Twenty Years in the Himalaya

Front matter

CONTENTS

CHAPTER VII. Gilgit District and Baltistan

CHAPTER VIII. Chilas

Preface

I am attempting in this book to give to those interested in Mountain Travel and Mountain Exploration, who have not been so luckily placed as myself, some account of the Hindu Koosh and Himalaya ranges. My wanderings cover a period of nineteen years, during which I have not been able to do more than pierce these vast ranges, as one might stick a needle into a bolster, in many places; for no one can lay claim to a really intimate knowledge of the Himalaya alone, as understood in the mountaineering sense at home. There are still a great number of districts which remain for me new ground, as well as the 500 miles of the Himalaya included in “Nepal,” which, to all intents and purposes, is still unexplored.

My object is to try and show the great contrasts between people, country, life, etc that exist in the different districts, from the Kafir border on the west to the Bhootan border on the east. Between these extremities probably no greater contrasts could be found on the world's surface. The Highlands of Scotland and Southern Italy do not present greater contrasts.

Language, manners, customs, and the appearance of the people have nothing in common, and even the vegetation varies entirely.

(Many of the expeditions in which I have taken part have already been fully detailed, and I do not intend to do more than add a few personal experiences.)

To the keenest climber mountaineering in these great ranges is more of the character of mountain travel than of a climbing expedition, such as could be planned in Switzerland, and at present it must be so, unless the traveller is content to march direct to some group and stay there. But few travellers are so content, as there is so much new country to be seen, and all the surroundings are of such interest that the time for climbing particular peaks has not yet arrived. Even if any single collection of mountains were taken, such as the more or less isolated Nanga Parbat group, a great deal of time must be lost in exploring for the correct route by which to attack the mountain, which incurs covering a great amount of country, probably with the additional worry and trouble of a large train of coolies.

The transport question throughout the Hindu Koosh and Himalaya is undoubtedly a difficulty, but in my opinion should not be so great a one as many recent travellers have found it. They, however, are generally handicapped by being unable to communicate direct with the people, and by not understanding their point of view. The different native races are much worse fed, certainly worse clothed, and probably more superstitious regarding the great mountains than the Swiss were 100 years ago, and yet there was considerable difficulty at that period in getting even the best chamois hunters to undertake any new bit of exploration. What would have happened if a whole village had been ordered to send every available man with some unknown Englishman, and to stay with him for a fortnight above the snow-line, is better imagined than described, yet this is what must necessarily occur in the Himalaya.

It will therefore be understood that to get the best work out of men who cannot be expected to go, as a body, anything but most unwillingly, requires tact, sympathy, and understanding kindness towards them, as well as considerable assistance, in the matter of extra food and clothing, if they are to be employed for any length of time.

I must here mention the remarkable success of Mr. Monrad Aas and Mr. Rubensen with their parties, whom they took to a height of 22,000 feet, and with whom they stayed, I believe, for a week and more at over 20,000 feet I employed some of the same men last year, and they told me that they were perfectly willing to go back to the snows at any tune. Of course natives of different districts differ so much in physique and character that good results cannot be always expected (any more than the same kind of treatment is suitable for all), but there are many races in the mountains quite capable of giving the best assistance to mountaineering parties, especially if properly treated in a manner they understand. Travellers of no Eastern experience seem to me to have either treated all natives as being quite useless and helpless, or else to have expected of them much too high a standard The truth is that even amongst the least enterprising tribes there are always a few really good men to be got, and among the most enterprising there are always a good percentage of shirkers. Such a condition is not unheard of even in Switzerland. The great difficulty for travellers is that they have to take whatever porters they can get, and have not the opportunity or time to pick and choose. The best natives, however, though quite at home in ordinary snow, have no familiarity with the upper ice world in the same manner that Alpine guides and porters have. In fact I have never met any native who, for knowledge and judgment of snow or of ice, or in power of dealing with either, was ever the equal of any second-rate Alpine guide.

A great deal of the most delightful of Himalayan travel can be done in the second grade valleys, and certainly, to my mind, in far more beautiful and attractive country than the great bare mountains and valleys of the farther ranges however stupendous and wonderful their ice scenery may be. In these middle ranges many of the transport difficulties can be obviated. It is only when one pushes far afield, many days' journey from villages, in the great wastes of mountain and ice, far beyond human habitation, that the porter question becomes really vital. Roads fit for animals are few and far between, though the domesticated yak does yeoman service whenever he can be obtained, and is a most wonderful animal, clumsy in appearance, but walking with apparent ease over ground that would puzzle any pony or mule, and quite happy in a climate which would be fatal to either without shelter or protection.

A last word on the training of mountaineers; it is almost an impossibility to train a mountaineer in the Himalaya. The country is too large, not sufficient variety can be obtained, and for an amateur one has to go so far, and gets so few days in the real mountains. The Himalaya will never produce an Alexander Burgener or an Emile Rey: it is impossible to get the experience. No I not even fancy rock-climbing will ever arrive, for there is much too much of interest on all sides to spend much time in any one locality. All mountaineers who wish to have an all-round knowledge must train in the Alps. Two or three seasons under first-rate guides or amateurs in the Alps will teach ten times as much as a lifetime of Himalayan mountain travel or Shikar, for purposes of further exploration; and, looking back, I can see what an immense amount I have lost by not having had that training. I have done my best to make up for it later, but without any real success; if I could only have looked forward when quite young, I should have eliminated many difficulties and accomplished many more actual climbs. Still I do not regret my wanderings, though I often think with a sigh of the problems that I have needlessly refused to tackle.

I have to thank, for photographs and much other assistance. Dr. T. G. Longstaff, Mr. A. L. Mumm, Professor Collie, Mr. G. Hastings, Captain the Honourable A. C. Murray, and last, but certainly not least, Mr. Burlington Smith of Darjeeling for his beautiful Panorama of the Eastern Himalaya.

Chapter I. Nepal and Sikhim

All who take interest in things Himalayan must have at times had their curiosity whetted by the long narrow stretch of the great main Himalayan range included in the kingdom of Nepal, known and yet unknown; marching with our own dominion for no less than 500 miles; carrying on an extensive trade with us, and supplying us with 25,000 Goorkha soldiers, and yet, with the exception of the one main road to the capital at Khatmandu, quite unexplored by the European. Nor is it realised, even in India, how highly organised and well governed this State is, though it still remains a relic of what may be termed ancient civilisation, with modern improvements grafted on to it. Of a truth the land is full of contradictions — an ancient orthodox Hinduism, observed in the strictest manner, side by side with electric light installation set up by Nepalese engineers; a practically modern system of sanitation in the near towns with an excellent water-supply, next door to the crudest illustrations, very much of the Tantric Department of the Hindu religion, adorning the walls of the houses in public thoroughfares; prison laws and a treatment of criminals often in front of anything we can attain to in Europe, coupled with severe punishment for the slaughter of kine. In fact, a country full of contradictions, and the last country of romance in all our Indian possessions — long may it remain so.

I have no hesitation in saying that my one short trip to Nepal was more full of interest to me than any other expedition of my life. Having served for twenty-one years in a Goorkha raiment, and being familiar with a certain amount of the traditions and customs, and, to as great an extent as possible, with the geography of the country, it can be imagined with what pleasure and no less enthusiasm I received an invitation from Major Manners Smith, the Resident, to spend Christmas with him in 1907. Still, though I had seen numerous photographs, and talked with many officers. and others who had visited Nepal, I was by no means prepared for what I. saw, and further, I was by no means prepared either for the extraordinary contrast of ordinary life and manners to those of all other parts of the Indian Continent. It is a country of innumerable mixed races, all showing to a greater or less extent their Mongolian descent, and I was greatly struck not only by the air of well-being and of industry, but by the complete separation and aloofness of the people and of their surroundings. The ruling classes, who are the product of barbarian Mongol blood, mingled with the best blood in India» are generally distinguished without difficulty by their physical appearance.

The old resident in India on his journey up to Nepal is surprised and startled by being met with generally smiling faces, by being asked by little ladies seated on the wayside whether he isn’t thirsty — that is, if he is not travelling in too much state and has a sufficiently unconventional mind to smile back at all smilers.

The journey to Nepal is one of intense interest. After travelling in a succession of small-gauge railways through the deadly dull plains of Upper Bengal, annoyed at every station by the babblings of Neolithic man in the person of Bengali ryots, one arrives finally at the back of beyond — Raxaul Station — saved at the eleventh hour from what the begging letter writer has called self-self-destruction, by arrival at the real comforts of the Residency Bungalow. Raxaul is really the end of all things. It is a howling wilderness, approached by the vilest of vile roads, yet three miles off lies the great mart of Birganj; not at all Nepalese, but very Indian, in respect to its hideous squalor, which is, so to speak, illuminated here and there by the residences of the Superior Civil Service of Nepal, to wit, the Governor’s house, the local General’s, and the local officers, representing Indian Deputy Commissioners, etc.

The bazaar is large and does great business, nearly all the merchandise, of whatever size, which passes through it being forwarded to Nepal — the heavier by elephants and bullock-carts for half the distance, the remainder by man, who is the universal porter, for Nepal is almost entirely without baggage animals.

The road from this frontier mart is a very wonderful sight. A distinguished mountaineer has lately remarked that, though he recognised merits, he considered that he preferred Europeans to any Asiatic native — technical qualifications being put on one side — on account of their greater power of resisting fatigue and discomfort. I have always doubted his outlook, and since my visit to Nepal doubt it still more. The inhabitants, all small, of a Japanese build, but varying, owing to their descent, in colour and physiognomy, come down to the frontier mart to earn a living, and there earn it by the sweat of their brows.

The road from the frontier to Nepal is roughly seventy-five miles.

On my journeys to and back from Nepal I took great interest in the innumerable carriers I passed, from, I suppose, a purely athletic point of view, but I measured roughly, having large experience, many of the loads (a picture of two is shown overleaf), and found that the amount carried was often from 800 to 400 lbs. in weight.

The road to Nepal is, to say the least of it, rough. It leaves the plains at a height of about 500 feet above the sea, traversing stony river-beds, and crossing two passes of no less than 7000 feet odd, arrives in Nepal at about 4800. I wonder how many of the best carrying natives in Europe would take on that contract at 6d. per day pay. Their food is chiefly grain porridge though sometimes fish can be bought at the bazaars on the road, and they are not teetotallers, a very annoying fact to a large group of doctrinaires.

The great main thoroughfare to the prosperous State of Nepal is enough, to put it vulgarly, to make a cat laugh. It is about as bad as a road could well be, but one arrives every four miles at a most pleasant and surprising tank, with a stand-pipe for water, and an excellent drinking-pond for animals, the intervening road being merely the jungle. Then one realises that it is done of political necessity, and that although pipes are laid on, and a road could be made with the greatest facility, it is considered essential to the maintenance of political supremacy to leave things as they are. All these tanks are the gift of the late Maharani, wife of Sir Chandra Sham Sher Jang.

On the way one passes the position where General Ochterlony managed to out-manoeuvre the Goorkha General in the war of 1814-15-16. From a military point of view, it is enough to make one weep to consider the hopeless want of military activity on the part of the Goorkha commander which made a British victory possible. I am still afraid that for military success the important rule that the higher one gets the greater mental, and, to a certain extent, physical hardness is required, is not understood among the heads of the Nepalese army, excellent though it remains in many ways.

From here the road runs to Bhimphedi, the real entrance to Nepal. From Raxaul to Bhimphedi one travels merely through jungle, slowly it is true, rising at Bhimphedi to an approximate height of 2600 feet Here Indian methods of transport are quite put in the shade. My luggage, brought in on elephants, was immediately taken charge of by officials, who gave me a receipt, saying the luggage would go with me and that I was to pay in Nepal according to weight, which I did two days later without any trouble at all, although the porters had been changed on the road. This is something like organisation. I was so elated that I challenged a local porter, who was to carry my change of clothes up to the bungalow of Chissa Garhi, 2500 feet straight above, to a race. He beat me very easily, but waited for me on his arrival. When, very hot and much winded, I reached the top of the ascent, it was quite dark. I was challenged by a sentry in what seemed to me a rather curious manner. Finally he said, “Who are you?” I answered, “I am me.” Possibly it was the grammar that upset him, but he became very angry and said, “Tell me at once who you are.” I answered, “God made me like you.” He got very angry and shouted out to the commander of the guard, “Here is a man who says that God made him, and that is all he will say; what shall I do?” Upon which the whole guard-house turned out, and among them an officer, who had been warned that he was to expect me. He was much amused, and we laughed loud and long. The sentry was quite a smart youth. His photograph, which I took next day, may be seen on the opposite page.

The following day was to me the day of my life — more enjoyable and more interesting than any other that I have known, the change was so prodigious.

On my first arrival in Bombay as a very young subaltern from England, enthusiasm was tempered with doubt and discomfort. But neither of these two elements appeared here. All unconscious of what was before me, or rather my Goorkha orderly who had come with me from my regiment and myself, we climbed up a steep path to the top of the pass above Chissa Garhi. To me the wide view was gorgeous, but what impressed me even more was that we had left India altogether. Below us was a clear deep river, a real hill stream, Highland or Welsh, fringed with cottages and cultivated land, everything quite different from anything to be seen in India or the North- West Frontier Province, in the care and industry shown in its well-ordered agriculture. I felt that I had left the wilderness of Bengal for a really understanding community.

I was walking, which is not a usual practice in that country, for I am afraid the upper classes have no physical activity. I passed many Newars, merchants possibly, being carried down asleep, most of them in slung hammocks carried by two men. The rest looked with the contempt of the lazy and hopelessly impossible Eastern on a European who could demean himself so far as to walk when he could be carried. These were invariably Newars, the great trading class of Nepal, a fine race and a jovial, but bitten with that horrible idea, which came from the Indian Continent, that the greater one becomes the less one ought to do.

What chiefly struck me was the well-being of the people on the way, the excellence, compared to India, of the houses, the care for agriculture, and the finish and general comfort compared to any part of India that I have seen. I passed a morning of real bliss, and finally got to Chitlung. This village, which I afterwards realised as being a halfway stage between the real Nepal and the plains of India, was most interesting; we were more or less up in the hills; but here again the fields, with their borders all neatly trimmed, showed a knowledge of real agriculture. There was comfort and food for even me, ceremonially an outcast, whenever I wanted it. Not only that, but I gathered a number of villagers together, we ordered the local beer, and I had a good talk with them. They were very amusing and humorous and very contented; glad to see me, but quite happy with their own people.

Above Chitlung is the Chitlung Pass, roughly 7200 feet above the sea. I was met on the way by Major Manners Smith, who took me to a point some 800 feet above the pass from which the whole range of the Himalaya was seen. On my left soared my old friend of many songs sung in my regiment, no less than Dhaula Giri; and next to him Machha Puchri (the fish’s tail), another old friend by repute. Then followed point after point, unknown to me, stretching right away to the far Eastern distance, where I could make out the Gaurishankar group; but please mark this, all controversial geographers, no sign of Everest, or of Makalu, of both of which much more anon.

From the Chitlung Pass, an original and most sensibly paved road descended very steeply to Tankote. It is delightfully steep to run down, very unpleasant to be carried down, and still more unpleasant to ride down. Still it is a sensible road, or at least it would be if it were kept in good repair. But do not let us leave the top of the pass for a moment. The view of the Nepal Valley is quite unmatched: Kashmir has nothing so fine to show. Gorgeous as the Kashmir views are, notably from the Nagmarg across the Wular Lake, there is nothing so suggestive or containing such strong contrasts as the views of the Chitlung Pass overlooking the Nepal Valley. The whole range of the main Himalaya looks down on this broken-up valley, prodigiously terraced and cultivated, Chinese in character, evidently civilised in a way the Kashmiri could not imagine, and that is the dominant note of what one sees. India is left, another civilisation is reached, and a fresh train of thought and imagination set in motion.

Arrived at the bottom of the pass, another awful contrast awaited me, in the shape of a phaeton, with india-rubber tyres and waler cobs. Meanwhile, in order to get my balance again, I bathed in a hill stream. Having changed and had tea, or what is known as tea in the East — it sparkles in a glass — away we went through further scenes of immense interest, especially to the dweller in the squalid Punjab. Passing men and women smiled upon us with friendly faces, nowhere was there any trace of purdah or false shame, and on all sides industry was in evidence, the natives generally giving one the idea that they were busy about something, a very unusual experience in the East.

The ordinary old Indian cannot imagine such trim gardens, such an appearance of general finish, and such well-kept gateways and roads as are to be seen throughout Nepal, as a characteristic of ordinary Indian life. It should be understood that the Nepalese themselves, when referring to Nepal, mean the actual Nepal Valley, which comprises the plains surrounding the city of Khatmandu, in which are the ancient towns of Patan and Bhatgaon, besides several other large villages, one or two of which almost arrive at the dignity of towns.

Inhabitants of other parts of the Nepal kingdom would almost invariably, if asked where they came from, name the district in which their village is situated, the reason for this being that historically the only part of the Nepal kingdom which can lay claim to the name is the actual valley which was the home of the Newars. The owners of the valley before this were conquered by the King of Goorkha and his followers some two hundred years ago, and to this day the greater number of the present inhabitants are of the Newar race.

After six miles of a most interesting and picturesque drive, we arrived at the Residency, a modern villa, prettily built, its immediate surroundings being curiously English in character, and very pleasant to meet with. A few days later I actually shot a woodcock in the grounds.

The next day being Christmas Day, there were great festivities, and an enormous presentation of fruit, game, etc., from all parts of the Nepal Dominions arrived with the Prime Minister’s compliments. In the afternoon there was a garden party, which was honoured by the presence of the Maharajah Sir Chandra Sham Sher Jang Rana Bahadur, Hereditary Prime Minister of Nepal, several of his sons, the Commander-in-Chief, and many other notables, and we spent a most pleasant afternoon.

Nepal is nominally ruled by the Maharaj Adhiraj Prithwi Bilbikram Sah, and really by the Hereditary Prime Minister, Maharajah Sir Chandra Sham Sher, who is the son of Maharajah Bir Sham Sher, and a direct descendant of the famous Sir Jang Bahadur of Mutiny fame. The Prime Minister is assisted in governing the country by a Council or Durbar of Ministers, who are the heads of departments, with the curious exception of the Commander-in-Chief, who does not directly command the army, but has a great number of civil powers into the bargain, the real Commander-in-Chief being known as the “Jangí Lat” or “Fighting Lord,” as indeed is our own Commander-in-Chief in India.

Most of the higher officials can talk excellent English — in fact, some of them with so little accent as to make it very difficult to distinguish them from English people. They have nearly all learnt in Nepal itself, where they have an excellent English school. A surprising fact about them is that they are excellent military historians. All that is military has for the Nepalese a great attraction; in fact, the entire State seems to be run on semi-military principles, a mode of government that appears to suit the people very well. The one little mote in the eye of all this militarism is that physical exertion does not appeal to the upper classes, to the very great detriment of the actual training of their army itself. I believe, however, that an excellent example is being set in the very highest quarters, so that in a few years a different standard may be set up.

It is unfortunate that few of the upper classes have sporting tastes. None play polo, for instance, and few, if any of them, care for any form of sport, with the exception of the annual great winter tiger shoots that take place in the Nepal Terai on the Indian border. This is a curious fact, as all Goorkha soldiers in Goorkha regiments in the British service delight in all forms of sport, fishing, and shooting. Certainly most of the small game shooting in and about the Nepal Valley entails a considerable amount of hard work, either up and down hill or through deep bog and wet During my stay there we had some delightful rough days after snipe in the low lands, and peafowl, kallidge pheasant, and woodcock in the low hills round the valley, notably one at the Maharajah’s preserves at Gow Karan, a most charming tract of low, wooded hills, divided by boggy glades, which might almost have been in Wales or the Scotch borderland. A high rocketing peacock taken crossing from one hill to the next comes down a most satisfactory “wump.”

But, after all, what interested me most, and what I had been greatly looking forward to, was to see the actual Nepalese regiments in their own country. Khatmandu, Patan, and Bhatgaon have each a considerable number of troops quartered in them — especially Khatmandu, the headquarters of the army. The great parade ground at Khatmandu is probably one of the finest in the East, and is situated in the middle of the city. It has the barracks and old city on its west, the beautiful tank and clock-tower of the Kani Pohkri on its north, and the great Durbar Office or residences of nobles on its eastern side. It is large enough to allow at least a dozen battalions and half-a-dozen mountain batteries to drill on it at once. It must be a fine sight when a great ceremonial parade is held. I believe they are able to mass 80,000 troops on it, and that they are handled without confusion. I was unlucky in missing one of these great parades, which had been arranged for the visit of Mr. Hobhouse, M.P., Under Secretary of State, who was then travelling in India, but I saw what interested me a good deal more — the ordinary everyday parades and drills.

It is a curious army, probably the most remarkable of its kind in the world. It is continually being drilled in archaic manoeuvres, which, with the exception of the battalion marching movements, it always executes rather badly. But when the battalions are on the move, marching either in masses or as on the line of route, they perform very well. The men are physically excellent, though badly set up and equipped archaically, and armed with what apparently is the old Brown Bess — very old indeed, and apparently never cleaned; yet the regiments have many of them historic names, have an excellent pride in themselves, and an excellent esprit de corps; in fact, the army is an army, in my opinion, and only requires a modern standard of training and arms to be a most formidable force. It is in all senses a regular army, by which I mean an army with national ideals and a sense of responsibility.

I believe now that a few Martini rifles have been sent by the Indian Government, and that the troops are getting some much-needed musketry training. I am writing of the troops as they are, and not as I am quite sure the authorities would like them to be. Keeping up to the times in the matter of re-armament is a terrible trial, even to rich European Governments, and is quite beyond the means of a comparatively small Mountain State.

The natural military head-dress is original in its way, and consists of a cap of dark cotton material with a swathed brim, on which are laid several bands of silver lace, with a plaque of silver in front stamped with the badge of each regiment. This head-dress is called a chāp tōra and differs in value according to the rank of the wearer, those of the higher ranks being mounted with gold, as may be seen in the illustration facing page 6. This head-dress would be a dreadful handicap in war, as it flashes in the sun and would render the movement of even very small bodies of troops visible from an enormous distance.