Lhasa was at that time in a state of such intense excitement over the festivities that the people hardly seemed to know what they were doing. The police force of the city is not large: it consists of thirty constables (Kochakpa) and thirty policemen (Ragyabpa), and the whole energies of the force were devoted to the duty of guarding the persons of the Grand Lama and his Co-adjutor. Every official and priest was busily engaged in the duties of his office; none could spare even a thought for anything outside his immediate sphere of occupation—in short the time could not possibly have been more favorable for my plan of escaping from the city. Still it was necessary to take precautions, for there were many priests from Sera in the town, and I therefore determined to divert attention by wearing, instead of travelling clothes, a suit of ordinary ecclesiastical garments which I had borrowed from the Minister a few days before.

At eleven o’clock, on the day of my departure, my kind, host and hostess of the Thien-ho-thang prepared for me a farewell dinner of vegetables only. It was a very sad meal, and the two children, a boy of five and a girl of eleven years old, were almost inconsolable at the thought of my departure. Poor things, they did their best to retain me and I must confess that I never before felt so strongly the force of childish affection.

Some of the members of the family were very anxious to testify their respect by accompanying me for a mile or two on my journey, but as it would have been hard to escape observation had we left the house in a large party, we agreed to go out one by one, and meet again in the grove in front of the Rebon Temple outside the capital. So, with a coolie to carry my baggage, I started off by myself through the crowded streets, and when right in front of the Great Temple was accosted by a policeman. I felt sure that something had been detected, and gave myself up for lost.

He looked me straight in the face, and said “I congratulate you,” and when he found I did not reply he repeated his congratulations. I did not know what he was congratulating me about, but at least it did not look as if he were going to arrest me, and I continued my silence, but he made three low bows as signs of his congratulations, and made as though I would pass on. Suddenly it occurred to me that I was wearing a suit of ecclesiastical garments borrowed from the Minister, and that doubtless the policeman had jumped to the conclusion that as I was wearing such dignified robes I had been appointed physician to His Holiness (as indeed it was rumored), and that he expected a reward of money for his well-meant felicitations. So I gave him a ‘single-handed blessing,’ and a tanka of money, which made him stick out his tongue in gratitude, and so went on my way. I reckoned it as a thing most auspicious that I should have met the man in front of the Temple, and thus have commenced my journey with words of felicitation.

There are some points about the Tibetan police which I must not omit to mention. They receive no salaries, and live on the alms of the community, though their methods of solicitation differ materially from those of ordinary beggars. At stated periods they go, usually in companies of three, through the streets, and standing at the gates of private houses cry out as follows:

“We have come to receive alms from the wealthy, and you are so wealthy that you can easily relieve our distress. We therefore pray you, the savior of the poor and the friend of the needy, to give thirty pieces of gold to thirty poor men who with their wives live in miserable huts, and the gift you give us this day shall be brought home to our women and make them happy. We shall fill our broken cups with fragrant liquor and let them lie down this evening in a state of blissful intoxication. Lha-kyallo.[4]”

They will go on repeating these dirge-like petitions at the gate until at last some one comes out and gives them a few silver coins and some parched wheat-flour in a tin pan covered with a small kata. There is no fixed amount to be given, but if a rich man does not give them what they think they have a right to expect, they will let him know what they think. They are not supposed to beg at Temples, but as a matter of fact every Temple gives them something for the sake of its own credit, and for peace and quiet.

All the money that is thus collected is handed over to one of the Kochakpa, who distributes it in regular monthly instalments to the members of the Force. But the Lhasa police have also further sources of income. When a wealthy pilgrim from the country arrives in the city they ask for a donation from him, and if they do not get at least one tanka they will set the worthless people of the city on to attack him and not stir a finger for his protection. Every countryman therefore finds it to his interest to pay this blackmail to the police, and when I was in Lhasa as a layman I had paid my tanka like the others. But since I had assumed the priest’s robe they had not been able to demand anything from me, and therefore I suppose that my friend thought the opportunity of getting a present in return for his congratulations was too good to be lost.

If a policeman goes on a journey, say to arrest a thief, he takes nothing with him for the expenses of his journey. He goes to any house he chooses and takes what they give him to eat and drink, and if he is going on to a place where there is no entertainment to be had he just orders the people of the house to provide him with whatever he requires. The Kochakpa however are far superior to the ordinary policemen. They have a regular salary from the Government, and so do not live on blackmail.

Having got rid of my policeman friend, I turned to the Temple for a final act of worship, and then passing under the Palace of the Grand Lama and over the bridge, came out upon the vast plain, where, by the small grove in front of the Rebon Temple, I found the clerk of the drug-store and a few friends waiting to take their leave of me. I had had my dinner, and I never drink wine: there was nothing left for me to do but to change my dress and commence my journey, which I did, requesting my friends to return my clerical clothes to the Minister of Finance. But my friends had brought some wine with them, and insisted on drinking to me before I went, repeatedly expressing their great sorrow at my departure and urging me to take great care of my health in the trying climate of India. They were also very anxious to know whether, after once returning to India, I should ever revisit Tibet again, and they several times expressed their great indebtedness to me. As for myself, I cannot say that I was very sorry to be leaving Lhasa, but the sight of their sorrow made me sad as I passed out of the grove of the Rebon Temple in the direction of Shingzonka, where I stopped for the night.

On the 30th of May, I hired post-horses and left Shingzonka. Here I had been obliged to find serious fault with my luggage-carrier, Tenba. Tibetans, as my readers must by this time be well aware, are prone to lies, and will grossly exaggerate the most trivial and insignificant matters. I had often spoken to Tenba about this, but in spite of my frequent admonitions, he had told the master of the house where we lodged at Shingzonka that I was an incarnation of a Lama. Of course the innkeeper at once was all full of smiles and politeness, put me into a better room and did all he could for my comfort, and as far as that was concerned I had no reason for complaint. But I was afraid that by and by trouble might come to me by reason of that lie, and I spoke to him in severe terms not only about the wickedness but also about the inconvenience of uttering falsehoods.

“I only said ‘yes,’” urged the man in his own justification, “when he asked me if you were not an incarnation. If you go round as an incarnation, you are respected and honored, and can make lots of money. There is no profit in going about just as you are.”

“But, you miserable man,” I returned angrily, “I am not here for the purpose of making money. It is unutterably bad to make money by deceiving others.”

“But,” he grumbled, “everybody wants to make money”. Nevertheless he promised to be more careful with his tongue in the future.

That day we had dinner at Ne-thang, and going six miles further on arrived at the village of Nam. When my teacher, Rai Sara? Chan?ra ?as Baha?ur, visited Nam some twenty years ago, it was a village of some thirty houses. It seems almost incredible that we stayed in the single house now standing in the place. The fact is that some six years after the Rai Baha?ur’s departure from Tibet, some sixteen years ago, the whole village was swept away by a flood of the river Kichu. The villagers then removed their dwellings to a plateau between the ravines where they would be safe from future inundations, erecting just one house on the old site for the benefit of travellers.

So, to return to my story, I passed through Nam and reached the village of Jangtoe, where lived a priest whose acquaintance I had made at Sera.

“Where are you going?” he asked, as he served me with tea.

“On a pilgrimage to India,” was my politic reply, which was received with great joy, and made my host most sympathetic and helpful. He insisted on lending me a horse the next morning, and I was thus enabled to make a rapid journey to Chaksam, where I found several boats, some of hides and some of wood. I embarked on one of these latter, crossed to the other side and arrived at the station of Pashe, under the high and steep mountain of Genpala. At Pashe I hired another horse, (for I had sent back the priest’s horse from the river), and the next morning, 1st June, at four o’clock, started again on my journey. Half-way up the hill I found a Chinaman who had left Lhasa a day before myself. He was feeding his horse by the roadside, and drinking tea, and when I asked him about his luggage, he said that it was being sent after him.

While speaking of Genpala I recollect an amusing story which I will here relate. There is in the house of a rich man in Nepal a Tibetan servant of the name of Penba-pun-tso, who accompanied his master on one occasion on a pilgrimage to Lhasa. There were several other Tibetans in the company. Now, whereas in Nepal food is cheap and plentiful and every one gets enough, that is not the case in Lhasa. There, the Lama gets a good meal with meats of various kinds, vermicelli, and eggs; but the ordinary layman has to be contented with parched barley flour—not unmixed with sand and grit—put in a bowl with tea and eaten. And often there is not enough even of that. The pilgrims cannot always get all they require, and many lose strength, while all lose flesh.

At last the pilgrimage was over, all the noteworthy Lamas had been visited, and the party of Nepalese, on their way home, reached the summit of Mount Genpala. With one accord they all turned round to take a last farewell of the Holy City. “We are indeed fortunate,” they murmured, “to have been allowed to accomplish this pilgrimage, and we pray (here they shed tears of pious fervor) that we may deserve to be re-born in the Holy Land of Bu??ha.”

But Penba-pun-tso refused to join them in their prayers. He deliberately turned his back on the Holy City, and took no pains to conceal his disgust at the behavior of his companions.

“How joyful it is, brethren,” he replied to their remonstrances, “to have left behind Lhasa, the hateful abode of hungry demons and evil spirits. My prayer is that I may never have occasion to see the place again.”

“You are very hard on Lhasa,” they said.

“Not a bit of it,” was the reply. “I am only honest; that’s all. In my master’s house in Nepal I get plenty of food—good rice, with no sand in it. Why should I call Lhasa the Holy City—a place where the greedy Lamas are the only men who get enough to eat?”

Penba’s pious companions were much shocked at his outspoken heresies. But Penba did not mind their threats.

“I may be punished for what I have said,” he calmly remarked; “but all the same I am glad not to have been born in Lhasa. The devils of the Holy City may punish me if they like.”

There is a great deal of truth in what the man said. Lhasa swarms with beggars and paupers, and may truly be called the City of hungry devils.

There are even to be found in Lhasa professional mendicants who are also usurious money-lenders. These men as a rule starve themselves in order to save a little money, which they conceal in some secret place underground and then lend out at exorbitant rates of interest. When they die, their secret hoard is lost, until some one some day digs it up by chance, when it is presented as treasure-trove to the priests of Sera or to those of the Ganden or Rebon Temples. Can these men, who starve themselves in order to make a little additional gain, be called anything but hungry devils? Truly, I can witness that Lhasa is the abode of these hungry spirits, and that the Lamas are flesh-eating ogres.

Penba-pun-tso, whose story thus amused me as I climbed over the steeps of Genpala, is still living at Nyallam on the borders of Nepal and Tibet. I cannot say that I fully share his feelings against Lhasa, which I know as well probably as he does; but it is indeed a city in which wheat and tares grow together, a very few noble Bo?hisa??vas dwelling in the midst of many extortionate demons. It is my earnest desire to return some day to the Holy City and there work for the important object of bringing together into living unity the Bu??hism of Japan and Tibet.

On our way down from the summit of Mount Genpala we diverted our steps a little in the direction of the village of Ta ma lung, a change of route necessitated by the desire to dine and to change horses, before proceeding to the post-station of Palte.

Palte is, as I have mentioned before, a very picturesque town on the shores of Lake Yamdo. We arrived towards nightfall after a long journey southward through beautiful winding roads, and here I fancy that my luggage coolie Tenba, who preceded me by a few minutes, must have announced me as a physician from Sera, for soon after my arrival the headman brought me a sick man for examination. I declined to prescribe for the man at first, but the more I drew back the more did the headman urge his suit, until I was at last reluctantly compelled to give him some medicine. I was surprised to find with what great reverence the people of the place treated “a physician from Sera”.

It was almost as if he had been a God of medicine, so great was the honor they paid him.

The next day, June 6th, I left Palte on horseback at two in the morning, and about eight o’clock reached the eastern extremity of Yase through beautiful scenery, which I need not however describe again. Some two miles to the east of Yase there is a river which empties itself into the narrow arm of a lake, and is crossed by a stone bridge which leads the traveller towards the south. As far as this bridge my route had been the same as on my former journey through this country: but after crossing the bridge, I diverged in a south-easterly direction along the lake shore, and then turned to the south (still along the lake) for five miles, where I struck off and reached Nankartse in time for dinner. Here my servant, who was very tired, expected to stop, but I pushed on westward, until we came out on an immense plain where we beheld outspread before us the snow-clad mountains of the Bhu?an frontier. As we pushed on the scenery became more and more beautiful, and the mountains closed in on both sides of us. At last, in the heart of a narrow ravine, we came to a solitary house beside a river. We should have had to go another five ri before reaching another house, so we determined to stop here.

The next morning, soon after midnight, I got up and aroused my servant. He did not want to leave his bed and grumbled about its being midnight and a long way to dawn, but we had before made up our minds for an early start so as to get ahead of possible pursuers, and so I kept to my purpose. It was a very lonely ascent through deep snow, and my servant was so scared by the darkness and the fear of pursuers that he did not dare to walk behind me, and when I made him go in front, he would often stop for me to reconnoitre some suspicious object ahead. For the road, he said, was full of malicious demons, and there was no knowing what harm they might not do to one.

I did my best to re-assure him by the fact of my presence and the example of my courage, and so, with slow and faltering steps we climbed up the five ri of steep mountain ascent and at daybreak reached the small village of Za-ra, when we had breakfast and succeeded in hiring horses. At these mountain-stations it is almost impossible to hire an animal, for there are none kept there, and the traveller has to depend on pack-horses and travelling horses that may happen to pass by that way. What few post-horses there are, are all taken up by the Government, and never come into the hands of ordinary travellers. And yet it was very important for us to obtain animals, for we had to pass along the snowy peak of Nechen Kangsang, and though there are several places in the ascent as well as in the descent where riding is out of the question, over the steep and ill-kept roads, there are also places in the higher plateau of the mountains where the rarefied atmosphere makes rapid travelling on foot a sheer impossibility.

Thanks, however, to our good fortune in procuring horses at Za-ra, we were able to push on towards the majestic mountain peaks as far as to Ralung, where we rested till midnight. We then arose, mounted our steeds, and following a stream for some ten and a half miles arrived at Tsanang. In Tibet there is no beautiful scenery except that of snowy mountains. When the snow-peaks disappear from sight, everything becomes monotonous and lonely.

The next day we rode into the post-town of Gyangtze, the third city of Tibet. The city contains a large Bu??hist Temple, Pankhor Choeten, inhabited by fifteen hundred priests, and in it was living the chief financial agent of the Lama Government, who was married to the niece of the old nun who once lived with me in the Minister’s residence. As he was an old and intimate friend of mine, I ventured to call upon him and was received with great joy. His residence, Serchok, was a large building on the outskirts of the grounds of the great Temple, and my friend was very urgent that I should spend some ten or twenty days with him. This I declined, on the ground that I was going on a pilgrimage; but as I was anxious to see the Temple, and as moreover it was absolutely necessary to provide oneself with all necessaries of life before attempting the trip across the mountains, I determined to stay for one or two days at least.

The temple is very large, and the tower is the largest in Tibet. The number of priests is comparatively small, but the monastery is about one-half the size of the Sera convent. Priests of the New Sect predominate, but those of the Old Sect are allowed to reside there, as are also the Sakya and Karma priests. I was shown a great number of sacred articles preserved in the Temple, and then returned to my friend’s residence.

Gyangtze is a good emporium for trade. A large market is held every morning outside the gate of the great temple, and people flock in from the whole neighborhood to buy and sell. There are many shops, stalls, and booths in which goods of all kinds are exposed for sale—vegetables, meat, flower, milk, butter, cotton and articles to tempt the fancy of the buyers. Also wool and yak’s tails, on their road from the table-lands of the north-west to India, are brought here in transit, and are distributed among the merchants who come so far to obtain them.

After stopping one night in the temple, we started on June 1st, 1902, at five o’clock. By the kindness of my host, a horse was lent to me for five days, and so I passed through the town of Gyangtze, crossed the river Tsangchu, and gradually proceeded southward to the place where the nunnery of Nening stands. I was told that in this nunnery there was a living goddess called Dolma in Tibetan, only seven years of age. I did not however see her. After taking dinner at the house opposite the temple, we hurried on for about twenty-five miles, and came to the native village of my luggage-carrier Tenba. That night we lodged in a small temple where his brother was living, and my man and he had a good carouse that night.

“Your master’s complexion is unusually fair,” said his brother, “and differs little from that of Mongolians. Is he not a European?”

“No, no,” said my servant, eagerly trying to dispel his brother’s suspicion, “he is an honorable physician in Sera.”

“I know the physician in Sera,” answered his brother, entirely forgetting that I was in the next room; “but he is a doubtful sort of man, one that brings the dead back to life. No man can do such things unless he is a European. Be careful, my good brother, that you come to no harm.”

“That is not so,” pleaded the other emphatically, relating what he had heard from the owner of Thien-ho-thang, “he is a Chinaman, an intimate friend of the owner of Thien-ho-thang.”

I pretended not to have heard the last night’s talk between the brothers, and early the next morning I left the house, and as we were at the point of departure the brother whispered something in my man’s ear. Walking toward the mountain south of us for about seven miles, we came to the post-station of Kangma. While we were resting, twelve or thirteen pack-horses led by a Chinaman, two of them with my baggage, came towards us in great haste. It seemed to me that the Chinese did not know the baggage was mine, and I was glad to see that it was on the way to Darjeeling.

The sight of my baggage may have increased Tenba’s suspicion. When it was first packed in Thien-ho-thang, he thought it was going to be left in the care of the drug-store, but now, to his surprise, he found it was going off somewhere. He shut his mouth, hung his head thoughtfully, and followed after me for a long while, till at last he suddenly broke the silence.

“As we are still some five or six days’ journey from the Phari Challenge Gate,” he suggested eagerly, yet with some hesitation, “would it not be better for us to take the other road? They are so very strict with their enquiries at the gate that it will be hard for you to get a proper passport, without a witness who can prove that you are only going on a short trip to India and that you will soon be back. Such a witness must be taken from the village itself, and it requires quite a lot of money to get one. You will also have to do some bribing to get a passport, and I very much doubt whether you have money enough for the purpose. There is another way where I can get you through for about half the money required at Phari, and if you will entrust the matter to me I will take you to it. We must go by the secret path to Khamburong, from which point it will be easy to get into India; but it is a difficult road, and not altogether free from wild animals. If you are afraid of it, there is another route, through Bhutan, though, to be sure, it is infested with highwaymen. Still, I dare say you will get through unmolested, if you conceal your luggage and wear old clothes. It is for you to choose.”

“Do you mean to tell me,” I replied, “that I had better take some other route than that of Phari on the ground of expense?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Tenba; “it is nonsense to throw away money like that.”

“I don’t know how much money it will require,” I replied deliberately, “but it is folly to risk one’s life unnecessarily. If we go by the secret path or through Bhu?an the chances are nine to one that we lose our lives. It is better to lose money than one’s life. So don’t dream of going by a dangerous road, for there is no need for it. I am not without money; how much do you want? I promised to give you seven yen fifty sen monthly, and I intend to give you a handsome present as well for the work you undertake to do for me, but I shall not give you anything unless you stick to your bargain.”

The whole of this suggestion originated, I am sure, from his brother’s parting whisper, and I was glad to be able to dispel his suspicions, at least in some degree. Had I acted upon his suggestions, and given him the money he asked for to take me round by the secret path, his suspicions as to the shadiness of my character would have been confirmed, and he would only have waited for me to fall asleep to steal my luggage. It is impossible to trust oneself entirely to Tibetans, for honesty is observed only among people who are well-known to one another, and only so long as actions are done before the public gaze. Social restraints are no sooner removed than the Tibetan is ready for any crime or enormity. One has to keep one’s eyes constantly open in travelling with such people.

After a pleasant walk of about five miles along the mountain ridge, we arrived at the village of Salu, where we stopped. We left at one o’clock the next morning (June 8th), much to the disgust of Tenba, who was again horribly afraid of the journey through the dark, and proceeded southward towards the mountains. More accurately, we were going to the south-west, and after proceeding for some seven and a half miles, reached a high plain. Eleven miles further, we came to a small lake with a river flowing to it. We kept along the east bank of the river for another three and a half miles, which brought us to Lake Lham tso, a sheet of water connected with the lower lake by the river. We could reach Phari by going round the lake on either side; but we chose to go along the left or eastern side.

From this point the snowy peaks of the Himalayas look like a row of beautiful maidens sitting in a line on a bench, and wearing snow-white bonnets. They are not very high, but there are great numbers of peaks, the lower slopes of which are covered in summer with grass, which would I believe make excellent pasture, especially along the borders of the lake where grass is profuse. We skirted the shores of the lake for about twenty miles and at last reached the village of Lham-maye, on a beautiful summer evening with the crescent moon shining faintly above us. It reminded me of home.

We stopped for the night in a large stone house, from which we had a view towards the south over a great mountain known in Tibetan as Chomo-Lhari (the mountain of the Mother Goddess). There are many mountains of this name in Tibet, where nearly every snowy peak is accounted sacred to the deity and is called by her name. Some say that there are twenty-one Chomo-Lhari in Tibet, some give the number as thirty-two; but as nearly every large mountain goes by that name, the number must be far greater. This particular Chomo-Lhari sits, like the Bu??hist deity Vairochana, with an air of great solemnity in one corner of the plain, with its head in the clouds; while the snowy peaks which range themselves on either side of it, embracing the lake as it were with their gigantic masses, look like the Bo?hisa??va Avaloki?eshvara (representative of the great Mercy of Bu??ha) and Bo?hisa??va Manjushri (representative of the great knowledge of Bu??ha) offering before the great Bu??ha Vairochana a sacrifice of silent praise. The whole scene seemed to me like a picture of the Bu??hist Heaven.

On this plateau, as on the great north-western plain of Tibet, neither wheat nor barley will grow, and the district is fit only for pasturage, and that only during the summer months. Lake Lham tso abounds in fish of all kinds, from seven to twelve inches in length, and it is much frequented during the summer by fishermen who catch and dry the fish for winter consumption. During the winter, when fishing is impossible, they take to begging, and so the population around the Lake consists mainly of people who are half fishermen and half beggars.