The Travels of Sherlock Holmes, page 7
We did not stay longer than was necessary to obtain our permits, for it would have looked odd if the Resident had entertained a party of humble Indian pilgrims. And thus, in an hour or so, we were on our way once more. There are no roads worthy of the name in the hills, but there are plenty of tracks worn by the feet of pilgrims and the mules of traders, and we set off from Gangtok along one of these that would lead us to Thimpu, the first settlement of any size across the Tibetan border.
The track led us ever upward, close by the strange and ancient kingdom of Bhutan, which is reputed to be still in the same feudal state as existed in England in the time of the Conqueror. No strangers at all are permitted in Bhutan, save as the personal guests of the ruling family, and these fortunate visitors can, according to Norbu, come and go more or less at will, being provided with food and lodging anywhere in the land. Anyone who does not enjoy this privileged status, however, is simply ignored, and would starve to death if they had not sufficient provisions with them.
Norbu told us all this as we stood on the side of a hill, and gazed down over a valley as green as any in the shires – indeed, I half expected to see the local hunt come galloping round the corner at any moment. I was sorry we had to move on, for I should dearly have loved to take a closer look at that curious land, but both Fenton and Sigerson were champing at the bit.
I may add that there are a very large number of green spots in the hills, a fact which I had only realized fairly recently, and which initially caused me some surprise. Norbu said that we were seeing the place at its kindest, for it was full summer, and that these valleys could be bleak and harsh in the extreme as the year wore on. He added that Tibet itself was much less favoured with green places.
I did wonder if an invading army would necessarily feel constrained to respect the Bhutanese idea of privacy. Norbu smiled grimly, and said that all Bhutanese men are expert archers, reputed to use magic to ensure their arrows never miss. Moreover, any invader must first pass through either Tibet or India, so the country seems safe enough – for the moment, at any rate.
The track now began to lead perceptibly upwards. The last of the greenery was left far behind and below us, and the track was bordered by high rock walls. But, wild as it was, the track was not by any means deserted, for there were great numbers of travellers, in both directions, mostly on foot, but some with mules or yaks, the favoured beasts of burden in those parts.
Many of those we met were pilgrims, as we were supposed to be, or merchants. We travelled for a few miles along with some of the merchants, for banding together, even with strangers one has just met, is a quite common proceeding for greater protection from bandits and the like, an ever-present threat in the mountains, though we encountered none at that time. These merchants had a supply of tea with them, and Norbu insisted upon buying what struck me as an unnecessarily large quantity of the stuff, to add to that which we already carried with us. The drinking of this tea seemed to be Norbu’s only weakness, for he was generally undemanding as to his meals.
This tea merits a special mention, for it is an odd drink. It is cured so that the leaf retains its green colour, and I judge that it would be somewhat bitter if drunk alone. It is not drunk alone, though, nor with milk and sugar in the English drawing-room style, nor yet with lemon after the Russian fashion. Instead, it is drunk with salt added, and a generous slab of butter made from yak’s milk, as a finishing touch.
The final brew is by no means as unpleasant as it may sound, provided one thinks of it as a soup rather than as a tea. Norbu was exceedingly fond of it, and insisted upon preparing it for us all at every opportunity, saying that as we should be drinking little else in Tibet we might as well get used to it. I thought that I could accustom myself to the taste without too much difficulty, yet I had to hide a smile at the thought of what one of the genteel heroines of the works of Mrs Gaskell might have had to say about it.
Chapter Seven - Into Tibet
Despite the fact that foreigners are notionally forbidden to enter Tibet, there is nothing remotely resembling a frontier post, no guards or officials waiting at the border to check that travellers have the necessary permits. So it was not until we rounded a corner of rock and Norbu pointed to a little village scattered down the side of the hill and said we were now in Tibet, that I realized that we had even passed across the border.
At that time, we were still travelling in the company of those merchants whom I have mentioned, and Norbu had some talk with them regarding permits from the Tibetan authorities to move about the country. The local governor had his dwelling in the village we were now approaching, and he had the power to issue passports.
As might be expected the merchants were already provided with the necessary papers, as they came and went across the border frequently, so all they needed to do was to present their passports to be examined and endorsed, and pay the appropriate taxes.
Norbu thought that we ourselves might have a longer wait, and he went on to make some cutting remarks as to the dilatoriness and insolence of all men in official positions. I thought Sigerson might be offended by this, but he laughed in a good natured fashion, and agreed with everything Norbu said, which caused me to wonder just how official his own standing might be in very truth.
In the event, Norbu’s fears were unfounded, for after waiting an hour or so in the courtyard of the governor’s house with a large crowd of other applicants, we were summoned before an overworked clerk with a worried expression on his face. We answered a few questions, name, purpose of visit, and the like, and were each issued with a long strip of paper printed in what looked to me like Chinese characters – in return for payment of the appropriate fee, naturally, for although these wild places may be backward in some respects they seldom have much to learn from us in the matter of taxes and imposts.
Once these simple formalities were arranged, we took a quick look round the place and soon found an inn for the night. I might as well describe this inn in some detail here and now, for it was representative of all those we subsequently encountered during our stay in Tibet. That is to say, it was cold, crowded, cheerless, dirty and not entirely free from vermin. There are no beds of even the most sketchy sort, the guest merely curls up on the floor, wrapped in his own cloak or blanket if he is fortunate enough to possess one, or making do with a sort of rough coconut matting, too small to permit him to stretch out at full length upon it, if he has nothing better. The food provided by the innkeepers, where any at all is provided, is best left to the imagination of the reader.
In fairness, the entire country is not well adapted to the needs of the casual traveller, the sightseer, for there are none such, at least as the term is normally used in the west, so it is perhaps invidious to single out the innkeepers for special calumny. And the diet of the ordinary people considered as a whole is very different from what in England would be regarded as wholesome food.
Yet there are plenty of merchants and pilgrims, who surely deserve something better than is currently provided for them. After all, if you are going to bother to run an inn in the first place, it is just as easy – and better for business – to run it in a decent and cleanly fashion. But I am not writing a guide book.
The particular village at which we had arrived – and I regret to say I did not record its name, but from the map I believe it must have been Chumbi – was quite close to the border, and the inhabitants were used to seeing strangers, so we attracted no particular attention, and were able to find a quiet spot and discuss what to do next.
‘It would be a pity not to make at least some rough sketches of the country,’ I said, ‘for they would be of great use in the event of any future expedition coming this way.’
Fenton shook his head. ‘That may well be true, but we have already decided that our aim must be to reach Lhasa. Time is no longer on our side, is that not so, Norbu?’
‘It is already later in the season than we could have wished,’ Norbu confirmed. ‘Indeed, it is not by any means certain that we shall reach Lhasa ourselves before the snows begin.’
‘In that case,’ said Sigerson firmly, ‘Lhasa must indeed be our first objective. However,’ he added, evidently seeing disappointment on my face, ‘there is nothing to prevent our making notes and sketches as we go, if they would be useful later on.’
I kept no regular journal of my time in Tibet, partly because it would have been too dangerous to do so, but mainly because we had very little in the way of paper, and that was needed for such mapping as we managed to complete. And then, although the place had the allure of the forbidden, and there were, indeed, many interesting sights to see, the journey itself – or this early portion of it, at least – was uneventful, a sure and steady plod upwards and northwards. However, I did make one or two rough notes, which I rendered into a more readable form as soon as I could, and which form part of the basis for this present narrative.
I have said that Dass and I managed to do some mapping. We kept to the main tracks, just as an invading army would be obliged to do, and were thus able to make some sketches and plans which might later prove useful. Neither Fenton nor Sigerson would allow us time to make a proper job of it, though, so we had to work hastily, and mostly from memory, though it was not too difficult to record the main features that would interest a soldier, such as passes where a determined enemy might halt an invading army, and the like.
As supposed seekers after religious truth, we moved freely from one village or monastery to the next, and met with little in the way of official interference. We did not stay long at any one place, though occasionally we were obliged to pay our respects at some particularly revered shrine, and Fenton and Sigerson both fretted terribly at these delays.
We stayed at the monasteries overnight whenever we could, and at the inns when we had no choice, and at every halt Norbu made a point of asking discreetly about the presence of soldiers in the area, the answer being noted down carefully later, and also enquiring whether any strangers had been seen in the vicinity, for we hoped to get on the scent of our antagonists. We did not, however, get any satisfactory answer on this point, which is not really surprising, since we already knew that the Russian party would almost certainly be approaching Lhasa from the northern borders, and so moving in the opposite direction to the line of our own march.
In each town of any size, we always made straight for the house of any man of consequence, and endeavoured to get local approval of our presence. Boldness, said Fenton, was the best course, for if we slunk into the village we should be subjected to all sorts of impertinence, while if we could demonstrate that we were there with the sanction of the local governor or chieftain, we were safe.
Some of these local chiefs, as Norbu had foretold, were a trifle inclined to stand upon their dignity, but most would grant what amounted to a local visa or residence permit in exchange for a few coppers. Some of them, too, were cheerful and cultivated men, who offered us a dry place to stay – in the stables, naturally, not the main house! – and who asked for nothing in exchange but news of the outside world, news which Dass was ever eager to provide, though I fear it was not always entirely accurate.
I saw few signs of what a soldier would recognize as organized military activity. The local governors or chieftains usually had a sort of fortified manor house or castle, called in Tibetan a dzong, as their residence and seat of authority, and these were provided with a band of soldiers to act in some sort of a guard of honour whenever the governor went out collecting taxes and the like. These men struck me as poorly equipped, and few of them showed any sort of enthusiasm for their work, being untidy and having for the most part a sullen appearance, as if they had been compelled to perform a duty which they found distasteful and irksome. As to their drill, I can only say I was glad that none of my friends in the Guards were there to see it.
We were occasionally stopped and questioned on the road, or at the inns, by these soldiers, and once or twice by private citizens, who clearly believed that we were up to no good. However, as we could usually claim that we were in the area with the knowledge and approval of the local dignitaries, our questioners, though they might remain suspicious, were in no position to make life awkward for us.
I was – and still am – at something of a loss to understand why the ordinary people should have this suspicion of strangers. I can appreciate that the occupying Chinese authorities would seek to exclude foreigners, who might undermine yet further their position in Tibet, but the questions usually came from the Tibetans themselves.
Norbu said that it was partly due to the innate suspicion exhibited by all dwellers in remote areas, and partly due to the fact that the Chinese were reputed to have spies and informers everywhere. However, I cannot comment as to how correct this theory may have been.
Whatever the cause, there was suspicion enough. Yet it was not universal, for the ordinary folk frequently invited us into their homes, to share their warmth and their food, though there was little enough of that to begin with.
I attribute this partly to an instinctive sense of hospitality, common enough amongst dwellers in the lonely places of the world, and partly to a desire to acquire merit by showing charity to wandering pilgrims. This business of ‘merit’ and the acquisition thereof is one of the mainsprings of life in Tibet. Merit can be acquired by hospitality and good deeds, by prayer and meditation, even by rotating the curious prayer wheels which are everywhere to be seen, and which come in all sizes from the portable, for the use of travellers, to the gigantic ones seen at the entrances to the monasteries, which need all a man’s strength to move them. Acquisition of sufficient merit is thought to shorten the cycle of death and rebirth, and thus hasten a soul’s eventual passage to the Buddhist heaven.
I was touched by the way these simple people shared what little they had, and more than once felt thoroughly ashamed of the deception we were practising on them. I only hope they did indeed acquire that merit which they so richly deserved.
From the border with India to Lhasa does not look any great distance on the map. But the map does not make clear the steepness of the tracks, or their rough condition, nor does it indicate the difficulty in breathing experienced by those who were not born in the mountains. Then, too, we were obliged to make at least some perfunctory show of actually visiting the various monasteries or shrines that formed our excuse for being there in the first place. It would have looked suspicious had we acted otherwise with too great a frequency.
So, our progress was slower than I, for one, had expected. This did not bother me too much, for the novelty of our surroundings was such as to make me want to linger for a closer look. And neither Norbu nor Dass seemed particularly displeased at the speed we made, but both Fenton and Sigerson could have been happier, and, as I say, they both fretted alarmingly at each halt we made, like refined old ladies who are compelled to rush their tea and cucumber sandwiches so that they do not miss their train.
After about two or three weeks, we arrived at the large and prosperous town of Shigatse, and Norbu now began to cast anxious eyes at the sky, to mutter dire warnings about how little time we had left, and to raise the possibility of staying here safe and warm throughout the winter.
‘How far are we from Lhasa?’ asked Fenton.
‘A week, perhaps less,’ said Norbu.
‘Then let us press on,’ Sigerson put in.
Press on we did. And four days later we came to the side of a long valley, and gazed across a broad and rushing river at the rays of the early morning sun reflected from the gilded roofs of Lhasa.
Chapter Eight - Professor Moriarty
Lhasa lies along the length of a low plateau above a river which is, so I understand, a tributary of the great Brahmaputra. We were on the opposite bank to the capital, and had to cross on a ramshackle ferry. As travel in Tibet is only practical in the few months of summer, anyone wanting to visit the capital does not have much time in which to do so, and it looked as if they had all elected to pay their few coppers and cross the river at the same time as we did, for the ferry was doing a roaring trade.
One advantage of the crowds was that we could escape notice that much easier amongst the rest of the throng, the soldiers and guardians at the various palaces being more concerned with keeping the stream of sightseers flowing steadily, rather than with scrutinizing individual faces.
We now had to rely heavily on Norbu’s knowledge of the city and its rulers. After a very brief discussion, it was settled that Norbu should meet some of his old friends and colleagues – for it now appeared that he held a high rank among the monks, and in fact possessed a degree approximating to the English Doctor of Divinity, a circumstance which he had hitherto not seen fit to impress us by mentioning – and try to find out whether the enemy had reached the city before us.
After designating a meeting place for later that day, Norbu went off on his mission, while the rest of us took a walk round the city. Most of the houses are in a low valley between the two hills which mark each end of the town. Each of these hills has a large and imposing building set upon it, the one being the university, and the other the Potala, or Palace of the Dalai Lama. The walls of these are painted in white and red, and the roofs are gilded, so that they are the equal of anything in Venice or Rome. They were impressive enough at first sight to me, who had seen something of the world, so they must be spectacular indeed to the dwellers in the remote villages, who never see a newspaper, much less a picture or a photograph, in all their lives, and who visit the capital for the first time. Norbu had told us that visitors were permitted to look round the Potala, which contained innumerable works of art and the like, but we did not – then, at least – trust our disguises to pass the gaze of the guards who stood before the doors.
