librsnet@mail.ru
Three Years in Tibet. Ekai Kawaguchi
that first day of July, 1900, early in the morning, after watching the form of my faithful guide on his return journey until he had disappeared behind a projecting rock, I then turned round and proceeded due north. To my joy I found the pathway not so difficult as I had expected, owing to the entire absence of rugged rocks. Still, there was always enough to weigh me down with anxiety, as I had to push my way over the trackless field of deep snow, with a solitary compass and a mountain peak as my only guides. One night I slept on the snow under the sky, and another I passed in the hollow of a cliff; three days’ jogging, after parting with my carrier, brought me across to the other side of the northern peak of the Dhavalagiri. It is here that the dominion of Nepāl ends and
The Frontier of Tibet Begins.
As I stood on that high point, which commanded on the south the snow-capped heads of the Dhavalagiri family, and on the north the undulating stretch of the North-east Steppes of Tibet, interspersed here and there with shining streams of water, which appeared to flow out of and then disappear into the clouds, I felt as if my whole being had turned into a fountain of welling emotions. Toward the south, far, far away, beyond the sky-reaching Dhavalagiri, I imagined that I saw Buḍḍhagayā, sacred to our beloved Lord Buḍḍha, where I had vowed my vow, and prayed for protection and mercy. That reminded me of the parting words I left behind me, when bidding adieu to my folks and friends at home. I had then said that in three years I would be able to enter Tibet. That was on the 26th of June, 1897, and here I was stepping on the soil of Tibet on the 4th of July, 1900.
ENTERING TIBET FROM NEPAL.
How could I prevent myself from being transported with mingled feelings of joy, gratitude and hope? But I was tired and hungry. I took my luggage from my back and gently set it on a piece of rock, after brushing off the snow, and then, taking out my store of provisions, made some dough out of baked flour, snow and butter. Morsel after morsel, the mixture, with a sprinkle of powdered pepper and salt, went down my throat with unearthly sweetness, and I fancied that the Gods in Paradise could not feast on dishes more exquisitely palatable. I made away with two bowlfuls of the preparation with the greatest relish; that ended my meal for the day.
I should observe here that I have always adhered, as I adhere now, to the rule of one full meal a day, besides taking some dried fruits or something of that kind for breakfast. I may also state that the bowl of which I speak here was of a fairly large size, and two of them constituted a full good repast, especially as the wheat produced in cold latitudes seems to be richer in nutrition than that of warmer countries.
Well, I had dined grandly. The ocean of snow stretched around me and below me, far away. I was still in an extatic mood and all was interesting. But in which direction was I to proceed in resuming my journey?
CHAPTER XII.
The World of Snow.
According to the stock of information I had gathered, I was always to head north until I came to Lake Mānasarovara, and the point I had now to decide was how I might make the shortest cut to that body of fresh water. There was nothing to guide me but my compass and a survey I took of the vast expanse of snow to a great distance before me. The best I could do was guess-work. Following the impulses of instinct more than anything else, except the general direction indicated by the compass, I decided on taking a north-westerly course in making the descent. So I restarted, with the luggage on my back.
So far my route had lain principally on the sunny side of the mountains and the snow, at the most, had not been more than five or six inches deep; but from now onward I had to proceed along the reverse side, covered over with an abundance of the crystal layers, the unguessable thickness of which furnished me with a constant source of anxiety. In some places my feet sank fourteen or fifteen inches in the snow, and in others they did not go down more than seven or eight inches. This wading in the snow was more fatiguing than I had imagined at first, and the staff again rendered me great service; once or twice I found it a difficult job to extricate myself, when my foot, after stamping through the layers of snow, wedged itself tightly between two large pieces of hard stone. This sort of trudging lasted for nearly three miles down a gradual descent, at the end of which I emerged on a snowless beach of loose pebbles and stones of different sizes. By that time my Tibetan boots had become so far worn out, that at places my feet came into direct contact with the hard gravel, which tore the skin and caused blood to flow, leaving the crimson marks of my footsteps behind. During the descent I felt little of my luggage, but now it began to tell on me, as the foot-hold under me consisted of loose round pebbles, when it was not sharp angular slabs of broken rock. Five miles onward, I came upon a pair of ponds formed of melting snow, and respectively about five miles and two and a half miles in circumference. Both the ponds were thick with immense flocks of wild ducks of different sizes, brownish or reddish in color, or spotted black on a white ground. Otherwise the waters of the ponds were as clear as could be, and the scenery around was picturesque in the extreme, so much so that, though with lacerated feet and stark-stiff about my waist with rheumatic pains, I almost forgot all that discomfort as I stood gazing around. The prestige of the ponds, if they had any, was of little matter to me then, but, as I happened to chance upon them all by myself, I was destined to introduce them to the world; and I christened the larger pond, which was rectangular in shape, ‘Ekai,’ after my own name, and the smaller, which described nearly a perfect circle, ‘Jinkow,’ a name which I sometimes use for myself. A little conceit you may call it if you like, but it was only for memory’s sake that I did these things; and when a little way down I came upon a gourd-shaped pond, about a mile and a quarter in circumference, I gave it the name of ‘Hisago Ike’—calabash pond. Still holding to my north-westerly direction, after having gone some distance I saw, to the north-west of a snow-clad mountain that rose far in front of me, two or three tents pitched on the ground. The sight aroused in me a sense of intense curiosity mingled with anxiety. Suppose I went to them; what would their occupants think of a stranger, suddenly emerging upon them from pathless wilds? Once their suspicion was roused, I might in vain hope to allay it; what was I to do then? I espied a declivity below me, which extended north-west in a gradual descent, far out of sight of the tents, and I saw that unless I took it, I should either come on those tents or have my progress barred by a succession of high mountains. With nothing else to help me to arrive at a decision, I then entered on what is termed ‘Danjikwan sanmai’ in Japanese-Buḍḍhist terminology, a meditative process of making up one’s mind, when neither logic nor accurate knowledge is present to draw upon for arriving at a conclusion. The process is, in short, one of abnegating self and then forming a judgment, a method which borders on divination, or an assertion of instinctive powers. The result was that I decided to take the route that lay toward the tents, and by nightfall I came within hailing distance of them, when a pack of five or six ferocious-looking dogs caught sight of me and began barking furiously. They were formidable animals with long shaggy fur and very cruel looks. I had before then been told that when attacked by dogs of this kind I must not strike them, but that I should only ward them off, quietly waving a stick in front of their muzzles, and on this occasion I religiously followed that instruction, and found to my entire satisfaction that the dogs did not try to snap at me. Proceeding thus, and coming outside one of the tents, I called out to its occupants.
TO A TENT OF NOMAD TIBETANS.
CHAPTER XIII.
A kind old Dame.
My call was responded to by an old woman who, coming out of the tent and finding a tattered and tired wayfarer, said more to herself than to me: “Why, it is a pilgrim, poor, poor.” Seeing no reason to suppose that I appeared an object of suspicion to her, I ventured to inform her that I was from the direction of Lhasa,