The Mammoth Book of Travel in Dangerous Places (10 page)

The Wakhanis name this plain Bam-i-Dúniah, or “Roof of the World”, and it would indeed appear to be the highest table-land in Asia, and probably in any part of our globe. From
Pamir the ground sinks in every direction except to the south-east, where similar plateaux extend along the northern face of the Himalaya into Tibet. An individual who had seen the region between
Wakhan and Kashmir informed me that the Kunar river had its principal source in a lake resembling that in which the Oxus has its rise, and that the whole of this country, comprehending the
districts of Gilgit, Gunjit, and Chitral, is a series of mountain defiles that act as water-courses to drain Pamir.

As early in the morning of Tuesday the 20th February as the cold permitted we walked out about 600 yards upon the lake, and, having cleared the snow from a portion of its surface, commenced
breaking the ice to ascertain its depth. This was a matter of greater difficulty than it at first sight appeared, for the water was frozen to the depth of two feet and a half, and, owing to the
great rarity of the atmosphere, a few strokes of the pick-axe produced an exhaustion that stretched us upon the snow to recruit our breath. By dint, however, of unwearied exertions and frequent
reliefs, we had all but carried the shaft through, when an imprudent stroke fractured its bottom, and up the water jetted to the height of a man, sending us scampering off in all directions. This
opening was too small to admit our sounding-lead, and had of necessity to be abandoned; besides, a wet jacket where the thermometer is at zero is a much more serious affair than where it is at
summer-heat. We resolved to be more circumspect in our next attempt, and diligent search having revealed to us a large stone upon an islet in the lake, it was forthwith transported to the scene of
our labours. When, judging by the depth of the first shaft, we concluded the second to be nearly through, the stone was raised and upheld by four men immediately above the hole. A fifth man
continued to ply the axe, and at the first appearance of water the stone was dropped in and went clean through the ice, leaving an aperture its own size, and from this larger orifice there was no
rush of water. The sounding-lead was immediately thrown in, when, much to my surprise and disappointment, it struck bottom at nine feet, and we had prepared and brought with us from Langer Kish a
hundred fathoms of line for the experiment.

The water emitted a slightly fetid smell and was of a reddish tinge. The bottom was oozy and tangled with grassy weeds. I tried to measure the breadth of the lake by sound, but was baffled by
the rarety of the air. A musket, loaded with blank cartridge, sounded as if the charge had been poured into the barrel, and neither wads nor ramrod used. When ball was introduced the report was
louder, but possessed none of the sharpness that marks a similar charge in denser atmospheres. The ball, however, could be distinctly heard whizzing through the air. The human voice was sensibly
affected, and conversation, especially if in a loud tone, could not be kept up without exhaustion: the slightest muscular exertion was attended with a similar result. Half a dozen strokes with an
axe brought the workman to the ground; and though a few minutes’ respite sufficed to restore the breath, anything like continued exertion was impossible. A run of fifty yards at full speed
made the runner gasp for breath. Indeed, this exercise produced a pain in the lungs and a general prostration of strength which was not got rid of for many hours. Some of the party complained of
dizziness and headaches; but, except the effects above described, I neither felt myself, nor perceived in others, any of those painful results of great elevation which travellers have suffered in
ascending Mont Blanc. This might have been anticipated, for where the transition from a dense to a highly-rarified atmosphere is so sudden, as in the ease of ascending that mountain, the
circulation cannot be expected to accommodate itself at once to the difference of pressure, and violence must accrue to some of the more sensitive organs of the body. The ascent to Pamir was, on
the contrary, so gradual that some extrinsic circumstances were necessary to remind us of the altitude we had attained. The effect of great elevation upon the general system had indeed been proved
to me some time before in a manner for which I was not prepared. One evening in Badakhshan, while sitting in a brown study over the fire, I chanced to touch my pulse, and the galloping rate at
which it was throbbing roused my attention. I at once took it for granted that I was in a raging fever, and after perusing some hints on the preservation of health which Dr. Lord, at parting, had
kindly drawn out for me, I forthwith prescribed for myself most liberally. Next morning my pulse was as brisk as ever, but still my feelings denoted health. I now thought of examining the wrists of
all our party, and to my surprise found that the pulses of my companions beat yet faster than my own. The cause of this increased circulation immediately occurred to me; and when we afterwards
commenced marching towards Wakhan I felt the pulses of the party whenever I registered the boiling point of water. The motion of the blood is in fact a sort of living barometer by which a man
acquainted with his own habit of body can, in great altitudes, roughly calculate his height above the sea. Upon Pamir the pulsations in one minute were as follows:-

LHASA BECKONS

Regis-Evariste Huc

(1813–60)

The 1844–6 journey to Lhasa of Father Huc was the only generally known account of a European visit to the Tibetan capital in the nineteenth century. Huc and his
companion Father Gabet, also a French Catholic missionary, launched their assault from Mongolia and so approached Lhasa from the north-east and in mid-winter. They hoped for conversions in the
Lamaist Rome which would assist their work in Buddhist Mongolia. Like other trespassers in Tibet, they were soon detected and escorted back to China, but not before reaching their goal.

A
few days after crossing the Mouroui Oussou, the caravan began to break up; those who rode camels wished to push ahead, to avoid being held back
by the slow pace of the yaks. Moreover the type of country was such that so large a company could no longer camp in the same place. The pasture was so thin and poor that there was not enough to go
round. We joined up with the camel riders, and left the yaks behind. Later our party split up again; once unity was broken, a number of petty caravan leaders arose, and there was frequent
disagreement about camping sites and departure times.

We were gradually approaching the highest part of Upper Asia, when a terrible north wind, which blew for a fortnight, was an added and near fatal hazard. The sky remained cloudless, but the cold
was so frightful that only at midday could we feel any warmth at all from the sun; and even then only when we got out of the wind. For the rest of the day and especially at night we were
continually in fear of being frozen to death. Deeply chapped faces and hands were universal. Such cold is impossible to appreciate if one has never experienced it, but we perhaps can give some idea
of what it was like by mentioning one small but significant detail. Each morning before setting off we had a meal, and then did not eat again until reaching camp in the evening. As our
tsamba
was not sufficiently appetising to consume enough in one go to keep us going till then, we used to prepare three or four balls of the stuff by kneading it in tea, and keep them in
reserve for eating during the day. We would wrap the boiling hot paste in a hot cloth and place it next to the skin of our chests; over this we had our clothes, namely: a thick sheepskin vest, then
a lambskin waistcoat, then a short fox-fur coat, then a loose woollen robe. Every day of that fortnight our
tsamba
-cakes froze; when we took them out they were like solid putty, yet they had
to be eaten, at the risk of breaking one’s teeth, to avoid perishing of hunger.

The animals, weakened by fatigue and privation, found it harder and harder to survive such cold. The mules and horses, being less resistant than the camels and the yaks, needed special care. We
had to cover them with large felt rugs which we tied underneath, and we wrapped their heads in camelhair. In other circumstances all these bizarre accoutrements would have excited our hilarity; but
we were too miserable to laugh. Despite all these precautions, the caravan’s animals were decimated by death.

The many frozen rivers that we had to cross were an additional source of hardship and disaster. Camels are so clumsy, their gait is so unsure, that we were obliged to make a track for them by
spreading sand or earth on the ice, or by breaking up the surface with our axes. Then we had to lead them carefully in single file to keep them on the right path: if they tripped or slipped,
disaster followed; they would crash heavily to the ground, and getting them up again would be a major task. They would have to be unloaded, then dragged on their sides to the river bank; then
carpets would have to be spread on the ice; sometimes even that was useless; you could hit them or tug at them and they made no effort at all to get up. Then they had to be left to their fate, for
it was impossible to wait, in that terrible place, long enough for a camel to make up its silly mind to get on its feet again.

So many afflictions together eventually wore down the travellers into a state approaching despair. Now not only the animals were dying; men too succumbed to the cold, and were abandoned, still
alive, by the wayside. One day when the exhausted state of our animals had forced us to slow down and we had fallen slightly behind the company, we saw a traveller sitting alone beside the way on a
boulder; his head was bent, his arms were tight against his side and he was as motionless as a statue; we called him several times, but he made no reply; there was no indication that he had even
heard us. “What madness,” we said to each other, “to stop in such weather. He will certainly die of cold.” We called again, but still no movement. We dismounted and went
over to him. We then recognised him: a young Tartar lama who had often been to visit us in our tent. His face was waxen, and his half-open eyes were glazed. Icicles hung from his nose and the
corners of his mouth. There was no response when we spoke and we thought for a moment that he was dead. But then he opened his eyes and fixed them on us with a horrible expression of stupidity. He
was frozen stiff, and we realised that he had been abandoned by his companions. It seemed so dreadful to let a man die in this way without trying to save his life that without hesitation we took
him with us. We dragged him off that awful stone on which he had been put and hoisted him on to Samdadchiemba’s little mule. We wrapped him in a blanket and so led him to the camp. As soon as
the tent was up, we went to visit the poor young man’s companions. When they learned what we had done they prostrated themselves in gratitude; they praised our kindness, but said that all our
trouble would be in vain, for there was no saving him. “He is frozen,” they said, “and the cold will soon reach his heart!” We could not share their hopelessness. We
returned to our tent, accompanied by one of them, to see if the patient showed any sign of recovery, but when we arrived he was dead.

More than forty members of the caravan were left in the desert, still alive, and it was quite impossible to do anything for them. The sick were mounted on camel or horseback whilst there was
still hope; but when they could no longer eat, speak, nor keep themselves in the saddle, they were left by the wayside. How could one stop and tend them in an uninhabited waste, with the menace of
wild beasts, brigands and above all lack of food? It was heartrending to see these dying men abandoned by the way; as a final gesture, a wooden bowl and a little bag of flour were left beside each
one; then the caravan went sadly on. When we had all passed by, the crows and the vultures which ceaselessly wheeled above us swooped down on these wretches, who no doubt had enough life left in
them to feel the talons that tore them.

The north winds made Father Gabet’s illness much worse. Each day his state became more alarming. He was too weak to walk and therefore unable to keep warm through exercise; his hands and
his face were frozen; his lips were already blue, and his eyes dead; then he became too weak to stay in the saddle. All we could do was wrap him in blankets, tie him like a parcel on to a camel and
put our trust in God.

One day when we were winding our way along a valley, our hearts full of sad thoughts, we suddenly saw two horsemen appear on the ridge of one of the surrounding mountains. At this period we were
in company with a small group of Tibetan merchants who, like us, had let the main body of the caravan go ahead, in order not to exhaust their camels by keeping up too quick a pace. “Tsong
Kaba!” cried the Tibetans. “There are horsemen over there; but we are in deserted country where there are no herdsmen.” Hardly were these words out before we began to see other
horsemen appearing at various points: and when we saw them bearing down on us at speed all together we could not suppress a tremor of fear. What could these horsemen be up to in this uninhabited
region, and what did they want of us? We were soon convinced that we had fallen into the hands of brigands. Their appearance did nothing to reassure us: each had a slung rifle, and two sabres one
on either side of his belt; they had long black hair down to their shoulders, their eyes flashed and each man wore a wolfs skin on his head. We were surrounded by twenty-seven of these alarming
characters, and there were only eighteen of us, by no means all of whom were experienced warriors. Both sides dismounted, and a courageous Tibetan from our party went forward to parley with the
brigand chief, distinguishable by two little red flags fluttering behind his saddle. After a long and animated conversation the Kolo chieftain said, “Who is that man?” pointing at
Father Gabet, who, tied on his camel, was the only one who had not dismounted.