own dialect. I had lived in their country some years ago. I spoke of places and men known to them, and they were convinced that 
I was born in a neighbouring tribe. I have no doubt that, 
with the quickness of imagination that is peculiar to them, they 
would, next day, have sworn in all sincerity that they had 
known me for a long time. 

A second incident happened a few days later. A kind of 
special constable tried to extort money from me; but I man 
aged the affair cleverly enough to give him nothing without disclosing my identity. 

Still another policeman hit me with his truncheon because 
I had trespassed in a place where “quality” only were admitted, 
and truly I had to make a great effort to prevent myself from 
giving a gratuity to that man, so delighted was I with the fun. 
“What a wonderful incognito is mine!” I confided to Yongden. 
“Now I am even beaten in the street!” And after that I felt 
completely secure. 

Lhasa is divided into several quarters: Yu thog, Lubu, Ra 
moche, Lhasahol, Tsemoling, Tengyailing, Tsecholing, Banajong, Parkor, Norbu linga. The city boasts of a bridge and an obelisk. The bridge is of Chinese shape, painted red and roofed 
with green tiles. Its name, “Turquoiseroofed Bridge,” is derived from a noble Tibetan  family whose dwelling is in the vicinity. An ancestor of that family having received from the Chinese Emperor the distinction of the “turquoise knob”. The obelisk is much shorter than that which one sees in the Place de la Concorde at Paris. Yet, even though it has no hieroglyphics, it makes quite a respectable appearance. In front 
of it, on the highway, at the foot of the Potala, a tablet 
bearing Chinese and Tibetan  writing is sheltered by a small 
building. 

That highway, humble as may be its appearance, is one of 
the great arteries of the world. Starting from India, it crosses 
central Asia, enters Mongolia, and ends in Siberia , a long 
track which cuts through high ranges of mountains, but does 
not offer great difficulties to a good horseman. During the 
winter, when the temperature allows one to carry provisions of 
ice for drinking purposes, travellers can follow the road nearly 
in a straight line across a waterless region. In the summer, 
they follow the devious route, passing to the east of the Blue 
Lake, the Koko Nor of which I have already spoken. 

One day, perhaps not far distant, “Transasiatic Expresses” 
will carry there parties of tourists, seated in comfortable sleep 
ing and salon cars, but then the charm of the journey will be 
greatly diminished. As for me, I am glad to have travelled 
from Ceylon to Mongolia before this happens. 

The capital of Tibet is a town full of animation, inhabited 
by jolly people whose greatest pleasure is to loiter and chat 
outofdoors. Although the population is far from being considerable, the streets are crowded from sunrise to sunset, but it is not deemed prudent to go out after dusk. The citizens 
say that the establishment of a national police and army have 
much increased the insecurity, for the official protectors of the 
public safety often turn robbers when darkness has come. 

With the exception of a small part of the town, the streets of 
Lhasa are large, with broad squares at their points of intersec 
tion,. and relatively clean. Unfortunately, there is no sanitary 
accommodation in many houses some empty plots of ground being reserved for this purpose in different quarters of the town. 

Several important monasteries are situated in Lhasa itself, 
amongst them the two famous colleges where tantrism, magic, 
ritual and occult sciences are taught. 

The three great lamaseries whose fame attracts thousands of 
pilgrims and where young lamas come to study from even the 
farthest regions of Mongdia and Manchuria, are not in Lhasa, 
but in Its vicinity. Sera, already mentioned, stands about four 
miles behind the Potala; Depung is about siz miles away, on 
the road to India; and Galden is hidden in a circle of mountains twenty miles distant. 

These three, even If they are the largest.and the most powers. 
ful, being state lamaseries, are not the only ones which Thi 
betans hold in high esteen. Amongst others, one can name Tash 
ilhumpo, the monastery of the Penchen rinpoche. It is located 
at Shigatze, in the Tsang province, and is considered to be the 
highest seat of learning in all Tibet. Several days’ march 
from it stands the old historical monastery of Sakya, where 
lives the head of an important "Red Cap” sect. It contains an 
unique librafy of old Sanskrit and Tibetan  manuscripts. Be 
sides these, there exist many others, such as Lhabrang Tashikyil 
in Amdo, KumBum in the same province, Zogchen in the soli 
tudes of northeastern Tibet, and countless others. 

Tibet is essentially a monastic country. While in the West 
our Important buildings are generally schools, hospitals, factories and other products of worldly activities, in, Tibet the gompasa are the only edifices offered to the attention of the 
traveller. Standing on the summits, silhouetted against the 
azure sky, or else concealed in the recesses of the mountains, all 
over the country, they symbolize a lofty ideal but one little 
understood nowadays even by their inmates. 

The religious communities of Tibet form little states within 
the state, of which they are almost entirely independent. All 
are possessed of lands and cattle. As a rule, they carry on 
commerce of some kind. The larger gompas rule over a considerable territory peopled by tenants whose condition resembles that of the serfs of Europe in the Middle Ages. They 
cultivate, for their own profit, the land belonging to the monateries and in return they pay each year a definite quantity of cereals, forage, and so forth. The families who devote themselves to rearing cattle pay their debt in butter, cheese, wool, and dried cow dung for fuel, and the surplus produce of the 
doks a also goes to them. All these serfs are obliged to under 
take certain statute labours, such as the transport of the bag 
gage of the kmas when they travel, and of the goods sent for 
sale to other regions by the managers of the monastery’s temporal affairs, also the repair of the monastic buildings and various other menial offices. They are also forbidden to leave the 
country without obtaining permission, but this is rarely refused 
to anyone who wishes to absent himself for the purpose of trading, studying, making a pilgrimage, or any other good reason. 

However restricted the liberty of these tenants may be, their 
situarion is infinitely preferable to that of their compatriots 
established upon the domain of some great lay lord, and especially of those who are direedy dependent upon the central government. It is rare for the heads of the monasteries to be 
hard upon their subjects, and, in return for the tax they pay, 
the peasants are really and effectively protected by the high 
religious dignitaries upon whom they depend. They also escape 
official civil jurisdiction. The misdemeanours and even crimes 
they may commit are judged by dignitaries of the gompa to 
which they belong. 

Latterly, the Lhasa government, although ecclesiastical in 
character, is seeking to encroach upon the privileges of the monasteries, and especially to reduce their rights of jurisdiction, a fact which arouses vehement protestations, not only from the 
lamas, but from those under their rule. 

The inhabitants of the gompas do not live in communities, 
although a kind of community of wealth exists among them by 
tdrtue of the fact that each receives a share of the income 
of the monastery. Part of these shares are delivered in kind 
corn, butter, tea, etc. They differ considerably in importance, 
first of all, according to the wealth of the monasteries, and 
then according to the hierarchical standing of each monk. The 
monks have yet other sources of revenue: a portion of the gifts 
given to their gompa, the performance of ‘religious ceremonies, 
the presents offered by the relatives of the young men they 
instruct, etc. Lack of space makes it impossible for me to mention all of them in detail. 
In spite of all the criticism that may justly be directed 
against the gompas, they afford an excellent retreat for the 
student, the thinker, and anyone else who desires an intellectual 
or spiritual life. Almost entirely free from material cares, the 
humblest lama may give himself up to a leisurely study of the 
religious and philosophical literature of his country, and if he 
succeeds in learning Chinese or Sanskrit and thus extending the 
field of his researches, he is greatly admired by his colleagues. 

It is very true that many lamas do not seem to possess any 
of the qualities which a reliaous vocation demands, but the 
way in which they have been brought into the monasteries 
often affords sufficient excuse. Every Tibetan  family esteems 
it an honour for one or more of its sons to adopt the religious 
habit; and, to this end, the boys destined to the priestly state 
are taken to the gompa at the age of eight or nine, and handed 
over to a master charged with their education. 

Life vows do not exist among the Buddhists, who believe in 
the fundamental impermanence of all things, and these children 
may, therefore, return later on to the world and live as laymen 
without incurring the disesteem of their compatriots. Some of 
them do so; but many, not feeling sufficiently courageous to 
apprentice themselves to any other career, maintain the habit 
of the Order without respecting it as they should. As a rule, 
these drones of lamaism, somewhat lazy and gossiping, a trifle 
too gluttonous and especially too greedy of gain, are charitable 
and hospitable folks in spite of their faults. We may add to 
their credit, moreover, that however feeble their morals or 
limited their intelligence, they do maintain a reverence for 
learning and saintliness, being always ready to venerate those 
of their companions who rise above them by virtue of erudi 
tion or loftiness of character. 

A large monastery in Tibet is a veritable town, the population of which sometimes amounts to as many as ten thousand persons. It is composed of a network of streets and alleys, 
squares and gardens. Temples in larger or smaller numbers, 
the assembly halls of the different colleges, and the palaces 
of the dignitaries rise above the common dwellings, their gilded 
roofs and terraces surmounted by banners and divers ornaments. In the gompa every lama lives by himself in a house 
of which he is sole proprietor, whether he has had it built at 
his own cost or bought or inherited it. This dwelling may be 
bequeathed by the lama to one of his pupils or to a relative, 
but the legatee must himself belong to the religious Order. 
No layman is allowed to possess a house in a monastery. 

Certain high monastic palaces are veritable museums, full 
of artistic treasures. In them have been accumulated gafts 
received by a long line of Grand Lamas, or precious things 
acquired by themselves, over a period of several centuries. 
Enamel, lacquer, rare porcelain, marvellous embroideries, and 
the paintings of Chinese or Tibetan  artists are to be seen 
there. To find such manors isolated in the midst of the vast 
steppes, or hidden in immense virgin forests, seems like a fairy 
tale. But is not everything a fairy tale in this extraordinary 
country, even to the name it gives itself, that of Khang Yul, 
“the land of snows”? 

I have had the privilege, unique in these days, of living in 
several monasteries. After what I have said of them, and 
of their separate houses, one can understand how it was pos 
sible for a woman to live there. Nevertheless, there is a rule 
against such admission, and only very special reasons , my 
age, the studies I was pursuing, and, above all, powerful protection , procured me this privilege. 

For more than two years I translated Tibetan  books in the 
celebrated monastery of KumBum in Amdo, in the northeast 
of Tibet, beyond the great Desert of Grass. There, seated on 
my balcony, on certain evenings, I could hear the lamas 
orchestra playing on the roof terrace of the great assembly 
hall. The concert was being given to the gods. It was they, 
the Invisible Ones, whom it was desired to charm, attract, 
cause for a moment to rest, and smile among their younger 
brothers, the humans! What was asked of them? Nothing 
nothing but to take pleasure in the music of our world. 
This was charming in its infantile poetry, and what miscreant 
would have dared to doubt that the lightfooted goddesses did 
not brush over our dwellings, hastening toward the sweet strains 
that called them. 

Meanwhile, in the vast edifice scarcely lighted by the lamps 
placed before the magnificent tombs and gilded statues of 
defunct lamas, the monks were seated motionless, attired in 
darkcrimson togas. They were chanting in deep tones solemn 
sentences of mystic import or transcendental philosophy, which 
raised the mind above captivating illusions. 

Above them, the last notes of the bewitching melodies melted 
away, and soon the recitation of the sacred writings itself came 
to an end. A rapid gesture, symbolising the void, brought the 
vesper service to Its close, and each lama returned to his 
own abode. 

However great the charms of the studious life I led at 
KumDum, and of the romantic surroundings In which I dwelt, 
they could not efface or lessen the impression made upon me 
by certain simple gompas, offering none of the splendours of the 
wealthy monastic city of Amdo. One of these was perched 
like an aerie, upon a mountain spur surrounded by forests. 
The villages, planted in the depths of the valleys, remained 
invisible from the monastery, and all around it was silence and 
solitude. There one could behold no princely palace, no temple crammed with ancient treasures. Some whitewashed cabins made of branches and clay served as dwellings for the humble 
lamas of this rustic hermitage. 

The configuration of the surrounding mountain ranges 
arrested the passage of the clouds, and forced them to turn 
around the rocky summit which supported the gompa, forming a sea of white mist, with its waves beating silently against the cells of the monks, wreathing the wooded slopes and creating a thousand fanciful landscapes as they rolled by. Terrible hailstorms would often break over the monastery, due, 
said the countryfolk, to the malignity of the demons who sought 
to disturb the peace of the saintly monks. 

The site lent itself admirably to the fearful imaginings of 
occult forces, and of those, singular encounters with beings of 
other worlds. According to old traditions, gods and devils 
haunted the neighbouring forests, and for this reason gompchens  buried themselves in their depths, In pursuit of ends 
known only to themselves. I had my hut there, a tiny dwelling 
under the giant trees. The lamas built it for me, partly out of 
respect, but partly also, doubtless, from a spice of mischief, 
desiring to test my courage and see whether I dared to rival 
their mystics by living there alone, in the company of the 
phantoms. One night a storm of unusual violence overthrew 
my cell of branches and scattered its covering to the winds of 
heaven. Knowing the superstitious credulity of my friends the 
lamas, I insisted that It should be put up again In the same 
place. If I had left it, they would have been sure to conclude 
that the incensed deities had driven away the stranger who had 
been rash enough to establish herself in their district, and for 
me all chance of further study would have been lost. 

The hut having been rebuilt, I had brought there a store of 
provisions to last a month, and expressly forbade anybody to 
visit my quarters for that length of time. My days passed 
peacefully, in company with the birds, which did not appear 
at all disturbed by my presence. Some roes came to look at 
me, and one day a big bear appeared, seemingly much surprised to find me there. Thus, in reading, musing, and cooking my sole daily repast, I awaited the end of my retreat. 
Spring was at hand. When the lamas came back to seek me, 
they found flowers growing around my dwelling, and I myself 
was flourishing. They thought I had overcome the dread 
forces, and the respect they manifested for me was enormously 
enhanced. Later on, I lived in another more remote hermitage 
close to the everlasting snows, and that time a prolonged stay 
of several years acquainted ma with the secrets and the bliss 
of the Tibetan  gompehensa life. 

How many of these desert monasteries I could describe! I 
am thinking of one of them, a nunnery, isolated in the midst 
of rocks and glaciers, access to which is possible only during, 
the four months from June to September. After this short 
summer, the barrier of snow is raised once more and the recluses are immured for the rest of the year. Yet the gompa, 
however far it may be from the bustle and activity of the 
village, fails to satisfy the exacting mysticism of Tibetan  
thinkers. Farther in the deserts, higher still on their giant 
peaks, they seek caves and almost inaccessible shelters, where 
they may meditate and be ever alone, face to face with the 
Infinite and the Eternal. 

The holiest temple of Tibet, which I went to see after 
my visit at the Potala, is called Jo Khang (the House of the 
Lord). It was built to shelter an ancient image of Siddharta 
Gautama as a youth, before he became a Buddha. That image 
was made in India and is supposed to have been carried to 
China about the first century b.c. The Chinese emperor, ThaiJung T’aitsung, gave it as a dowry to his daughter when she married the Tibetan  king, Srong Tsan Gampo. Amongst the 
credulous Tibetans many legends circulate about the image 
and its origin. Many say that it was selfcreated, and it is 
firmly believed to have spoken on several occasions. 

Beside the Jowo (Lord) altar in front of which burn thousands of lamps, there are, in the temple, a large number of 
rooms that contain images of deities and of holy men. 

A strange sight is the crowd of pilgrims perambulating silently 
in the dark, windowless edifice between these motionless personages, many of which are life size. The yellowish light of the butter lamps adds to the strangeness of the spectacle. From 
a distance it is sometimes difficult to distinguish the living 
beings from the host of dummies who receive their homage. 
Footnote.  The path leading to the hermitage where I stayed was also blocked 
from the middle of December to april. This is a common thing with 
anchorites dwellings in Tibet. 

Although the statues are of no artistic interest whatever, one 
receives a deep impression from those many faces, immutably 
serene, whose gaze seems fixed on some inward object and 
which tell of a mystic method that establishes the mind in an 
everlasting calm. 

I felt saddened at beholding the procession of worshippers, 
lost in superstition and exactly following the path that was 
condemned by the very one whose memory they worship. 
"Beings led by ignorance, who tramp for fathomless ages the 
sorrowful road to renewed births and deaths,” as the Buddhist 
Scriptures say. 

However, the many sacristans and sextons, who, wrapped in 
their darkred togas, are conspicuous everywhere in the temple, 
do not find any cause for sadness in the affluence of pilgrims. 
It is all profit to them, for they allow themselves a large share 
in the offerings of the faithful. They can be seen watching the 
crowd, ready to seize upon those who appear the richest or 
the most devout, from whom the biggest gratuities may be expected. As soon as the little group of pilgrims or the lone devotee Is In their power, there is no end to the wonders 
they are led to witness, the holy relics that are placed for a 
second on their heads, the holy water that they are made to 
drink from various gold and silver pots, the stories that they 
must hear. And invariably an offering is requested by the comrades of the guide in charge of the various shrines. 

I humbly confess that, as it could not have been my wealthy 
appearance which attracted these cunning fellows, it must have 
been my air of profound stupidity, for I was quickly provided 
with several uncalled for guides, who took me into the most 
remote corners of the edifice, exhibiting a lot of articles of 
piety. I might have thought I was back in European Rome 
with its greedy sacristans. 

I was again mistaken for a Ladaki. As I walked around a 
shrine, trying to avoid tasting of holy water once more. (I had 
been sufficiently refreshed by previous draughts), I heard behind me a compassionate voided. 

“Oh!” said some one, “give »only water to that poor woman 
who has come from Ladak. so far away. How great is her faith!.” 

This time it was not the desire for money, but kind feelings, 
which prompted the lamas. I saw young and smiling faces 
around me. A man took hold of my arm and guided me to 
the proper place, while others pushed away the pilgrims in 
front of us. I could now admire, close to, more gems, more 
golden and silver ornaments. A jewelled pot was bent toward 
my hands, which I extended in the orthodox fashion. wet 
me drink and wet my head.” I thought, “This is my baptism 
as a Ladaki.” 

I had a happy inspiration when I chose the beginning of the 
year for my stay at Lhasa, for at any other time it would not 
have been possible for me to see so many strange festivals 
and interesting ceremonies. Mingling with the crowds of holidaymakers, I saw cavalcades of gentlemen richly attired in the style of past ages: and cavalry and the infantry of the ancient 
kings, in their coats of mail, bearing shields and bucklers, 
recalling the Tibet of former days. There was a certain 
amount of horseracing. It was disorderly, mad, joyous, and 
amusing, but not to be compared, from the point of view of 
horsemanship, with that of the dokpas in the Desert of Grass. 

On several occasions I saw the man who Is recognised as 
the most learned in all the country, and who occupies the 
throne of TsongKhapa. a Throughout the first month of the 
year he preaches In the open air, under a canopy erected for 
this purpose, close to the JoKhang. His audience is not 
recruited from the crowd, as one might think from the fact that 
he speaks outside the temple. The monks alone have the right 
to sit crosslegged on the pavement at his feet, and those who 
hear the preaching have been chosen by their superiors. They 
are there by command. Woe to anyone who spoke to 
his neighbour, and who did not maintain an absolutely motion. The founder of the Gapluk  sect. Literally, the sect of those who have “virtuous customs,” that known by the Westerners as “Yellow Cap” sect. 
less attitude. Woe also to the unfortunate layman whose religious zeal led him hither to listen to the discourses of the Supreme Master. The clerics acting as police officers for the 
assembly would soon lash him roughly with the long bundle 
of ropes they flourish continually In a martial fashion. 

The great philosopher of Tibet is a spare old man with a 
thin, angular countenance and the appearance of an aristocratic and haughty ascetic. He walks with short, quick steps beneath the yellowbrocaded umbrella of honour which a friar 
holds over him, as if he were anxious to have done quickly 
with an annoying duty. The expression stamped on his intelligent face is that of the suppressed boredom of one to whom crowds and public ceremonies are distasteful. 

Seated upon his throne, he does not preach In the way we 
understand the word in the West. He speaks without gestures, 
without raising his voice, with an air of detachment, such as 
the theories he Is explaining demand. The striking contrast 
afforded by the doctrines expounded by the doctor, together 
with his refined appearance, and the ignorant, listless crowd, 
watched by the brutal clerical policemen surrounding him, are 
well calculated to surprise a stranger. As to Serti rimpochea 
being born, brought up and having grown old in such an environment, 
he probably does not notice it. 

The first penetration of Western civilization into Lhasa may 
be traced in the uniforms of the khakiclad soldiers. I really 
enjoyed seeing them, headed by a band which played English 
tunes not too badly, marching with a swaggering step out of 
time with the music. They are armed, as has been said before, 
with old English rifles that are still uptodate in most parts 
of central Asia, and even possess a few pieces of mountain 
artillery that are carried by mules. They are immensely proud 
of the latter and air these short, fat, toadlike weapons in and 
out of season. One of them burst, killing several men, but the 
real title is Golden Tipa, “he occupies the throne of Galden.” 

That is to say, the throne of Tsona Khapa, founder of the Galden monastery. a 
accident did not lessen the admiration that the Lhasapas have 
for those which remain. In that blessed country, occurrences 
of that kind are even sometimes believed to be auspicious. In 
this connection, I can relate an incident which happened during my stay at Lhasa. 

It is the custom, during the first month of the year, to make 
mos and to look in many ways for omens regarding the prosperity or ill luck that is to come to the state and especially to the person of the Dalai lama. 

One of the omens is obtained in a rather strange way. Three 
tents are erected, and in each of them an animal is shut , a 
cock, a goat, and a hare. These beasts have, hung around 
their necks, charms which have been blessed by the Dalai lama. 
A number of men must fire at the tents, and if any of the animals are wounded or killed it means that calamities are await 
ing Tibet and its ruler. If this happens, the monks of the 
three great monasteries, Sera, Galden, and Depung, must 
assemble and read the sacred Scriptures for twenty days and 
perform several ceremonies to counteract the ill will of the 
deities. 

The year I was at Lhasa about twentyfive shots were fired 
at the tents, instead of fifteen, which is the usual number. 
English, Chinese, and Tibetan  rifles were used. One of the 
last burst, and the man who fired it was severely wounded 
and died the next day. The fact that no tent had been hit, 
even after that prolonged test, was considered as most auspicious, and the accident that caused the death of the man added greatly to the confidence of the Tibetans regarding the welfare of the LamaKing! The unfortunate commoner, they thought, had been taken by some angry demon as a substitute 
for the most precious existence of the ruler. 

During the many years I had spent among Tibetans, I 
had exceptional opportunities of seeing at first hand the 
life of the different classes of people; but never before had 
I penetrated so deeply into that intimacy of the common folk 
as I did during my stay in Lhasa. The hovel in which I had 
found shelter was the centre of a small caravanserai where 
the strangest specimens of humanity were to be met. The 
wealthiest guests only slept under a roof, the others remaining in the open. Every. act, even every thought, was public. 
I really lived in a novel whose plot was slum life, but what 
amusing and exotic" slums! They had nothing of the lugubrious physical and mental aspect of those of the West. All 
were dirty and ragged, food was coarse and often scarce, 
but everybody enjoyed the great luminous blue sky, and the 
bright lifegiving sun, and waves of joy swept through the 
minds of these unlucky ones devoid of worldly wealth. No one 
practiced any trade or craft. They lived, as birds do, on what 
they could pick up daily. 

Apart from the acute lack of any comfort, I did not suffer 
among my strange neighbours. They never suspected who I 
was, and they treated me with simplicity and kindness as one 
of themselves. 

Some had known better days. One was the youngest son of 
a man who possessed a little wealth. He had married a wellto do widow much older than himself, and might have pros 
pered, but idleness, drinking, and gambling had ruined him. 
When his wife had become aged he had taken a mistress, and 
after a time the legitimate spouse, who realised that she would 
end in poverty if she kept her unworthy husband, managed 
to get rid of him in a rather clever way. She called together 
his and her relatives, and declared her intention of retiring by 
herself to consecrate her last years to devotion. Her husband, 
she said, was in love with his mistress; she did not object to 
their marriage (polygamy as well as polyandry is legal in 
Tibet), but they would have to leave her house, to assume 
all debts that the man had made, and to agree that she was 
free from any obligation toward her husband. In fact, it was 
divorce. The man consented, a deed of marriage was drafted, 
and he went with his new wife. 

The life of the former lovers was far from being smooth 
when I happened to make them a acquaintance. The husband 
was a goodhearted, weak fellow but an inveterate drunkard, 
who was generally unconscious soon after noon, and so remained until the next morning. The wife, more than once, 
kept him company. Nevertheless, she was the more active of 
the pair and of a cleverer turn of mind. Indeed, her cleverness was the subject of tremendous quarrels. The husband 
asserted that during his prolonged sleep the woman stole his 
remaining properties , household utensils, blankets, etc. 
The wife complained that her consort had sold her jewels and 
gambled with the product. When she raised her voice to a 
pitch high enough to arouse the drunkard from his stupor , 
and that feat required strong lungs , a picturesque dialogue followed. Often the man took a heavy stick that he had always at hand, being somewhat crippled by gout, and the lady then 
received a firstrate bastinado that left her weeping and bruised 
before anyone had time to come to her help. The room was 
very small, with only one door on the outside, and the cunning 
husband, who was a very stout man, always managed to block 
it with his fat body, a position from which he could reach his 
old sweetheart with his long stick in whichever corner she ran. 

The miserable house was divided in three. The entrance 
room was occupied by the quarrelling couple I have just mentioned. I had a narrow cell at one side of it, and a dark room at the back sheltered another most remarkable pair. 

They also had lived golden days. The housewife’s manners 
were those of a woman of good family. Her husband, who 
owned some property at the time of their marriage, had been 
appointed an officer in the Tibetan  army during the war with 
China. Then, as had been the case with his neighbour, gambling and drinking had ruined him. 

Complete poverty did not, however, abate his pride. He 
was a very tall, rather handsome man, full of contempt for 
work, and he assumed the dignified mien of a knight bearing 
undeserved misfortune. Everybody addressed him with a Thibetan title somewhat corresponding to our "captain.” To 
accept a humble job seemed repugnant to the aristocratic feelings of the “Captain,” and  the government did not offer him a ministerial seat, he nobly took to the independent profession of begging. Each morning, after drinking his tea, my neighbour went out,.a courier bag slung over his shoulder and 
a wallet thrown on it the way the hidalgos of yore carried their 
cape. Staff in hand, he walked, head erect, too conscious of 
his superiority even to condescend to be arrogant. 

The “Captain” did not come back home before sunset. He 
lunched somewhere, taking nobody into his confidence as to 
the invitations he received. He was witty enough to be pleasant, and enjoyed a kind of celebrity all over Lhasa. People, amused by his manners, gave him what he requested casually, 
as if the aim of his daily outing was only to call as one gentleman on other gentlemen. He succeeded with that method, and his wife and his two children were regularly fed with the 
contents of the bags he brought back duly filled each evening. 
The trouble in the drunkard’s home grew worse when a 
turquoise ornament belonging to the housewife disappeared. 
At first the nemo accused her husband. But innocence prevailed, and the culprit was discovered in the person of the maid servant , for the lady of the small entrance room had a maid! 
Now a strange question was raised. The girl pretended she 
was entitled to an indemnity for having been called a thief. 
That term of abuse, she said, did not apply to her, because she 
had not stolen the jewel; she had found it lying on the ground 
in the room and had picked it up. Men acting as arbiters, as 
pleaders, as counsels and witnesses, soon filled the house. Some 
of them had never seen the turquoise locket or the girl, or heard 
anything connected with the case. They came early in the 
morning, ate, drank, and stayed late into the evening. From 
my small quarters I got the full fun of these strange pro 
ceedings, and of the peculiar arguments which were put for 
ward, especially at the end of the afternoon, when spirits had 
infused original ideas into the brains of the assembly. 

Once, when the discussion had been specially heated, the girl 
and her former lady began tq exchange abuse, and then flew 
at each other. The men present got up to separate them , a 
rather hard task, for the infuriated females turned their nails 
against those who dared to meddle in their duel. Anyhow, 
they succeeded In pushing the maid out of the house, and, to 
prevent her from coming back, followed her to the street door 
across the courtyard. 

One of those inexplicable thoughts that take possession of 
drunkards suddenly made the master of the house fix the 
responsibility of the incident upon his wife. He declared that 
she had brought shame on him before his guests, and he tried to 
play his usual trick of standing in the doorway and beating 
her. But this time, excited by her previous struggle, she flung 
herself at him and tore his long earringa from his ear, which 
bled. He retaliated by knocking her on the head, and she 
shrieked loudly. The “Captain’s wife ran out of the room to 
intervene between them. She had not taken two steps on 
this lilliputian battlefield when she received on the cheek a 
stroke that was not meant for her, and fell on a bench, calling 
for help. Yongden being away, I thought it was my duty to 
prevent the man from seriously hurting his wife, so I walked 
in with the intention of sheltering the now terrified woman in 
my room. But people were coming, and escape became pos 
sible. “Run away quickly,” I urged the woman, protecting 
her retreat. She passed behind me and I never saw her again. 

When the “Captain” came home that evening he found his 
lady with a swollen cheek that had already begun to turn 
black. To relate the scene that was then enacted with the 
flame of a brasero for footlights, exceeds my powers of descrip 
tion. The “Captain” had all the manner of a gifted actor. He 
declaimed half the night, in turn ferocious, clamouring for 
revenge, then full of pathos, telling of the suffering of his 
dame. Again, drawn up to his full height, his head nearly 
touching the low roof, he would speak of the insult done to 
his honour. The man to whom that rhetoric was addressed lay 
on a broken couch, more than half unconscious, and the “Cap 
tain,” who was himself far from being sober, ended his soliloquy 
by denouncing the degrading habjt of drink. 

Next day the “Captain” took Yongden aside and declared 
his intention of calling me as witness in a suit he meant to 
bring to obtain damages for his wife’s bruised cheek. The 
young lama tried to persuade him to give up his idea, and 
offered him a little present,  fie took the money, but remained 
obstinate. His wrona was to be avenged, and I ought to help! 

When Yongden reported this conversation to me I felt very 
annoyed. I would have to appear before several people eager 
to hear about the journey of pilgrims who, like us, had visited 
a large number of holy places. This would mean long talks, 
and Yongden and I would of course be questioned about our 
native land. It might turn out badly for our disguises. 

We were drinking tea silently, wondering how we could 
avoid these dangerous meetings, when the door opened. In 
Tibet, especially among common folk, one does not knock at 
the door or ask any permission to enter a room or a house. 
A man stepped in. After the usual polite greetings, he told 
us that my neighbour, whom I had helped to escape the day 
before, intended to divorce her husband and wished me to 
appear as a witness to testify to her husband’s brutality. As 
in the previous case, I endeavoured to induce the man to 
allow me to remain neutral, for both husband and wife had 
been obliging, and I did not want to say anything against 
either of them. But persuasion was useless, and he retired 
saying that he would Insist upon my evidence being heard. 

We thus decided to leave Lhasa for a week, ostensibly for 
the sake of visiting the great monastery of Galden, where re 
poses the massive gold and silver bejewelled tomb of Tsong 
Khapa, the founder of the '‘Yellow Hat” sect, and many other 
interesting sights. That journey was far from being uneventful. 
Among other incidents, Yongden, when wandering alone 
through the monastic city, met a man who had known us well 
for a long time. He of course enquired about me, and the lama 
told him that I was still in China and that when his pilgrimage 
was over he would go back to me. Our old acquaintance then 
invited him to drink tea, but Ydngden declined, saying that he 
did not feel very well and would call on another occasion. He 
quickly rejoined me, and as, happily, we had finished visiting 
the various shrines and the country arouivi the monastery, we 
made haste to leave the place. 

At Lhasa much tea and spirits had been drunk, but the two 
cases were still pending. A new period of festivities was soon 
to begin, and the judges had postponed the case until after 
these were over. This completely dispelled my fear, for I had 
decided to leave the day after the great Ser Pang pageant. 

But I had not yet finished with the comedies and dramas 
enacted by my curious neighbours. One night I was awakened 
by one of the openair lodgers of the courtyard, an old woman 
who asked help for her daughter, who seemed to be about to 
die. Yongden and I and the Captain and his wife ran 
hastily outside. We found the girl seated; she appeared to 
breathe with difficulty and uttered strange sounds a little like 
the noise of an engine letting off steam. “I understand now,” 
the mother told us. The god rides her.” 

end of this part.


CHAPTER VIII.

I LEFT Lhasa as quietly as I had entered, and no one suspected that a foreign woman had lived there for two 
months. I looked somewhat different from the beggar I was 
when I first entered the Forbidden City. I had promoted myself 
to a more respectable station in the social hierarchy. I was 
now a middle-class woman, the owner of two horses and 
accompanied by a man servant whom Yongden had engaged at 
Lhasa. Official enquiries about travellers going from the capital to the frontiers are not very strict, so I could afford to make myself a little more comfortable. I had also purchased 
a quantity of books at Lhasa, and as the tour I was undertaking in the south of the country had, as its special object the hunt for old manuscripts to add to the excellent Tibetan  library 
I had collected on my previous journeys and which was safely 
housed In China, horses were needed to carry the luggage. 

As for myself, I had decided to continue to walk most of the 
time, finding it , now that I had no longer a load to carry , a 
most enjoyable sport. 

One sunny morning in spring I followed once more the 
wide street leading to the Potala, across gardens where trees 
were now gay with the fresh pale green garb of new leaves. 

I passed the gate of Norbu ling, smiling at the idea that the 
ruler of Tibet, who lived there, little imagined that I had 
been so near to him for so long a time. He knew me personally, since we had met more than once In the Himalayas. He 
was indeed largely responsible both for my present journey and 
the previous ones, having pressed me to undertake a thorough 
study of the Tibetan  language vid literature. I had followed 
his advice, and the growing jnterest in Tibet which I had 
derived from my study had finally led me, after years of travel, 
to the Dalai lama’s own capital. Had I given my name, and 
had he been free, he might have liked to see me again, but 
his present Western suzerain does not allow him as much free 
dom as his Chinese master 'did. Whatever may be his own 
inclinations, he is no more at liberty to welcome a foreigner 
who is not sent to him,’ than he is to forbid his door to those 
who are recommended or delegated to him. So I went my way. 

We crossed the river Kyi and ascended a small pass. There 
I looked back for a last vision of Lhasa. From that distance 
the Potala alone could be seen , a tiny castle suspended, it 
seemed, in the air like a mirage. I remained for a while gazing 
at the graceful vision, remembering the toils and troubles 
that my stay in Lhasa had cost me. I had had my reward. 
In a hearty Mdlam I wished spiritual enlightenment and mate 
rial welfare to all beings visible or invisible who lived in the 
Forbidden City that had been hospitable to me, and then, 
turning to the south, I began my descent. Lhasa had for 
ever gone from my eyes and taken its place in my world of 
memories. 

Quite near Lhasa, on the left bank of the Brahmaputra, one 
finds a miniature Sahara whose extensive white dunes are 
invading the whole country. One can observe there, though on 
a much smaller scale, a phenomenon like that witnessed in 
Northern Kansu and in Chinese Turkestan, where the Gobia 
has swallowed up immense territories occupied, centuries ago, 
by flourishing estates. 

In spite of a ridge which stood In their way, the sands have 
taken a firm footing in the Kyi Valley, and though still shallow 
on that side, their fine dust is beginning to accumulate along 
the hedges which border Norbuling, the pleasure garden 
of the Dalai lama. It may possibly be that in a few generations 
Lhasa will be reached. Who knows whether, in a still more 
distant future, some savant, excavating the entirely submerged 
city, may not discover the Potala and the Jo Khang, just as 
we how lay bare the palaces and temples which the sands of the 
great Gobi have overwhelmed. 

On our way we passed the monastery of Dorjee Thag, most 
picturesquely situated against a rocky cliff on the river shore, 
with a small village at its foot. Farther off there were a few 
more villages whose fields are gradually disappearing beneath 
the mounting sands. 

That snow-white desert region through which the Brahma 
putra, like a huge azure snake, winds its way serenely, imparts 
to the Samye monastery a peculiar air of mystery. Traces of 
miraculous events are pointed out all over the country. A high 
isolated rock, standing strangely in the bed of the river, bears 
witness to one of the most remarkable of these prodigies. Once 
upon a time this giant had removed from India toward the 
heights of Tibet. What was the goal of its adventurous 
journey? One cannot tell. Perhaps it felt Impressed by the 
calm beauty of the wide Brahmaputra valley, its turquoise sky 
and its blue river, and, struck with admiration, its enormous 
bulk came to rest upon the sand. Since then, an unbroken 
trance has held it there, alone in the desert, its feet bathed in 
the stream. I envied it as I passed. Like it, why could not I 
seat myself on the shore of the blue river, and remain there for 
ever, wrapped in solitude, sunken in unshaken rapture? 

Samye is an historical site. In the eighth century after 
Christ, the first Buddhist monastery of Tibet was built there. 
The legend tells that the demons, determined to prevent the 
erection of the building, pulled down each night the work 
done by the masons during the day. The famous magician 
Padmasambhava succeeded not only in conquering them, but 
in compelling them to become his obedient servants, and with 
their aid he built the monastery in a few nights! 

The Samye monastery has long been the seat of powerful 
lamas; but since the establishment of the “Yellow Cap” sect 
and the superiority acquired by it over the “Red Cap,” in be 
coming the official clergy of the state, Samye has lost its impor 
tance and is now an abandoned place where can be found 
hardly more than twenty trapas. 

A number of houses inside the large enclosure of the monastery are now inhabited by the lay tenants of the gompa and have become small farms. Yet the few temples still remaining 
in the deserted monastery are kept in good condition. As 
successive fires have desti0yed not only the original buildings, but those which have replaced them, the present edifices are not of great interest. Yet one of them deserves special 
mention, for it contains a most dreaded shrine and is the seat 
of one of the great official oracles of Tibet. 

This shrine is called U Khang (House of the Vital Breath), 
because it is said that the breath of every being who dies on 
the earth is carried in it. There, in an inner room sealed with 
the seal of the Dalai lama, are placed a choppingboard and a 
knife of ritualistic shape. With these implements the devils 
each night cut up invisible corpses and , so say the Tibetans , 
one can hear from outside the noises of the chopping mingled 
with cries and laughter. The oracle of Samye alone is allowed 
to enter the shrine once a year to deposit a new chopping 
board and knife. The old ones, which are removed, are then 
seen to be worn out by the use that has been made of them. 

That “breath” which can be chopped seems a somewhat extravagant Invention. It is but the popular gross interpretation of some esoteric beliefs and rites of the nagspa. Stories to make 
oneas hair stand on end are told concerning the U Khang. 
Struggles of tortured “breath” against ferocious beings of an 
other world, thrilling escapes of ghosts in search of the body 
which has been theirs, racing with infuriated female devils 
in pursuit of them! All the elements necessary to a firstrate 
nightmare may be gathered in the tales to which the U Khang 
has given birth. 

Years ago, when the Lama Choskyonga entered the shrine, 
he was allowed to be accompanied by a few members of his 
ecclesiastical household, but a dramatic incident put an end to 
that privilege. Once as he was on the point of leaving, the 
'Choskyong, (Sanskrit: Dharmapala) or “protector of the Religlon,
Changzdda who followed the lama felt as if somebody was tugging at his zen a from behind. 

“Kusho! Kusho!” he exclaimed, addressing the Choskyong, 
‘somebody is pulling my robe!” 

Both men turned to look behihd them. The room was 
empty! They then continued to proceed toward the door where, 
just as he was about to step out after the Choskyong, the 
Changzod fell dead! 

Since then, the Lama alone enters the abode of the eaters 
of “breath,” as he only is believed capable of protecting him 
self by the recitation of secret spells. 

Outside the door of the shrine one can see a number of 
leather bags which represent the invisible wrappings in which 
the “breaths” are carried to the U Khang, There exist, say 
the people connected with the shrine, sorcerers who, while in 
a trance and unconscious of what they do, perform the peculiar 
function of seizing the “breaths” of the departed and bringing 
them to Samye. 

But I must cut short this account. The field of the occult 
seems boundless in Tibet. Occult lore may there be studied 
at all stages and in all forms, from the most absurd, degraded, 
and repulsive, to those whose manifestations give cause for 
reflection and contravene all preconceived ideas. 

Beginning with the ignorant quack who treats the villagers 
with words and gestures, the meaning of which is as unknown to him as to his clients, we may, before we arrive at 
the aristocracy of magic and witchcraft, make the acquaintance of many picturesque personages who roam about the 
country or remain rooted in retreats extremely difficult of 
access. 

Incidentally, in the course of the preceding chapters, I have 
mentioned the mopas, who predict the future and discover 
hidden things; the vagrant naljorpas who, aping the true 
ascetics of that name, pretend ahat they can command the 
deities and the demons; and tae pazvos and their female colleagues the pamos, a variety of mediums who deliver oracular pronouncements in trances. The smallest fry of these last grovel 
miserably in the towns and villages, offering their services in 
'exchange for food, while the greatest among them are highly 
honoured, lordly beji;ias,'livrng in sumptuous abodes and occupying, under the title of Choskyong, high official positions. 

There is also in Tibet a curious class, including persons of 
both sexes, but especially women, who are reputed to be 
hereditary keepers of “poison.” What poison? Nobody 
knows. No one has ever seen a trace of it, but this very mystery 
adds to the terror it inspires. When the fatal times arrives, the 
one who is to administer it cannot escape the obligation. In 
default of a passerby who may afford him an opportunity, he 
must pour it out for one of his friends or relatives. One hears 
whispers of mothers who have poisoned their only sons, of husbands who have been obliged to hand the fatal cup to a dearly loved bride the'aday of their marriage; and if there is no one 
within reach, the “keeper” must drink the deadly potion 
himself. 

I have seen a man who was said to be the hero of a strange 
poison story. He was travelling, and on his way through a 
village he entered a farm to obtain refreshment. The mistress 
of the house prepared him some beer by pouring hot water 
upon fermented grain placed in a wooden pot, according to the 
custom of the Himalayan Tibetans. She then went upstairs. 
When left alone the traveller remarked, with some astonishment, that the beer placed before him, in the wooden vessel, was boiling in great bubbles. Near by water was also boiling 
in a cauldron, but in a natural way. The man took a large ladle 
of this, and emptied it over the suspicious looking beer. At 
that moment he heard a fall on the floor above his head. The 
woman who had served him had fallen down dead. 

This “poison” is a source of great worry to travellers in 
Tibet. There exist peculiar wooden bowls, which, it is maintained, are sensitive to the presence of poison in any beverage poured into them, and for that reason they are sold at very 
high prices. 

Strange to say, in sejne households the family is convinced 
that the mother possesses “poison.” Where does, she hide it? 
Nobody tries to find out, for all are convinced that there is no 
cure for such a fatality. They look askance at, spy upon the 
gestures and words of the unhappy woman, who in the end 
often comes to believes that this “poison” of hers really exists. 
Even the death of the tormented person does not put an end 
to the danger. The “poison” seems inexhaustible. It is transmitted, and the legatee has no power to refuse it. Willy nilly, he is obliged to become a poisoner in his turn. It must 
be understood, however that when they administer the “poi 
son,” as well as when they bequeath it to a successor, these 
“keepers” are acting unconsciously, as the passive agents of 
another will. Nor do they remember their action afterward. 

The tantfik rites, in the course of which the participants eat 
a piece of the flesh of a corpse, and others still more extraordinary , the art of prolonging life with all the energy of youth, by seizing upon the vitality of others; levitation and 
so forth , all these are practised, it is said, by small groups 
professing esoteric principles.

There is an order of nagspas whose members are reputed to 
be experts in the science of killing, slowly or suddenly, from a 
distance. They are also said to be able to chase away evil 
spirits or to send them to attack some particular individual. 

This gives rise to amusing comedies. A man who desires to 
harm another from jealousy or some other cause, sends for a 
nagspa, begging him to dispatch a devil to worry his enemy. 
The magician casts hjs spell, but the peasant, merchant, 
or noble lord against whom the rite is performed may 
learn what Is going on. Then he has recourse to another 
nagspa, and the play begins. On his arrival the evil spirit finds 
an adversary whom he cannot conquer, and returns in anger 
whence he was summoned. His irritation makes him dangerous, and it is essential that he should promptly satisfy his ferocious instincts. For that reason is sent back again, and once 
more finds himself overpowered. This game of ball, at the 
expense of the poor devil, may be prolonged, his fury becoming 
progressively stronger. Each of the nagspas, then, must look 
'out for his own safety, for. he who cannot master the invisible 
spirit will become ks. victim! It is rare, however, for things to 
take a tragic turn in performances of this kind, as in other more 
occult affairs which sometimes bring madness and death to 
those who attempt them. 

Usually the peregrinations of the evil spirit only serve as a 
pretext for each of the wizards and his assistants to sojourn In 
the house of his credulous client and feast at his expense. 

Certain objects, having being used for magic rites, must not, 
according to the popular belief, be kept in the houses of the 
laity or the noninitiate lamas, for fear that the beings who 
have been subjugated by means of them may revenge them 
selves upon their present owner, if he does not know the way 
to overpower them. To this belief I owe the possession of 
several interesting objects In my collection. People who received magic implements through inheritance have often entreated me to take these too dangerous legacies from them. 

One day a gift came to me in a manner queer enough to be 
worth relating. In the course of a journey I fell in with a 
little caravan of lamas, and, conversing with them, as is 
customary on such travels, where encounters are rare, I 
learned that they were transporting a phurba, (a magic dagger),
which had become a cause of misfortune. 

This ritualistic weapon had belonged to their head lama, 
recently deceased. It had begun its misdeeds in the monastery 
itself. Of three monks who had touched it, two were dead, 
and the third had broken his leg falling from his horse. The 
high pole of one of the large benediction banners suddenly fell, 
and this was an ominous portent. Terrified, yet not daring to 
destroy the phurba, for fear of yet greater misfortune, they 
had deposited it in a box, whence, soon afterwards, lugubrious 
and threatening sounds were 4ieard to issue. Finally they 
had decided to lay the dread object in a lonely cavern dedicated 
to some divinity. But the cowmen living in the district had 
opposed this. They recalled the story of a phurba, which 
(though when and where nobody knew) had, under similar 
conditions, begun to wander through the air, wounding and 
killing many men and beasts. 

The unhappy bearers of the magic daggory which lay, wrapped 
up in papers with charms written upon them In a carefully 
sealed box, appeared very sad. Their discomfited countenances 
forbade my rallying them, and I was, moreover, very anxious 
to see the evil implement. 

“Let me look at the phurba , I said. “I may be able to find 
a means of helping you.” 

They dared not break the seals and let it free, lest It 
escape; but finally, after a lengthy argument, they allowed me 
to take it out myself. 

It was an ancient and very Interesting specimen. Only the 
great monasteries own phurbas of this kind. Envy was aroused 
in my breast; I wanted it badly, but I knew that nothing in 
the world would induce the lamas to sell it. I must reflect 
a little and think out a way. 

“Camp with us this evening,” I said to the travellers, “and 
leave the phurba with me; I will look after it.” 

My words promised nothing, but the attraction of a good 
supper and a gossip with my people, who would distract them 
from their worries, decided them to accept. 

When night fell I went some distance from the camp, openly 
carrying away the dagger, the presence of which, out of its 
case, while I was not amongst them, would have terrorized 
the credulous Tibetans. When I judged that I had gone far 
enough, I stuck the cause of the trouble upright in the ground 
and sat down on a blanket to think out how I could persuade 
them to give It up to me. 

I had been there for several hours when it seemed to me as. 
if the form of a lama arose near where I had fixed the magic 
dagger. I saw it advance, stooping cautiously. One hand 
came slowly forth from beneath the zen which enveloped him, 
and appeared in the indistinct light to grope for the phurba. 
With a single bound, quicker than the thief, I reached it and 
dragged it out of the ground. So I was not alone in desiring 
the mischievous implement Among my chance companions 
there was some one, less simple than the rest, who knew its 
value and wanted to sell k secretly. He had believed me asleep. 
He thought I would perceive nothing, and next morning the 
disappearance of the dagger would be attributed to some occult 
influence, and a new story would be the result. It was really a 
pity that such a fine plan should not succeed. But I had 
secured the magic weapon, and held it so firmly in my closed 
hand that my excited nerves and the pressure of my flesh on the 
rough surface of its worked copper handle gave me the impres 
sion that it was moving slightly. And now for the thief? 

All around me the immense tableland was empty. No doubt 
the marauder had been able to effect his escape whilst I was 
stooping to snatch the dagger from the earth. 

I ran to the camp. It was quite simple. The one who was 
missing, or who came in after me, would be the thief. I found 
them all awake and chanting religious formulas to protect them 
selves against the powers of evil. I called Yongden to my 
tent. “Which of them has been absent?aa I asked him. “No 
one,” he replied. “They are half dead with fright, and I had 
to be angry with them because they would not go far away 
enough to perform certain acts!” 

Strange indeed! I had been dim sighted, deceived by an 
illusion. It was not common with me; but no matter, this 
perhaps would serve my purpose. 

“Listen,” I said to the men; “this is what has just happened. 
 ” And I told them frankly of the vision I had had, and my 
doubts of their honesty. 

“It is our Grand Lama. Undoubtedly it is our Grand 
Lama!” they exclaimed. “He wanted to take back his dagger 
and perhaps he would have killed you if he had been able 
to get it. Oh, Jetsunma, you are a true gomchenma, even 
though you are a philing. Our Tsawai Lama was a mighty 
magician, and yet he could not teke his phurba away from you. 
Keep it now, keep it. It will no longer harm anybody!” 

I shared their joy, but from another xause. The phurba was 
mine. Nevertheless, honesty forbade my taking advantage of 
their emotion to appropriate it. “Reflect” I said to them; 
‘perhaps a shadow was responsible for the vision. I may 
have been asleep and dreaming.” 

They would not hear of this. The lama had appeared. I 
had seen him. He had not been able to take back Ym phurba, 
and, by my superior power, I became its rightful owner. I 
must own that I allowed myself to be easily convinced. 

After leaving Samye I crossed the Brahmaputra near 
Tsetang, where the valleys of the Yanlung open out. This 
country is famous for the number of its places of pilgrimage. 
As to its physical aspect, it is pleasant and fertile, with nothing 
of the majesty of the forest of the Po yut, the Land of Grass, 
or the bleak tablelands near the Himalayas. Its inhabitants 
take agriculture much more to heart than do those of the other 
provinces of Tibet. Wellbuilt houses are to be seen in large 
numbers everywhere, and the people appear to be in a rather 
flourishing situation. 

The charm of the mild climate and the fertile ground of the 
Yarlung valleys have been known for centuries, and the first, 
kings of Tibet, long before Buddhism, under its lamaist disguise, spread through the country, had chosen it for their residence.

Like a conscientious pilgrim, I visited the celebrated 
sum. Ten sum, six places of religious interest amongst yrhita, 
is a Cave , now enclosed in a monastery , awhere Reschunaaa, 
one of the two foremost disciples of the great ascetic poea 
Milarespa> lived for a time, practicing meditation. From tha,’ 

I climbed the narrow staircase up to the opening and, gazing 
into it, began to reflect upon the symbol suggested by that 
inner chorten, yielding and refusing its radiance. I thought and 
thought and, somewhat forgetting where I was, remained 
longer than the average visitor, my forehead against the stone, 
as I gazed into the building. This was noticed, and the same 
evening, a trapa shyly asked me if I had seen many lamps! 

Leaving Tag chen Bumba, I wandered in several directions 
across the country, in my hunt for books. Quite unexpected 
circumstances led me to discover, far out of the way, a lama 
who had inherited a fine library, and who, like many of his 
colleagues, did not care at all for literature or philosophy. I 
secured a good number of ancient and beautiful manuscripts 
from him. 

The time had now come for me to decide upon my departure 
from Tibet. I looked toward China, whence I had come. I 
felt very tempted to turn eastward, and reach Yunnan by a new 
road. I could, had I so chosen, have left Tibet without any 
body ever suspecting my arduous journey and my stay at Lhasa. 
But something made me feel that what I had done must be 
known. I obeyed this instinct and took the road to Gyantze, 
the town of southern Tibet which has become a British outpost. 

On my way I saw the strangely shaped Yamdok Lake in 
which there is a peninsula with a small separate lake. Here 
I found the famous Sanding monastery, the residence of the 
high lady lama, Dorjee Phagmo, It was in a rather dilapidated 
condition. 

Dorjee Phagmo (the diamond or most excellent sow) is 
considered a manifestation, under a human form, of a deity 
of the Buddhist Tantrik pantheon borrowed from India at a 
period when Buddhism had already completely degenerated, 
and primitive doctrine hardly existed any longer. Many are the 
legends about certain of the Sandingas abbesses, who in times of 
“danger or in other peculiar circumstances show themselves in 
the form of a sow. 

The reverend lady was hot at Sanding when I was there. 
I had seen her at Lhasa and she had not yet returned from the 
capital. 

I reached Gyantze at dusk and went straight to the bunga 
low. The first gentleman who saw me and heard a Tibetan  
woman addressing him in English was dumbfounded. When 
he had recovered he explained to me that the bungalow’s 
rooms were occupied and directed me to the fort, where the 
officials and a small garrison of Indian troops are quartered. 
'My arrival there produced the same effect. When I said that 
I came from China, that for eight months I had wandered 
across unknown parts of Tibet, had spent two months at 
Lhasa and enjoyed in the Forbidden City all the New Year’s 
festivities, no one could find a word to answer me. In any 
event, the gentlemen at the fort welcomed me most kindly and 
showed me the greatest hospitality, for which I shall ever 
remain thankful. 

I had still before me the long, dreadfully cold road across 
the tablelands and blizzards weptthe adventure Was ended, 
and alone in my room, I said to myself before closing my eyes 
in sleep: 

“Lha gydo, [The gods have won]!” 

The first white woman had entered forbidden Lhasa and 
shown the way. May others follow and open with loving hearts 
the gates of the wonderland, “for the good, for the welfare of 
many,” as the Buddhist Scriptures say. 

THE END.