YUNG-NING TO LI-CHIANG

At Yung-ning I parted with some regret from my three Chinese soldiers—including Hoggins and Bloggins—who had acted as my escort all the way from Tachienlu. They had carried out their orders to the letter in seeing me safely into Yunnan, and in many ways had rendered me faithful and valuable service. Attended by such men a traveller in the wilds of Chinese Tibet has indeed but little to complain of. They were always cheerful, obedient and respectful, never once grumbled at the hardships of the road or the difficulties that we sometimes had about obtaining food, and at the end of a day's journey were always busy about my personal requirements before they looked after themselves. I rewarded them with treble the pay I had promised them at Tachienlu, and still felt that I was in their debt. They started off on the return journey in the company of the lama who had acted as my guide from Muli, and I was glad to learn some months afterwards that they had arrived safely at Tachienlu. The lama, of course, left them at Muli. The Tibetan servant whom I had engaged at Tachienlu remained in my service for some weeks longer, until I had arrived at T'Êng-yÜeh near the frontier of Burma.

I started from Yung-ning on 10th May, with an unusually large retinue. The mountain pass that separates the Yung-ning plain from the Yangtse was said to be one of the most dangerous roads in western China, owing to the presence of large bands of Lolo robbers. The Yung-ning chief was therefore kind enough to send no less than twelve armed men to escort me to the banks of the river. Two of the twelve were soldiers in uniform; the rest were honest rustics who were probably less afraid of the Lolos than of their borrowed firearms, which on their own admission they had never been taught to use. Our general direction during the morning was W.S.W., over an undulating road that at first led us through cultivated fields and afterwards gradually ascended the side of a wooded mountain. Early in the afternoon we reached, after a long climb, the summit of the Ge Wa pass or Ge Wa Ya K'ou, the height of which is about 13,000 feet. From the summit there was no view towards the south as it was hidden by forests, but a backward glance afforded a beautiful view of the Yung-ning plain, the afternoon shining brightly on its many shades of green. We descended the west side of the pass by a bad road, and all distant views were concealed until we had gone down about 3,000 feet. Then a panorama of very lofty mountains, crowned with snow, opened out before us in the south-west. After passing one or two log cabins and a few fields of scanty vegetation we reached our night's quarters in a sorry hut. The whole of the next morning was occupied in continuing the long descent to the Yangtse valley. The road is not very steep, but the surface is crumbling and rocky. We first caught sight of the great river when we were between 2,000 and 3,000 feet above it. The glimpse revealed to us a tortuous channel of which the general direction was from north-west to south-east. The mountains slope almost to the water's edge on both sides, but there are several small villages perched above the banks, and there is a considerable amount of cultivation. Yet it is curious to observe that the Chinese, as distinct from the natives, are convinced that this broad valley—like all other river-valleys in the west—is dangerous to the health of "civilised" beings. We had our midday meal outside a solitary house called Lan Ga Lo, not far from which is a village. Thence we descended, always in full view of the river, to the village of La Ka Shi, which lies close to a small stream called the Si Dji or Si river. From there we proceeded along the left bank of the Yangtse, two or three hundred feet above it, for a distance of half a mile, then descended to the water's edge by a very steep zig-zagged path.

The crossing of the river was effected by means of a ferry-boat; but, as there was only one boat and we had mules to take across, it was not till two hours afterwards that we were all safely deposited with our baggage on the right bank. It was difficult work to get the animals into the boat. The second boat-load (consisting of two of them) nearly found a watery grave, for a mule became panic-stricken when the boat was only a third of the way across, and stamped about so much that the rather crazy craft sprang a leak and had to be hurried back. The current was much less swift than that of the Yalung, and we were not carried down stream more than about 30 yards during the passage; but we were told by the ferryman that the water had only recently begun to rise above the usual winter level. The melting snows in summer naturally make a great difference in the speed of the current and the level of the water. Where we crossed, the river was more than 100 yards broad, but just above that point it forces its way through a narrow channel formed by some jutting rocks.261 The rapids render the river quite unnavigable. The height of the Yangtse above sea-level at this point is about 5,200 feet. A local Chinese name for this portion of the river is Pai Shui Ho ("White Water River"), but, like all rivers fed by melting snows and glaciers, it was very brown and muddy when we crossed it. The Mo-so name is Gi Dji, which simply means "The River."

It is only within the last ten years that geographers have known anything about the great bend in the Yangtse that brings it to within a day's journey of Yung-ning. The bend is, of course, caused by the vast mountain range that extends to the north of Li-chiang—a range that proved impenetrable even to the turbulent waters of the greatest river in China, and forced it to take a northerly course that added scores of miles to its total length. M. Bonin was, I believe, the first traveller to make this discovery, and his observations were subsequently confirmed by Major Davies and Major Ryder.262

On reaching the right (south) bank of the Yangtse, we at once commenced a stiff uphill climb. Close to the river's edge I noticed some of the small artificial caves or recesses mentioned above,263 in connection with the burial customs of the Mo-so. Not far from these, but not quite so close to the river's edge, were a number of holes, large enough to admit a man, and partly covered by loose planks. These, I was told, were the shafts of gold-mines, but I could get no information as to the output, and no doubt the methods of working are exceedingly primitive. When I asked my guides whether the gold of this district had not attracted Chinese miners, they told me a naÏve story of how some years ago some Chinese "from the east" came and set up a mining establishment there, ruthlessly driving the natives to the neighbouring mountains. Soon afterwards the Chinese miners found themselves harassed day and night by continuous showers of stones and rocks, which killed not a few of their number and wrecked their huts. After patiently enduring these calamities for a few days, without hope of being able to retaliate, they picked up their belongings and quietly fled away, doubtless regretting their foolhardiness in tampering with the prescriptive rights of the quarrelsome barbarians.264

Several hundred feet above the gold-mines I passed some old graves—not unlike a type of grave often seen in China proper. One of my mule-drivers, a Mo-so, could only tell me that they were the tombs of pÊn-ti-jÊn, which means nothing but "the natives," and is therefore not a very enlightening expression to use in a country inhabited by three or four different races, none of which has any exact knowledge of how it came there. The predominant races between the Yunnan frontier, north of Yung-ning, and the town of Li-chiang are undoubtedly Mo-so and Li-so, but that there are tribal differences among them seems to be evident from the fact that the Mo-so north of the Yangtse are under the rule of the chief whom I met at Yung-ning, while south of that river they are subject to another chief who resides at Li-chiang. At one time, indeed, it is well known that all the Mo-so were governed by a king whose capital was at Li-chiang, but the present Li-chiang chief—whose influence is gradually waning owing to Chinese encroachments—is not the representative of the ancient Mo-so king.

After climbing about 2,000 feet above the river, we halted for the night in the flourishing village of FÊng K'o, where I found excellent quarters in the upper story of an empty house. Next day we crossed the little upland valley in which FÊng K'o is situated, and gradually ascended along the mountain-side in a south-westerly direction, following to some extent the course of the river now far below us. About 3 miles from FÊng K'o we turned west into a defile, having in front of us, to the south and south-west, a range of rocky mountains with snowy peaks probably over 18,000 feet high. Another 2 or 3 miles brought us to a brisk, clear stream, which we followed up to a little temple or shrine close by which the water bubbles out of a fountain in a rock. The water is excellent, and there is good camping-ground for a small party. I strongly recommend travellers who may traverse this route hereafter to make this a stage if possible. Lightly-equipped travellers might make it the second stage from Yung-ning, and heavily-laden caravans might make it the third. From this attractive spot we marched steadily uphill for a few miles and rested outside a couple of cottages. Thence, after a luncheon of eggs, we resumed our upward journey for several hours, finally following an undulating track along one of the mountain ridges. It began to cloud over about this time. The tops of the neighbouring mountains were hidden in mist, and towards evening rain fell heavily. This part of the country is a dreary waste of wild mountains without a trace of human habitation. We went on till nightfall, then camped in the forest. As we had no tent, and were sheltered only by the gaunt arms of fir-trees, the prospects of a comfortable night were somewhat dismal; but fortunately the rain ceased to fall before midnight and we were troubled only by the dripping branches. In one respect the rain was useful, as it afforded us all the water we required for drinking and cooking purposes. We had found no spring-water in this part of the forest.

The rain began to fall again next day while we were at breakfast, and continued off and on all the morning. In the afternoon it cleared up, and for the rest of the way to Li-chiang the weather was perfect. Our road gradually led us uphill, and took us over the pass known by the Mo-so as Go Ka A, the height of which is about 15,000 feet. The descent is steep and rocky. Both sides of the pass are well wooded. All the afternoon we continued to descend, and towards evening reached a cultivated valley surrounded by an amphitheatre of hills. Here there was a scattered hamlet named T'o Ko Sho—the first village we had seen since we left FÊng K'o. While we were resting outside one of the cottages I saw a man going out to shoot pheasants with a bow and arrows.265 As we did not await his return I am unable to give any opinion as to his skill. A few miles beyond T'o Ko Sho we camped in the forest at the end of a marshy meadow, which gave pasture to our beasts and supplied (from a brook) good water for ourselves. The forest is said to be infested with panthers; but they gave us no trouble. I was somewhat disturbed, however, by a very large and obstinate species of mosquito. Next day the road undulated in a southerly direction through the forest. We soon caught sight of some lofty and magnificent snowy peaks to the south-west—the mountains that tower some 10,000 feet above the Li-chiang plain which itself lies at an elevation of over 8,000 feet. A few more miles brought us to the village of Ming Yin Chi,266 which with its almost-Chinese architecture, its likin-station and familiar official notices (the first seen since the first day's journey from Tachienlu), reminded us that we were entering a country where the direct influence of China succeeded in making itself felt.

The houses of Ming Yin Chi are mostly built of wood, but there are a few tiled roofs. The dress of the people is hardly distinguishable from that of the Chinese, except in the massive ear-rings and other ornaments worn by the women. Their feet, of course, are unbound. Outside the village likin-station I saw a versified proclamation in Chinese, referring to the dangerous state of the roads of the neighbourhood owing to the prevalence of brigandage, and offering rewards for the capture of the robbers. Leaving this village behind us we soon passed again into the forest, the road lying through a fairly level park-like country studded with noble pines. We continued our journey till sunset and again camped in the forest. So still and peaceful was the night that my candle burned with as steady a flame as if it were inside a lantern. Next morning we began by climbing uphill out of the hollow in which we had camped to a col rather over 10,000 feet in elevation. The road then led rapidly downhill for about 3 miles and brought us to a narrow valley through which flows a stream called the Hei Shui ("Black Water"). Here I observed a sight which unfortunately is only too rare in China—the building of a new bridge. It was in fact one of three new bridges crossed during this day's journey. A party of workmen was busily engaged in top-dressing the surface of the bridge, which was almost finished, and as it is considered unlucky in China to use a new bridge before it is opened to traffic, I crossed by a temporary wooden structure a few yards lower down. The inevitable tablet commemorating the erection of the bridge and the names of the givers—for it had nothing to do with Government—was already in position on the right bank of the river. Beside this tablet is a smaller one dedicated to the Spirit of the Road. Soon after crossing the Black Water the road turns to the right, southwards.

Another road, which looks like a continuation of the old one, descends through the valley of the stream, and as I was then on foot and far ahead of my caravan I followed this road for some li without guessing it was the wrong one. So I had to retrace my steps, to find that the road to Li-chiang climbs over three successive small passes, divided from each other by a series of ravines. I expected when I reached each summit—the highest being about 11,000 feet in elevation—to find the city of Li-chiang lying at my feet, but I beheld only forests and the great snowy peaks. The descent from the third pass led into a barren stony valley which was once, in all probability, the bed of a glacier. If appearances are not very deceptive the shrunken glacier can still be seen high up on the mountains, some distance below the snow-line. The stony valley is the northern section of the Li-chiang plain, but though we had no more climbing we had a long and rather wearisome march of between 10 and 20 miles before we reached the city. The first section of the valley—absolutely bare and uninhabited—is approximately rather less than 2 miles broad, and on each side are scantily-wooded hills. The snowy summits towered above us on our right. The valley seems almost level, and one can gaze over its whole extent from almost any point, but it has a gentle slope towards the south. After traversing a belt of shrubby wilderness the desert gradually transformed itself into a delightful garden. The principal crop in the cultivated part of the Li-chiang plain is opium, and the pure white flower of the poppy-plant was in full bloom. Among the most attractive features of the plain are its hedges and wild-flowers—especially its luxuriant white wild-roses, the most beautiful I have ever seen. The air was deliciously fresh and warm and laden with the scent of flowers, and it was only when we caught sight of the huge wintry mountains gazing icily down upon us from the sky that we were forced to remember that "it is not always May."

An excellent broad road—one of the very best I have seen in China—traverses the greater part of the cultivated portion of the valley. A dogcart might be driven over it with perfect safety, and in many places it is broader than a good English country road. It is lined on both sides with luxuriant untrimmed hedges, beyond which lie beautiful Gardens of Sleep—acres of white poppy. Villages are numerous in the plain, but our road did not take us through many of them. One—the village of Pei Sha—through which we rode just as the sun was setting, was very picturesque with its wild-flowers and palm-trees. The road degenerated as we approached the city. It had once been paved and was no doubt an excellent causeway in time past; but as usual in China the paving-stones had sunk crookedly and had not been repaired. It was dark before we arrived at the end of our unusually long day's journey, and in the hedges of the suburbs glimmering glow-worms took the place of the wild-roses that night had rendered invisible.

Li-chiang is a small unwalled town, only dignified by the name of a city because it is the administrative centre of a prefecture and a district magistracy. As the capital of the old Mo-so kingdom its situation was well chosen, for in the days of border warfare the strategic importance of its position must have been considerable. It stands on a small hill commanding the greater part of the plain, and is within comparatively easy reach of the Yangtse ferries, both on the east and on the west. No doubt the Mo-so, in the days of their strength, made a point of holding the crossings at both places. Li-chiang is still the residence of a Mo-so or Nashi (Lashi) chief, but his influence is steadily waning. The great majority of the inhabitants are of mixed race, the predominating types being Mo-so, Li-so, Lolo and Min-chia.267 There is also a pure Chinese element, which is gradually tending to increase. Li-chiang is a considerable centre of trade, and is visited by large numbers of Tibetans and "Ku-tsung" from Atuntzu and the valley of the Mekong, and also by traders from Tali-fu, Yunnan-fu, Yung Pei and the Chien-ch'ang valley. There is a broad marketplace in the middle of the town, almost constantly occupied by loquacious crowds of buyers and sellers of many races. There is a good deal of green foliage in the outskirts, and much deflected water which flows through some of the streets like little canals. To a casual observer the streets are not very unlike those of an ordinary town in China: the shops have much the same outward appearance, and the same charactered sign-boards hang above their doors.

The morning after my arrival at Li-chiang, where I found accommodation in a very bad inn, I heard the surprising and welcome news that there were two Englishmen staying in the town, one of them being a consular official and the other a railway surveyor. As I had no idea that the British Government of Burma had any present intention of extending their railway system to northern Yunnan I decided to call upon my compatriots and ascertain if such were the case. In the course of my enquiries into their place of residence I discovered that one of the Englishmen had left the town some days before, and that the other was a Frenchman! It finally turned out that the former was a Mr Forrest, the adventurous botanist to whose narrow escape from torture and death at the hands of the lamas I have already referred.268 He had been making a short stay in Li-chiang, and had just left on a botanical expedition to the neighbouring hills. The Frenchman was M. Gaston Perronne, a merchant, who was engaged in the purchase of musk. He had taken a Chinese house in Li-chiang for the period of his residence there, and when I called upon him he most kindly insisted upon my staying with him until I left Li-chiang. Instead of leaving on the following day, therefore, as I had intended, I remained in Li-chiang from the evening of the 15th May to the morning of the 18th.