Phari is a large castle standing on a hill, in form like the Dalai Lama’s palace in Lhasa, but not so elegant. All the houses standing at the foot of it looked somewhat black. Phari is more or less of a prosperous town, situated on the plain between the snow-mountains; and as all the commodities imported from Darjeeling and Calcutta or Bombay come to this town, there is a custom-house for levying taxes. The customs duties for imported goods amount to one-tenth, two-tenths, sometimes even four-tenths of the original cost according to their nature. Most of the duties are paid in kind; but in cases where this is impossible, they are paid in money after the value has been reduced to the corresponding silver coins.

As we went through the town we saw by the side of it a large pond. On the road between the pond and the castle there were watchmen, who asked me where I was going to lodge. As I did not know where to stop, I requested them to find me a very good house, and when they saw my dress (which was suitable for a man of high position) they mistook me for a priest belonging to the nobility, and led me to a very good lodging-house.

There are no real inns or hotels in Tibet; what they call inns or hotels being no better than our Japanese Kichin-yado.

“Where are you going, Sir?” asked the inn-keeper respectfully, thinking that I was a high priest.

“I am going to Calcutta,” replied I; “and if circumstance allow me to worship at Bu??hagaya, I will do so; but as I have some pressing business, I am not sure whether I can or not.”

“What is your service, Sir?” he asked again.

“My service,” said I: “I have no need to tell it.”

“Where do you come from, my noble priest?” said he, intending from my reply to conjecture my station in life.

“From Lhasa,” replied I.

“Which part of Lhasa, Sir?”

“From the Sera temple.”

“I see,” said he, with sparkling eyes, believing that he had found out my secret; “you are an incarnation of the Lama.”

Before I could say “no,” my servant, who was sitting near me, spoke to him instantly: “The Dalai Lama’s” ... but before he could say more I stopped him with angry looks: “You must not talk nonsense; for it is no use.”

“Then, what is your station in life, Sir,” he asked me again, thinking that it is very strange that I should conceal my social position, “are you His Holiness’s chaplain?” “No” said I, “I am simply living in Sera and nothing else.”

The more he wanted to know about me, the more I tried to keep him in the dark, and I told him I could not comply with his desire.

“No, that is not good,” said the inn-keeper. “This is a very troublesome place; your condition must be thoroughly investigated, your dwelling and what position you hold, and all doubtful points must be verified. You must also produce a witness that though you are going to India you are sure to return here again. To get a witness is not an easy task; and to do this, I must first hear everything about you.”

“If that is so,” said I, “I shall make myself clear. I am a common priest from Sera studying dialects in the university department.”

“Your looks belie you,” said he. “From your circumstance and clothes, I conjecture that you are either a high clergyman, or an incarnation of the Lama.”

“You may take me for such,” said I, “entirely at your own convenience; but I am not what you think. The truth of what I say will be plain if you enquire about me at my convent.”

“Really?” said the inn-keeper, and withdrew, followed by the servant; the house was small, and their conversation in the room opposite could be distinctly heard.

“Your master has told me this and that,” said the inn-keeper, “yet I want to know his true status, otherwise it will be impossible for him to get out of this place for ten or twenty days.”

“But,” replied the servant, “I cannot tell you without making him angry.”

“In that case I shall do nothing more,” said the inn-keeper, “for a month.”

“He is in great haste,” replied the servant, “and he seems to have some pressing business. We have travelled the whole night through.”

“Is it not strange,” said the inn-keeper, talking very quickly, “that he should travel the whole night through? I don’t know what kind of business he has; but at any rate he is not a common priest; who is he?”

“Well then, I will tell you,” replied the servant, “if you will keep the secret, and not say you have heard it from me. He is, in truth, the physician of Sera.”

“Indeed;” said the host, “is he the physician who restores the dead to life?”

“Yes, he is,” replied the servant. “I am not quite certain, but according to the popular rumor, he went to the Grand Lama, and has been, I believe, appointed Court Physician. Properly speaking, I am not the servant that always attends on him. To confess the truth, as I came into his service only a little while before our departure, through the introduction of a drug-store keeper with whom I am acquainted. I don’t know my master very well; but at any rate, his influence as a physician in Lhasa is immense.”

“Well then,” said the inn-keeper, “by as quick processes as possible, I must get him a passport within four or five days.”

“It will be most embarrassing, if you cannot,” replied my servant.

“By the way,” said the inn-keeper, with great earnestness, “talking about the physician, I recall that, among my relatives, there is a most distressing case. Would it not be possible for him to examine the patient?”

Said my servant, with an air of disgust, “He never treats a patient. He is obstinate and stiff-necked. On our way here if he had treated patients he would easily have made money, but notwithstanding my urgency, he always refused to do so.”

“Would you not be so kind,” said the inn-keeper, requesting him eagerly, “as to intercede with him for me?”

“As the inn-keeper,” said the servant, coming into my room somewhat perplexed, “was enquiring about your person in various ways, I made a slip of the tongue, and told him that you were a physician. Since I have been told that there are many patients in this town, I request you to examine them during our detention here for four or five days.”

“If I were to act as you ask me,” answered I, with more or less anger in my voice, “and examine patients, there would be no end to it; it is impossible for me to see patients, as it would take too much time.”

“As it is a means to deliver your person from death,” said the servant, “I request you by all means to accept the suggestion.”

I ended by giving my consent, but with an air of great reluctance. The inn-keeper was delighted and hurried away; in a short time he returned with another man, who took me to a black-looking house. All the houses here look black; the reason is that they are made of turf cut up, like bricks, into sections of fourteen inches in length, seven inches in breadth, and three inches in thickness, dried and consolidated. It is very durable though not as hard as brick, and houses constructed of this material only are liable to be blown down by the wind. In order to protect them from falling, posts are inserted here and there. With the exception of one stone edifice, nearly all the buildings here are made of this material. It seems to me that, as the mountains are very far off and consequently great expense is required for the transportation of stone, turf is selected as the only material for the construction of houses. With the exception of one or two houses, all are only one storey high, quite the reverse of what I found at Lhasa. In the case of a two-storied building, only the lower storey was made of piled stones, and the upper one of turf: this is owing to the danger of the second storey coming down. I was conducted to such a two-storied house, where I only felt the pulse of the patient, who after a little while felt quite well again. The patient was the daughter of the house, and her disease, as in the first stage of either nervous trouble or consumption, was a feeling of melancholy, which kept her always in her room. Taking out a little quantity of medicine I gave it to her and also suggested to her to go to the temple to worship the Bo?hisa??va Avaloki?eshvara day and night, and then went back to my lodging. After a little while, the inn-keeper came to my room to express his thanks for the trouble I had taken with the patient, who had greatly improved.

“It is very hard here,” said he in answering to my request for a witness for the passport I wanted. “What do you intend to do, Sir?”

“I am greatly perplexed about it;” answered I, “but anyhow I must get someone as my witness. I am ready to pay a proper amount of remuneration for it.”

“The Government forbids us,” he said, “to act as witnesses for others, so I shall take you to a person who may act as your witness, and tell him the circumstances. If he consents you need have no fear of being made to pay an improper amount of money.”

He then took me to the house of a man who was ready to become my witness. This man was, contrary to my expectation, not a bad man; but it is customary for a Tibetan to extort money from anyone who wears good clothes. Notwithstanding my forbidding my companions to talk of my position and rank in Tibet, he told the other person that I was the venerable physician of Sera, and the Dalai Lama’s physician. As soon as he heard this, he instantly consented to become my witness.

“No remuneration is required,” said the man, “except a rupee and a half, necessary for the process. It may not be possible to get a passport at once. Whether the conference can be held to-morrow or the day after to-morrow, is not known; yet, I shall request them to hold it as quickly as possible. In that case, you may leave here within four or five days; but, as it will cause delay if a written petition is not presented to-day, I shall take you to the official at once.”

The gate-house is constructed among the houses of the common people at the foot of the castle. There was no room in it for holding a conference. There were fourteen or fifteen officials; but I could not tell whether there were any superior officials there or not. In Tibet, delay is the rule, and even though all the officials are present they never hold a conference, and sometimes will delay matters for four, five or even ten days. This is done merely to extort as much money as possible; the passport is given sooner or later according to the amount of the bribe. On the advice of my witness, I handed in my written petition to the most dignified-looking man among the officials.

“Of course to-day,” said he, “no conference can be held; about the day after to-morrow we shall open the conference; and on that occasion I shall give you an answer any way. You need not come here; send the inn-keeper to hear the result of our conference.” The meaning was that, if I should send the inn-keeper on the appointed day, he would tell him that a passport could not be given on that day, but that if I offered so much money, it would be given within five days. Even this is the result of much bribery, as it would otherwise take eight or ten days to get it.

“As I have urgent business,” said I, “will it not be possible, by special permission, to obtain it to-day?”

“I don’t know,” replied the official, “what kind of business you have, but there is no precedent for giving a passport on the day of arrival. We can’t deliver one now; you had better go home.”

As the inn-keeper and the father of the daughter who received my treatment were with me, they invited the official apart and told him that I was the court-physician.

“On what business,” said the official, coming to me again, and with a great surprise, “are you going to India?”

“On some urgent business,” replied I. “Is it not possible for you to have the conference to-morrow?”

I could see that though I waited till the day after to-morrow, it would be quite impossible to get the passport, so I devised a scheme of my own to suit my purpose.

“If I wait till to-morrow,” said I in great excitement, “give me a note mentioning that though I arrived here on this date there was no time to open the conference, and you detained me here three days.”

“No such precedent,” said the chief official.

“I am not at all concerned about that,” said I; “I must get a note anyhow showing the cause of my detention here. If you want to know my position and my secret business, you may find it out by proper processes from the Commissioner of Foreign Affairs in Lhasa.”

“What is the business in general?” asked the chief official.

“I may say this much. There is in Lhasa a patient of great eminence; I am hurrying on the road to get the medicine for him. My going to Bu??hagaya is only a pretext; really, I am in great haste to get to Calcutta, and shall come back as soon as I get the medicine. If I am detained here two or three days I cannot fulfil my great responsibility; and if I must stay here for several days I must get a note to explain my detention as a proof for a subsequent day.”

“Properly speaking, what is your profession?” said the official.

“At present, I cannot make it clear to you,” said I gravely, “but my going to India may reveal my profession. Besides that, as I have very important business, as I have told you again and again, I can hardly stay here even one day. Please give me a note showing that I arrived here, and handed in the written petition for a passport, and mentioning my detention for some days.”

“Dear me! I never came across such a case,” said the chief official, greatly surprised, and turning pale. “Please wait for awhile. Having heard that you are a great physician, I request you, while you are waiting, to treat a patient here; but as you are unable to stay here long, we will not detain you longer. As for the passport, I can’t decide it myself, but we will consult together and as soon as we decide the matter, we will let you know immediately.”

While I was treating the patient at his request at three o’clock I was called out and went there again.

“To-day,” said the chief official, “we have broken our ordinary rule, and considering your private circumstances, we held a special conference and decided to give you a passport at four o’clock.”

In a very short time, about four o’clock that day, I received my passport. Even Government merchants who have their passport already must go through various consultations, for the examination of goods and other business, and are detained here for at least two or three days. To my great joy, I got a passport the same day that I arrived. I might have left that night, but as there was no house on the way I was obliged to stop till the next morning.

Departing early the next day, we gradually proceeded among the south-western mountains. The snow-mountains began to project here and there, leaving between them only small portions of plateau. After going about three miles, when we reached the top of the plateau, the Phari Castle was no more to be seen. On descending we found that last night’s hail had moistened the ground very much, the snow-mountains around wore white garments, and the reflexion of the sun-light was so bright that it hurt my eyes. The temperature was exceedingly cold, and the whole scenery was lonesome and lifeless, only various kinds of short grasses growing here and there near the flowing water. The top of this plateau forms the watershed, dividing on the one side the basins that drain on to the Tibetan plain, and on the other to India.

Beyond the steep ascent, and across the slope of the snow-mountain, there is a very large stream. Its water was so clear and transparent that all the pebbles at the bottom looked like white or black gems. I quenched my thirst with a palm-full of it; it was very cold and I felt as if my hand were almost shrivelled up. As I had sent the horse back from Phari Castle, I could not cross the water on horseback. While I was hesitating about taking off my shoes and crossing the cold water, my servant carried the luggage to the other side and then took me also. Although this stream did not differ in temperature from the neck-deep-stream I had often crossed in the north-western plain, I had now become accustomed to the easy and comfortable life in Lhasa, so that I felt the cold almost unbearable. In times of distress and hardship, it is not impossible to stand the severest pains and sufferings; in times of ease and comfort, even the slightest discomfort seems almost intolerable.

After crossing the brook and descending about two miles we came to the foot of a snow-mountain where, among the scanty bushes, yellow, red, purple and light-pink flowers of various kinds were growing close together almost like a spreading carpet. As I never studied botany, I do not know the names of these plants; anyhow they were very beautiful. I was attracted also by the surrounding scenery; the incessant change of the snow-mountains was almost as if a fairy riding on the clouds were rambling about here and there. As I descended step by step, the rain fell quietly; and as the bodies of the snow-mountains gradually disappeared, their snowy peaks presented a still finer aspect. Here and there on both sides of the mountain path the dewdrops on the fragrant red and yellow azaleas and other flowers looked like mountain gems arranged in rows.

Descending still lower along the mountain brook, the bounding current dashed against the rock, and its spray splashing on our feet was one of the most pleasurable sensations I ever experienced. To the unrefined Tibetans such a delightful prospect often becomes the cause of complaint. My servant grumbled at the rainy weather, and told me that, if the sun were there, he might have changed the weather for us, so as to keep my luggage dry and make our lodging easy and comfortable. No doubt it was a great trouble for him, but if he had had any love of nature, it would have diminished his trouble. As most of the Tibetans are born and die on the stony plains and bald mountains, they do not understand the idea of beauty in the least. Even in pictures, they have none representing the scenery of their own country; or if they have, their pictures are imitations of the Chinese style. For that reason my servant was quite indifferent as to whether he was amongst mountains of incomparable beauty, or on a barren wilderness with yak’s excrements scattered everywhere. I had entirely forgotten the discomfort of the rainy weather and my wet clothes in the pleasure of the scenery. If I could have taken a sketch or a photograph of it for the entertainment of my countrymen, my gratification would have been almost infinite.

As I proceeded slowly, the picturesque view changed from time to time, and the rhododendrons, the famous plants of the Himalaya mountains, growing here and there among old trees and rugged rocks, opened their bright flowers with indescribable beauty. Rare flowers and curious plants were bestrewn along both sides of the roaring brooks, the water of which was perfectly transparent and as cold as snow.

The rain was falling furiously, and there was no place to get shelter or to cook our food. Having heard that a little further on there was a cave near a brook, we hurried there, and kindled a fire by collecting half-decayed branches of trees soaked with rain. We made tea, and after finishing our meal gradually descended, and came to the village of Dakarpo (the village of the white rock). That day we walked twenty miles. The place can hardly be called a village. It is only a small barracks, with sixteen soldiers, and one solitary house where a number of soldiers’ wives were living at the side of the barracks. A large white rock sixty yards in height stands out prominently. I did not determine its nature; but it was an exceedingly white rock partly covered with mosses and lichens.

That night I stopped in the barracks. The duty of these soldiers did not oblige them to examine the passports of travellers.