CHAPTER II

FROM THE VALE OF KASHMIR TO THE BARRENS OF LADAKH

Those who know India only during the winter months, the tourist season, can form little conception of what the country is like during the summer. In the greater centres of population the old hand-pulled punka has given way to the electric punka, or the simple electric fan. At the stations along the railway, however, you still see the patient punka-coolie squatting outside the station-master’s room, tugging at the punka-rope with monotonous regularity, and it is he that to me typifies the great heat of the Indian plains.

When we landed in Bombay this time, on May 11, there was fortunately nothing to oblige us to linger long in the heat, and so, after some strenuous bustling about, making a few final preparations, we pulled out of Cocaba Station at half past four in the afternoon of the very day on which we had arrived. The most valuable acquisition which we made there was the information with which Mr. S. H. Prater, the head of the Bombay Natural History Museum, supplied us. He not only possessed a fund of helpful hints and data but was very ready to impart them to us, a combination not always found.

The captain of the _Homestead_, the freighter on which Cherrie had come over, was waiting for us on the pier at Bombay, and reported that Cherrie and all the equipment had been safely landed at Karachi. We were greatly relieved to hear this, and also to learn the four cougar hounds had gone ashore in better shape than they had come aboard. We were still a little anxious, however, about the manner in which they would weather the train journey across the Sind desert.

Forty-eight hours after leaving Bombay we rolled into Rawal Pindi, and on the 14th of May left there by motor for Srinagar. In winter the cantonments are crowded, but during the hot weather headquarters moves to Murree, a hill station some forty miles distant, where the altitude is 7,000 feet. There we spent a night. The descent thence to the Jhelum River is very precipitous, with a multitude of hairpin turns, and we were glad indeed to have our friend Barr driving. He had been an aviator during the war, and was one of those fast drivers who yet give you full confidence.

The hillsides were glorious with the pink mountain-oleander, and as we neared the river we came upon masses of purple irises. The Jhelum is here a rushing, turbulent river, much used for driving great logs from Kashmir down to the plains of India. Along its banks grow pomegranates, now in full bloom. The road was everywhere in excellent repair. We passed the customs, and a few hours later entered the famous Vale of Kashmir, and sped along the avenues of poplar-trees that remind one of roads in Lombardy. On either side stretched paddy-fields, some already a bright green. Occasionally we came upon a grove of spreading chenar-trees. The chenar has a leaf like the maple, but grows to great size, and in shape reminds one of an old oak. In the fall the leaves turn vivid red and yellow, as do our maples.

Srinagar is often given that very hackneyed title “The Venice of the East.” Any town which has a few canals or a couple of rivers winding through it seems to take particular pride in naming itself the Venice of that particular portion of the globe in which it is situated. Srinagar has numerous canals, on one of which is the Maharajah’s palace, a long, ramshackle, rather gingerbready building or series of buildings. Along another are strung the European shops and agencies, and gigantic chenar-trees shade the footpath separating the buildings from the canal.

In London we met Major Blacker, whose book, “Secret Patrol in High Asia,” I had read with much interest. Blacker is an officer of the Guides, the famous corps formed by Lumsden, which has won fame and name in all the frontier wars, and afterward added to both in the World War. During the months of his strenuous “secret patrol” he had with him two particularly excellent men, Ahmad Shah and Feroze. The former was squadron sergeant-major, and the latter a corporal. If Ahmad Shah had not been absent so much on detached service, he would undoubtedly have become a native officer. Blacker, besides giving us any amount of valuable advice, also cabled the Guides to get in touch with these two men, both of whom had retired from the army, and arrange for them to accompany us.

They were at the station at Rawal Pindi and, coming up, saluted and reported for duty. Ahmad Shah was tall, erect, and bearded, a soldierly figure in his white turban. Feroze was small and wiry, with “thruster” written all over him, a man who could be counted on to push forward in the face of any obstacle. That night, in talking over plans, they told us they knew of a syce, or groom, in the Guides who they were sure could take charge of the dogs. We straightway wired Colonel Campbell, and next day Fezildin arrived by train from Mardan.

Thus, with Rahima and his brother Khalil, native hunters whom I had secured through Douglas Burden, the important members in our party were assembled. These last two had been Burden’s shikaries during a most successful hunting trip which he made a few years ago. He cabled them from New York and they were awaiting us in Srinagar. Tall and lean, they were the very type of the ideal shikary. According to local custom, the shikaries had brought with them from their own village of Bandipur our cook and three permanent coolies to do all the odd jobs around camp, carry the tiffin-basket and thermos bottles on the marches, and make themselves generally useful.

I already knew a little Hindustanee, and Ted and Cutting worked like beavers on the language during the sea-passage. None of our men spoke English, so we were immediately called on to put it into practice. During our first interviews, an officer whom I had known in Mesopotamia, Captain Pim, not only acted as interpreter but had many a useful sidelight to give.

Having laid out for ourselves on this trip an extensive schedule, and being obliged to forego the direct route by Gilgit to the Hunza, it was imperative for us to economize time in every way. It is not possible for an ornithologist to work satisfactorily when he is called upon to be continually on the move. We made our plans, therefore, to march together to Leh and thence over the Karakoram Pass. Once over, Ted and I, travelling light, would hurry across the plains of Turkestan to the Tian Shan mountains, while Cherrie and Cutting would follow along more slowly, stopping a few days wherever they wished to collect. By the time they joined us in the Tekkes Valley, we hoped to have got well started on the groups of ibex, wapiti, mountain-sheep, and Siberian roe deer with which we relied upon providing the museum from the Tian Shan country. It was arranged for Ahmad Shah and Feroze to take charge of the main and slow-moving caravan, while Rahima and Khalil undertook with us the expedition after big game.

In Srinagar Sir John and Lady Wood most hospitably invited us to stay at the Residency, and no one could possibly have been more kind. Both Mr. Avery and Captain Sevenoaks, of Cockburn’s Agency, worked like Trojans to hurry us through our preparations. Thus aided, and with Sir John’s help in everything, we were enabled to start off for Leh four days after we had reached Kashmir.

In Kashmir most of the transport is by pack-pony, tough, wiry little beasts that carry an average load of 150 pounds over most difficult country. When the passes are in bad shape, you cannot negotiate them with ponies, but must rely on porters. Yakdans, which are wooden boxes covered with cowhide, are the most convenient containers for supplies and personal outfit. The kilta, or round basket, is much lighter, but will not stand rough usage.

It is near Ganderbal—the first stage on the road to Leh—that the possibility of motor transport ends. We sent our equipment there by boat on May 18, and followed by automobile some hours later. Early next morning we loaded our food and our scientific equipment onto sixty ponies, and set off up the Sind Valley. The dogs were wild with joy at being once more at large; they had been over two months en route from their homes in Montana and Mississippi. They jumped into the irrigation ditches, and raced up hills, coming back now and again to wag their tails at us.

It would be difficult to imagine more ideal conditions for starting off on a hunting trip. The Sind Valley is narrow and fertile; on the south side the mountains are tree-covered, on the north they are barren; the crests are white with snow. The river boils down between stony banks, now narrow and turbulent, now humming over shallows. There is much cultivation, little stone-enclosed fields of rice or wheat, but the glory of the valley is its trees. Centuries old they must be, chenar and willow. We generally camped beneath some grove of patriarchs, which might well have cast their shade upon Lalla Rookh.

There was a great deal of bird life, and Cherrie was kept busy, for we wished to send back from Leh something that would prove to the Field Museum that we had not delayed in starting to work. Indeed, Cherrie had already returned a first consignment consisting of four different species of hawk which he had shot in the Red Sea from the decks of the _Homestead_.

The sombre raven accompanied us everywhere, and there were many gaily clothed strangers. There were several old friends, too, among the birds, chief of which was the little water-wagtail, whose intimate acquaintance I first made in central Africa, sixteen years ago. He is such a cheerful, friendly fellow that it is not pleasant to contemplate “collecting” him. He will hop about and wag his tail within a few feet of you in a most confiding manner. Ted and I spent much time watching a couple of water-ouzels diving into the stream. It was amazing to see such a small bird dive off a rock into the rushing water and as much as two minutes after come swimming unconcernedly back.

There were plenty of trout in the river, but we had neglected to provide ourselves with a fishing permit, so Ted, the fisherman of the expedition, had to wait until we should have passed out of the region of restricted waters. We didn’t do much in the cause of cleanliness because the water was too cold for more than a hurried dip, preceded by a hasty soaping, while precariously balanced on a slippery rock.

We met with but few butterflies, and none of them were gaudy. Dwarf purple irises grew in clusters on the hills and in the fields; wild roses, both pink and white, were abundant, and an occasional field of mustard in bloom wove in its pattern of cloth of gold.

At Baltal, while awaiting favorable conditions to cross the Zoji Pass, we were serenaded with avalanches. First there would be a booming roar, reminiscent of a battery of heavies on the French front, then, if the avalanche were in sight, you would see great masses of snow hurtling down the precipices. After a short intermission another salvo of sound and more plunging snow—two or three such outbursts would occur in diminishing violence, and then all would be quiet.

The Zoji La is the most used pass in the great range of the western Himalayas. It is the low point in a line of mighty mountains averaging 17,000 feet in altitude, and containing among other peaks the famous Nanga Parbat, which is 26,620 feet in height. The winds naturally concentrate on this gap, and the pass is at times very treacherous. Sudden blizzards sweep down, and many human lives, and the lives of countless baggage-animals, have paid toll to the Spirits of the Pass. In winter it is always hazardous, but it is in March and April that it is most dangerous with sudden avalanches and unexpected hurricanes. In the summer months, beginning with June, there is rarely any cause for anxiety.

[Illustration: DOWN THE LADAKH SLOPE OF THE ZOJI LA]

[Illustration: ON THE SUMMIT OF THE ZOJI LA]

Fortunately, after one day’s detention, weather favored us, and we set off as early as we could gather the ponies which were scattered about the hillside in search of pasture. Our train was diminished by the loss of a pony who died from eating poisonous grass; not an uncommon occurrence, and one much dreaded by the pony men. The long winding trail up the pass gave little trouble, save in a few places where small avalanches had come down across the track. One such spot seemed at first sight calculated to afford much difficulty, but the little spindle-legged ponies negotiated it with great skill. One turned a complete somersault, doubling his neck beneath him in such a way that it seemed it must be dislocated. Luckily he was brought up by the heavy drifts before he could roll far, and when we dragged him clear, we found he was unhurt. The descent on the farther side of the pass is gradual, and would have been a simple affair but for the deep snow, now rapidly softening under the burning rays of the sun. The ponies were continually plunging a foot through the bedded snow of the trail, and sinking belly-deep. It must have been most exhausting; we bipeds certainly found it so, but the hardy little beasts gave no signs of failing. They wound down the valley, crossing and recrossing the river, which in most places was hidden deep beneath the snow. At such times we would pass over snow bridges, and more than one of these was ominously fissured and threatened to give way, plunging horse and load into the rushing stream below. We all wore snow-glasses, a very necessary precaution. One of the coolies to whom we could supply none came to us next morning with his eyes in bad shape, and several others had suffered to a less degree.

The dogs alone thoroughly enjoyed themselves, for the surface of the snow was sufficiently strong to bear their weight. We had been a little worried as to how much the altitude would bother them, but we might have spared ourselves the anxiety. They toiled up and down the mountainside, and along the most hairbreadth ledges, skirting the caravan, and always choosing to pass on the outside, although the ponies themselves preferred to keep so near the edge that not an inch was left of leeway.

We camped on a boulder-strewn hillside, on which no snow remained. The ponies came in struggling manfully through the last drifts. Once over on solid ground we looked to find them well tuckered out. Not at all; even before their loads were off they started grazing, although one would have needed a microscope to determine what fodder they found.

The contrast between the country out of which we had passed and that in which we now found ourselves could scarcely have been greater. No longer were the mountains covered with forests of pine, nor was the riverside deep in the shade of willow and chenar. On either hand rose barren mountains; the only relief to their monotony was the snow that covered their crests and lay in the deeper folds. Riding down these valleys through the abomination of desolation, one thought of Isaiah, and felt the true strength of the Bible’s old simile of comfort: “As rivers of water in a dry place, as the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.”

The Ladakhis are adepts in the art of building irrigation canals. Without these canals there would be no human life. They capture the water coming down in the occasional torrents from the mountainside and lead it off to moisten the little patches of land, which they have freed from stones. Ploughing is a laborious affair; the familiar crooked wooden plough of Biblical times is pulled by horse or steer or yak, or sometimes by a mixed team. The bits of cultivation are of odd shapes: crescent, elliptical, or round. Often this is accounted for in the avoiding of some large rock or hillock, but at other times the shape seems due to a caprice of the ploughman. There were usually poplar-trees bordering the ditches and perhaps a few fruit-trees mingled with them. These green oases were few and far between, and often not more than a couple of acres in extent. On rounding some bend after a particularly long and arid stretch, the sight of this vivid green brought to mind the words of the old Irish song: “Sure a little bit of heaven fell from out the sky one day.” The sun was scorching; never have I felt it stronger, but once in the shade the relief was instantaneous, and in a few minutes you were almost chilly.

Bird life was scarcer here. The ravens were still with us, and occasionally we would see a hawk soaring far above. Once it was a great lammergeyer with a spread of eight or nine feet. The wagtail we still found along the streams, and at the oases there were blue pigeons and purple finches. A sparrow closely resembling our English sparrow was the commonest and most abundant of the birds. They often nested in the holes in the cliffs. Ted succeeded in stalking a hawk and adding it to the collection. This was a particularly difficult feat, because we had only shells for the little auxiliary barrel that was fitted into the 16-gauge shotgun for the purpose of collecting small birds. We were in ibex country now and Rahima Loon explained that he had shot them here, but that the heads were small. In any event we had no time for halts, and had resolved to put off ibex-hunting until we should reach the Tian Shan, where the finest heads are to be found. The larger game seen so far consisted of one small black bear, which Ahmed Shah had observed far up on the mountainside when bringing the baggage-train into Baltal. The dogs were still too soft to risk them on a hunt, even if the bear had been full-grown.

[Illustration: THE ZOJI LA]

[Illustration: MULBECK, A TOWN IN LADAKH]

We had now passed out of the land of Mohammedanism into that of Buddhism. In Kashmir, although the rulers are Hindus, the great bulk of the population is Moslem, while in Ladakh, almost without exception, they are Buddhists. On the hill above the little collection of mud huts called by courtesy a town clustered the buildings of the monastery. We came across no town without its monastery. We were in the land of the red lama, and sturdy though grimy members of the sect came down to watch with interest our actions, whether we were eating or reading or preparing bird-skins. In these monasteries there are lamas that correspond to the lay brothers of the Roman Catholic orders; they till the fields and collect the rents, while the balance of the lamas spend their time presumably in meditation and prayer.

The most picturesque of these monastic towns is Lamayuru. On top of the hill rise the sacred buildings, flags flying from the roofs; tier upon tier of house and cavern dwellings stretch down from the mountains to the plain. Seen from a distance Lamayuru is most impressive; in the right light there is a touch of Mont Saint Michel about it; but like most sights in the Orient, it is distance that lends an enchantment which is apt to crumble on closer approach.

At Kargil we lost a companion caravan that had been with us since Baltal. The head of it was a hill Rajah of Baltistan; a very pleasant man of about thirty-five or forty. His wife was purdah—veiled—and travelled in a litter completely hidden behind white curtains. Four sturdy hillmen bore the litter, and it was amazing to see them swing along up the Zoji Pass. For her own peace of mind, I hope the lady never looked out to see how close her litter skirted the edge of nothing. A sturdy Mongol-featured nurse trudged or rode behind. The Rajah’s two sons and his three-year-old daughter also accompanied him. The boys were splendid-looking young fellows; they rode with the father, while the little girl had a number of different modes of conveyance. Sometimes we saw her riding pickaback on the shoulders of a fine fiercely mustached retainer of her father’s. A small wretched-looking monkey also formed part of the train. The Rajah’s pipe-bearer was always at hand at a halt, and hastened forward with the long silver hookah packed ready to light. We separated regretfully when the Rajah turned off to his rocky fastness in Baltistan.

There is great attraction in barren mountains and sterile, rock-strewn valleys. It was spring, and yellow crocuses undauntedly showed their heads among the rocks. The Ladakhis we passed had usually a bunch of flowers stuck in cap or hair. Occasionally, there would be a wild-rose bush in bloom; and on the edges of the fields were patches of iris. In the most arid of the valleys there were always times when the air was redolent with the sweet, pungent odor of the artemisia.

Our pack-train had decreased by ten ponies, for we now had only fifty. Sometimes a donkey or a yak would be drafted in. We changed animals every night. The ponies were sturdier and shaggier than those we had had in Kashmir, but I doubt if they were any tougher. We were in the country of pigtails, and the men in charge of the ponies wore them. They were a cheerful lot, very Mongol in feature, and not at all cleanly. On the back of each man’s tunic was a greasy cone-shaped black mark made by his pigtail as it swung to and fro pendulum-wise.

One day we had a woman among our pony-drivers. This is the land of woman’s emancipation. No longer was the adult feminine population kept in the background Women working in the fields straightened up and greeted us as we passed, and once I saw a man and woman laughing and jostling each other as if they were good friends and comrades—something unimaginable in India or Kashmir. The Mohammedan greeting of “Salaam” had given way to “Joolay,” to which your response is “Joo.”

The custom of polyandry is largely, if not entirely, responsible for the amelioration of woman’s lot. Unattractive and distasteful as it may seem to an Occidental mind, there is here a great deal to be said for it. The very fact that it keeps down the population is of primary importance in a land where the number of people that can be supported has a very definite limit. A woman usually has three husbands, although I heard of one instance where there were seven. They are generally brothers. The first husband stands head of the household. Upon his death the wife, if she so desires, can very simply rid herself of the others by divorce.

There must be a great deal of nutrition in the diminutive and all but invisible clumps of grass scattered through the rocks, for the flocks and herds seem well nourished, and the mutton we bought was excellent. The sheep and goats were very small, many adults no larger than a fox-terrier. They were all friendly, and one little black ram adopted us, trotting along perfectly cheerfully among the dogs. We had great difficulty in persuading him to turn back. We noticed a most curious variation in the shape of the horns. In one herd there would be animals with scimitar-shaped horns resembling ibex, another with spiral horns like markhor, and a third with his horns formed like those of mountain-sheep. It would seem as if these characteristics must point to a descent from the wild game of the mountains.

We went off after sharpu a number of times. These animals are about the size of our Rocky Mountain bighorn, but carry no such fine trophy. Their horns branch out sideways and back in a semicircle. A good head will measure between twenty-five and thirty inches long. They often go in large troops. They prefer a slide-rock country, and walking is both difficult and fatiguing along the shale-covered hillsides. The shikaries rather look down upon sharpu-shooting as a sport that requires but little skill, and Rahima Loon said that when hunting them he paid no attention to wind. We saw at least thirty females one afternoon, and a few rams, but the largest had only a twenty-inch horn, and so was not worth collecting.

At Nurla we were most unexpectedly the witnesses of a protracted Buddhist service. One of our men announced that there was going to be a tamasha, or celebration, and we saw a red lama approaching, followed by a nondescript acolyte bearing a shrine. This shrine was placed beneath a tree on a low platform. Above it was hung a Chinese kakemono of Buddhist saints. Several images were placed in front, together with ceremonial platters and daggers and incense-burners. Next a stone altar was constructed—two smaller rocks supporting a long heavy one that was borne onto the scene by several coolies. The head priest opened the ceremony with some droned invocations, and then the first devil appeared; he wore a grotesque mask and capered about every which way, badgering the priest. The entire population of the village had by now gathered, and were seated in a semicircle—the women and children at one end and the men at the other. There seemed to be but little intermingling, although one old patriarchal couple sat together, sharing their enjoyment of the devil’s antics. Many of the women had chubby babies on their arms, or in baskets on their backs, and more than one fat pappoose was diligently sucking its thumb.

The head lama and the devil carried on a most complicated warfare, in which the honors seemed remarkably evenly divided. The spectators were vastly amused, laughing when the devil made sudden sallies into their ranks. At length he was subdued and exorcised. The head priest’s labors were by no means over, though, for a second lama immediately appeared. His face was whitened with chalk and he was draped in a sheepskin poshteen with the wool outside. Into the circle he pranced amid much laughter, and once more the chief lama entered into conflict. This battle was longer drawn-out and there were numerous skirmishes with the bystanders, greatly to every one’s delight. At length this second devil was overcome also, and prostrated as a penitent before the altar. So far everything had been conducted in light vein. It is said that these devil dances are intended educationally. When, a Buddhist dies he has a straight and narrow path to follow. From this path the devils, with their hideous features, attempt to frighten him, but the lamas thus prepare and forewarn him in life that he may not be affrighted and driven aside.

The serious portion of the services now commenced; there was no longer any laughter, but from this time the onlookers joined in chanting the great prayer of the Buddhist faith: “Om mani padme Om”—“The Jewel in the Lotus.” The priest went through his mystic signs. He scattered incense, and genuflected before the altar. He then took a small dagger, which he ran through a hole in his cheek, plunging it in up to the hilt, so that the blade appeared between his teeth. Next he took two sabres, and, intoning a dirge-like chant, swung the swords about his head in the approved Cossack style. Suddenly he stripped himself to the waist, placed the point of each sword in the pit of his stomach, and, running a short distance, plunged forward to the ground, balancing himself on the swords. He must have cleverly taken the weight off the points of the sabres through his grasp upon the hilts, for otherwise they would have pierced his intestines. He now appeared much wrought up, and placing the point of one of the swords in his mouth, in such a way that it brought up against his cheek and bulged it out, he flung himself down, apparently supporting himself solely by the sword-point which was distending his cheek. Before he could repeat this performance the two assistant lamas rushed up and took the swords from him.

One of the reformed devils now lay on the ground on his back, with his sheepskin poshteen folded upon his stomach. On top of this poshteen two men placed the altar-stone. The chief priest seized one of the rocks which had supported the altar and dashed this rock down with all his force upon the altar-stone, smashing the altar-stone in two. There was no flaw in the stone, and it weighed a good hundred and fifty pounds, but the devil beneath sprang up none the worse for wear. I imagine the credit must be supposed to lie in the devil’s conversion.

The services were closed with further prayers and some dancing to the accompaniment of a three-stringed zither. By now it was almost dark, and the chanting, swaying figures seemed exotic and outlandish as they wound among the apricot-trees with the white-topped mountains in the background.

The Ladakhi is evidently a great believer in the efficacy of prayer, but being of a frugal mind, he wishes to economize effort wherever possible. Hence, prayer-wheels. By writing a number of orthodox prayers and enclosing them in a cylinder, it is possible to so arrange the cylinder that it revolves around a simple axis with a minimum of effort. Each time a prayer revolves it is the same as if it were verbally repeated. Many of those watching this Buddhist ceremony had prayer-wheels in their hands. The pony men are often engaged in spinning yarn all through the day’s march, but next to the distaff it is the most usual thing to see men busy turning prayer-wheels. They are sometimes set upon walls, so that any passer-by may achieve merit by giving them a turn. There are also long walls built up eight feet high, on whose tops are strewn prayer-stones. The lamas inscribe the prayers on these stones, and if the traveller but keeps the wall on his right hand, all the prayers thereon automatically say themselves for his benefit. These walls are called manis and appear in the most unexpected places. They are sometimes as much as three-quarters of a mile in length. The chortens, or dilapidated mud-and-stone monuments generally seen near the manis, are burial vaults or tombs. A rich man occupies one to himself. After his body has been burned the lamas take some of the ashes and mould them with clay into the rough likeness of a man. This is placed in the middle of the chorten. With the poor many such effigies are laid in a single chorten.

We had regarded the stretch from Srinagar to Leh as the first leg of the rather centipedal expedition. At Leh, the capital of Ladak, we were to launch off across the mighty main ranges, so the green oasis that marked the town from a distance loomed up very important to us when we approached it on the morning of June 2, just two weeks out from Srinagar. Riding up through the bazaar to the Travellers’ Bungalow, we set to work immediately laying out the lines for the bundobust that would take us into Turkestan.

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