Although the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries saw a variety of tentative contacts between Tibet and the West, through the activities of merchants and missionaries in particular, throughout much of the nineteenth century, Central Tibet seemed to Europeans a shrouded, inaccessible land. The enterprising English traveler Thomas Manning did succeed in reaching Lhasa in 1812, but besides this and a few similar exceptions, mostly Indian explorers in the service of the Raj, Central Tibet remained largely off limits to those outside the Tibetan, Chinese, Mongol, and Manchu cultural spheres. Foreign knowledge of Tibet (and Tibetan knowledge of places abroad) could develop only in Tibetan cultural regions far from the center, for instance, in the expanding British colonial outposts in Himalayan regions including Sikkim, Kashmir, and what is today Himachal Pradesh; in the ethnically Mongolian regions of the Russian empire in which Tibetan Buddhism was the dominant religion; in the far eastern Tibetan regions of Kham and Amdo; and in the Tibetan and Mongolian Buddhist temples of Beijing and nearby Jehol, where the increasingly moribund Manchu dynasty continued to nurture its ties with Tibetan spiritual authorities. The reasons for Tibet’s apparent withdrawal from international affairs during this period were many, but chief among them were the insistence of authorities in Lhasa—including the
ambans posted there by the Manchu government—on a policy of isolation following a series of disastrous Nepalese interventions in Tibet, and the mutual suspicion of the British, Manchu, and Russian empires, which for some time restrained their impulse to engage in direct competition in Tibet.
This state of affairs began to change during the last five years of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth. For the first time in over a century, Tibet had, in the person of the Thirteenth Dalai Lama, Tupten Gyatso (1876–1933), a ruler determined to assert his country’s independence and at the same time cautiously receptive to Russian overtures, thanks in no small measure to the intercession of his Buryat Mongol tutor and confidant, Agwang Dorjiev (1854–1938). (Dorjiev may have been one of the first representatives of the Tibetan cultural world to visit Western Europe, having traveled to Paris in 1898. Selections from his autobiography appear in the following chapter.) The power of the Manchus was by now in rapid decline, and the British were eager to bring Tibet into the commercial sphere of the Raj; in the Treaty of 1876 concluded with China at the Chefoo convention, they inserted an article sanctioning a British mission to Tibet—to which the Tibetans, once they were apprised of it, objected furiously. After a series of aborted efforts to secure the rights they sought in Tibet, the British launched an invasion under the direction of Lieutenant Colonel Francis Younghusband (1863–1942) that reached Lhasa in 1904, causing the Dalai Lama to go into exile, first in Mongolia and later in China. The Russian connection was a major factor in precipitating the British intervention, and China’s floundering Qing dynasty now began to worry that Tibet might be the back door for imperialist penetration of China, a concern that has continued to shape Chinese policy in Tibet under both Republican (1912–49) and Communist (1949–present) governments. Chinese armies entered Lhasa in 1910, and the Dalai Lama found a refuge among his former enemies, the British in India. The late Qing effort to secure Tibet was aborted, however, with the collapse of the dynasty, and the status of eastern Tibet in particular, caught between the powers of Lhasa and of Republican-period Chinese warlords, became sharply contested in a series of uprisings and wars.
Under these uncertain circumstances, encounters between learned Tibetans and foreign seekers, explorers and scholars increased more rapidly than before. The two chapters of this section examine respectively Tibetans’ initial impressions of their new foreign contacts, and the responses they began to form to new confrontations and sources of information. This chapter presents four examples, reflecting differing geographical regions, backgrounds, and interests. MTK
One of the first Tibetans (perhaps the first) to reside in the West for any length of time was Adrup Gönpo, a former Bönpo monk who served as the guide, language instructor, and general cultural informant of the renowned French Tibetologist Jacques Bacot (1877–1965) during the latter’s expedition of 1907. At Bacot’s invitation, Adrup journeyed to France, first traversing parts of Southeast Asia on his way from Tibet, in 1908. He stayed for much of his time in France at a country estate but also visited other parts of the country, including Paris for several months. Before returning to Tibet, he wrote a brief account of his impressions, which Bacot translated with an almost humorous faithfulness (as will be seen in the English version below) and first published in the
Bulletin de l’Asie française in 1910. It was later republished as an appendix to Bacot’s record of his 1909–10 expedition, when he was again joined by Adrup. Bacot notes that Adrup had a tendency to be daring to the point of foolhardiness, and was therefore considered among fellow Tibetans to be somewhat unbalanced. When he announced his decision to accompany Bacot back to France, it was taken as a final act of folly. MTK
FROM CHAPTER I
First of all, during that time, a great man from France named Big Man Ba[cot], having come to the land of Shigu [near Lijiang in Yunnan] in the year of the sheep (1907) in order to visit Tibet, I, Adrup Gönpo, a Tibetan from Patong, said to him without hesitation, “Permit me to accompany you in China, in Tibet, and anyplace else.”
After having traversed Tibet and returned to the Chinese frontier at Shigu, I said again, “I also want to go to France.”
I took along a companion named Alla. But, having arrived at Dengyue, Alla was terrified and went back home. But I did not hesitate and said, “I will go to the land of France.” And so on arriving at Chinkai (Bhamo), on the English border,
1 I found myself alone.
I saw that men there were different, their language different, their work different. And so I thought to myself that I should turn back as well. But, having thought about it for two days, seeing that one traveled sitting in cars, that one sat on silken fabrics, that one ate excellent things, that there were elephants and lots of ivory, I understood that this was how it was in the Indies and that I would familiarize myself with them.
On the fifth day of the eleventh month, I was sitting in a big boat on the waters of the river Kiou (the Irrawaddy). The boat was propelled by means of fire, water, and wheels placed below. Its exterior was made of wood and its interior of iron, the columns and beams being of iron. In the middle, it was charged with seven hundred loads, and it held five hundred people above. The boat was quicker than the wind and made a noise like thunder.
Under a roof, there was a great market where riches were spread out.
2 Each time the boat stopped, a large number of foreigners came to buy, and each day the vendors sold [goods worth] ten thousand ounces of silver.
The boat threw up a great cry, which must have been audible three days’ walk away.
So it is in the Indies. The men are peaceful and compassionate.
As we arrived in the land of Awa, all the chötens [stūpas, here Burmese Dagobas] were golden and, because Big Man Ba had been good to me, I rejoiced. At Mandalay, in a big Buddhist monastery, there were golden statues of all the gods. Thousands of people adored them and made offerings. The temple was covered with silver and gold. If a lama saw these things, he’d no longer want to go home.
In this land, the men are rich and the houses built of stone. The temperature was moderate, and up to now my body had held up well.
But, beginning at this moment, my spirit became uneasy and I prayed a lot.
As I embarked in another big boat called the Halutcham, Big Man Ba left for four days by a different route, and I found myself alone. There were also a large number of English travelers, and, as we didn’t understand one another, we spoke through gestures of the feet and hands. Everyone laughed and stared at me.
Every day I was given two meals, and I said that in Tibet one had three meals per day and that it was necessary to follow the Tibetan custom. Then an Englishman said, “Give him three meals a day according to Tibetan custom.” And the Englishman added, “Tibetan customs are dirty, but English customs clean. The English are clever and foreigners do not resemble them.” On observing the English and the French, I recognized that this was true. Then I thought that I would act as do the French. But on reflecting further on the current saying that “one who forgets his mother tongue is an ingrate,” I resolved not to forget my customs. […]
CHAPTER II
At the outset, as we had arrived in the city of Marseille in the land of France, from the other shore of the sea, the Big Man met his father and mother and I rejoiced. It was ten o’clock when we arrived in this city, and we entered a great hotel.
At the hotel, the Big Man said to me, “Adrup Gönpo, now we’ve arrived today, Sunday, having crossed the ocean. In a great church the priests are chanting the mass. Let’s go to church.” I was elated.
And I, arriving in the great church, said, “God all-powerful and omnipresent, before you, who created the world and the creatures and commanded them, I prostrate.
3 I am grateful to you for having protected me, as I am before you, sound and not having suffered. My gratitude can never equal your goodness, as you are without limit. However, I ask that you look upon me once more to protect me.”
Two days went by and I went out to visit Marseille. On a mountain nine stories tall there is a big church. To climb this mountain, there are several ways. As for myself, to ascend I entered a little house at the foot of the mountain,
4 where I saw people seated. In an instant, the house was transported to the top of the mountain just before the church. In this church, there are statues of saints and virgins. Seeing it, I rejoiced and prayed on bent knee. Then, getting into a car, we descended to the foot of the mountain.
We arrived at an inlet of the sea in a house suspended above the water, with many men standing [in it]. That house crossed the space above the waters. We returned to town in a car and lots of people stared at me.
The men and women of France are good-looking and their clothes are clean. In this country, I did not see grain, but there were great quantities of meat, fruits, and sweets.
At the hotel, there were eight floors and more than a hundred rooms. The walls are stone, the columns and beams iron, and the floorboards of glass. Upstairs and down, there is water, and the stairway has more than a hundred steps. If you do not want to climb the stairway, there is a little room suspended from the ceiling which, in an instant, carries you to the top of the building.
There were a multitude of travelers and each one of them was in a room. In these rooms, the beds are made up, draped with silken fabrics, while the tables are loaded with decorations. These tables were covered with clean silken cloths. To sleep at night, the servants turned down the beds, and in the morning they made them up again.
I ate with the managers of the hotel at a round table. The custom in the morning is to eat a little meal of milk, coffee, butter, and sugar. At midday and evening time, they make two big meals of meat, fish, fruits, and sweets.
Before partaking of these meals, you have to bathe and wash the hands and remove the dust from your clothes. When I return to my homeland and say, dog that I am, that I followed this custom, everyone is going to stop up his ears in disbelief.
In this hotel, in all the rooms, upstairs and down, at six in the morning and evening, there’s no need for oil or fire, as there are lamps that light up by themselves.
In this city of Marseille, there are as many people as there are throughout the three provinces of Tibet. They are all rich and there are no poor. If you gathered all the wealth of Tibet, you couldn’t build a single household of this city. The people here are not harmful to one another. And I had thought that it was Népémakö that one couldn’t reach.
5 So I resolved never to return to my homeland. But reflecting more carefully, I recalled that I had two brothers and a sister. So long as I was doing what I liked, I didn’t know whether my brothers and sister were suffering in my own house. And so I resolved to return home.
The Big Man told me that his house was in the big city called Paris, where the king lives. He said too that in Tibet we would need a month to cover the distance, but with French means a day was required.
Having looked attentively, I saw that it was true. The route passes through stones, cliffs, mountains, and rivers. It is paved with iron and to go on this route, little houses are set upon iron wheels. And there are hundreds of such cars. Fire moves their wheels.
After you have climbed into these cars, you must not stretch your legs, arms, or head outside.
In the evening, after having eaten, we departed on the route of iron, with eighteen cars connected one to the other. In the morning, at seven o’clock, we had arrived in Paris. And this route was as long as that from Shigu to Lhasa.
6One enters the city through long caves, many
li in length, in which the walls are lined with porcelain.
7FROM CHAPTER III
The Big Man’s House in Paris
This house is of stone. The gates of the entryway are iron and the interior doors of glass. The door for the cars is wooden. There are nine stories from the ground floor to the roof and more than a hundred rooms. The beams and columns are stone. In the rooms, the walls are covered with silk and the windows framed in copper. Everywhere there are flowers made of copper, silver, and gold. The floors are of carefully polished wood, and carpets are unrolled where one walks.
Before entering the house, you wipe your feet on braided carpets. Not everyone can enter. At the main gate, there is a guard. You have to go first to the guard, who lets some enter, but not others. If he says “Yes,” he accompanies you to the house. To enter, you have to have clean clothes.
Across the threshold, there are three stairways resembling Tibetan stairways: a big one for visitors, a small one leading to the rooms, and another one for the servants. There is also a little room for three people that, in an instant, carries them to the top of the house.
On all floors, there are little wheels that, if turned a quarter of a revolution, yield light, water, heat—whatever you want; and there is no need for oil or fire. I don’t know by what means, but, having looked attentively, I found that underneath the house, in the earth, day and night, there is a large fire and abundant water. The water comes from the earth, and one must light the fire.
The Big Man, his father, his mother, and his family are good-looking. Everything they do is clean. In a single day they wear several changes of clothing and they are very rich.
There is a big room where one goes only to eat. The men eat with the women, intermixed around a round table. To enter that room, the men take the women by the arm, and they bow before them. The French like women a lot; they greet them profoundly and when they speak to them, they show smiling faces and their voices are most tender.
In the house, there are things from all countries, and the Big Man also brought, coming from Tibet, statues of the gods, painted images, [musical] horns, lamas’ robes, weapons, bridles, cups—two full rooms.
The Big Man then said: “Adrup Gönpo, do as one does in Tibet!” And he dressed me up in rich robes, trimmed with panther fur. Then, having called in some chiefs, he showed me along with the things he had brought back. And I, seeing this, rejoiced, for everyone was good to me, giving me excellent food and rich robes. I thought that I’d stay in that country forever. But having reflected for three months, I wanted to return to my homeland.
If other Tibetans come to France, they’d better bring beautiful clothes. In this land, the laws are excellent and everyone can go there. The people are benevolent to strangers.
The Garden Where Ferocious Beasts and All the Animals in the Universe Are Collected
Everyone in France owns this garden, but a single master commands the animals. First, there are elephants, camels, zebras, mules, wild horses, asses, yaks, deer, goats, sheep, pigs, and many types of dogs. Also tigers, panthers, bears, wolves, foxes and white foxes, brown foxes, and all sorts of boars. Eighteen species of rat, eleven species of falcon, eagles, peacocks, ducks, cranes, and parakeets. Then more stags, roebuck and deer.
And just as I had come to stare at these animals, lots of French people stared at me and laughed.
The bishop,
8 made precious by divine grace, died, and I, Adrup Gönpo, went to see the exposed corpse. Drawing near the cadaver, I saw that it resembled a living body, at peace and resting. Many virgins watched over it, and thousands of Frenchmen hastened from the countryside to see it. At the door were a lot of soldiers.
9 For three days, the streets were closed to traffic.
The soldiers accompanied the visitors and prevented them from remaining too long with the corpse. Outside, a large number of other soldiers watched to ensure that people who fell were not crushed by the crowd.
Having seen these things, I feared death no longer, and when three days had passed I went to the priests’ college, and as I heard them chant, tears poured from my eyes.
The House of Amusements
In Paris, there is a house that is entirely round where you go to laugh. From bottom to top, chiefs and men of all classes, thousands of them, are seated.
First comes the horse, carrying on its head the name of the king. Many men bang drums and blow into trumpets to make the horse dance. And that horse walks on two legs, like a man.
Then two naked men leap on each other’s heads, and from the head they jump to earth, turning in the air several times. One man, placing nine tables one on top of the other, holds a lamp on his head, a lamp between his legs, and a lamp in each hand. He stands on his hands on top of the nine tables and turns nine somersaults.
After that, nine women of seven years, with only half of their body clothed, dance all the dances of the universe. Their dances are not natural for humans. And these woman are not of paper, but are living flesh. Looking at them, I was astonished. Then men and animals invaded the stage; a rain of water fell from the top of the house and flooded the ground, covering the men and animals. And once again the stage emptied and dried. […]
In the Countryside
I spent five months in the country. Morning and evening I went shooting with a rifle, killing hares and birds. In the middle of the day, I went fishing.
For three months I suffered a lot, being annoyed with the cook. This cook had a moustache and she was dirty, mean, and didn’t believe in God. She fed me as one does a dog. After three months, the Big Man threw her out of the house. A new, good cook was brought in and I rejoiced.
I’ve seen other nasty women, but their husbands were good. In France, when a married woman commits adultery, her husband doesn’t kill her, as a virtuous Tibetan or Chinese husband would do, but he goes about his business peaceably, while everyone laughs at him and mocks him, saying that his forehead resembles that of an ox.
[Jacques Bacot, trans., “Impressions d’Adjroup Gumbo en France,” in Jacques Bacot, Le Tibet révolté: vers Népémakö, la Terre promise des Tibétains, 1909–1910 (1912; reprint, Paris: Phébus, 1997), 291–308. Trans. MTK.]
Throughout the first half of the twentieth century, few Western writers did more to promote the image of Tibet as a land of exotic wonder and exalted spirituality than did the remarkable French explorer Alexandra David-Neel (1868–1969). Though her writings on occult subjects, as well as such works as her travelogue describing her clandestine voyage to Lhasa, were popular best-sellers translated into many languages and earned for their author, among scholars at least, the reputation of an eccentric mystery-monger, David-Neel knew the Tibetan language well and could be a canny observer of many aspects of Tibetan life and culture. Her proficiency in Tibetan was in part due to a period of study with a Nyingmapa teacher, the Gurong Tsang incarnation Orgyen Jikdrel Chöying Dorjé (1875–1932), a master from Amdo who was well known for his learning in grammar, among many other topics. Gurong Tsang himself had been a disciple of the greatest Nyingmapa scholar of the period, Mipam Namgyel (1846–1912), whose role in the “nonsectarian”
Rimé movement in nineteenth-century Kham has been introduced above (
chapter 21). And under China’s Republican government, Gurong Tsang became the titular head of the Nyingmapa order. With the recent publication of his biography, based in part on his surviving journals, it has now become possible to learn something of his relations with the Chinese government at the time, as well as his impressions of the surprising “Reverend French Lady” (
fago jetsünma) who accompanied him from Beijing to Amdo in 1918, while much of China was embroiled in civil war.
For her part, David-Neel was reserved in her appreciation of Gurong Tsang. In a letter to her husband dated October 31, 1917, she recounts her first meeting with him:
The functionary assigned to me by the prince Gong introduced me to a lama of high rank, a “Khubilgan,” that is to say, a lama supposed to be the reincarnation of a holyman. He appears to be a man who is most agreeable in company, without being, perhaps, absolutely a great scholar, though his learning, as I was convinced after conversing with him, is above average. He is the author of several works on Tibetan grammar. He’s a rich man, head of a monastery situated in a land that is famous insomuch as it is the fatherland of the illustrious Tsongkhapa and where Kumbum [monastery], which I have wanted to visit since childhood, is located. You can see the region on a map to the southeast of Mongolia where there is a huge lake called Kokonor (“blue lake” in Mongolian). The lama is returning to his country in fifteen days accompanied by eight servants and, if I wish, I can join the party.
Their departure was in fact delayed until the end of January 1918, and they arrived in Kumbum, Tsongkhapa’s birthplace, in August that year. David-Neel decided that rather than continuing to follow Gurong Tsang, she would remain in Kumbum, and she took up residence there for the next three years. There are some indications that she began to disapprove of Gurong Tsang’s worldliness—he was, after all, a Nyingmapa lay priest, and one with modernist aspirations to boot—and so sought her ideal of spiritual purity within the monastic confines of the Gelukpa order. MTK
After [Gurong Tsang] had completed the cycle of ritual activities involved in erecting Mipam’s memorial st
ūpa at Wutai shan, he journeyed east, to the Chinese capital of Beijing, where he spent more than a year visiting places and meeting dignitaries. At this time, he had three audiences with the President of the Republic of China, Li Yuanhong (1864–1928). For one whole day they discussed the Chinese and Tibetan peoples and their religions, and President Li Yuanhong was captivated by [Gurong’s] charisma, intelligence, and altruism. On the third day of the ninth month of the Tibetan fire-dragon year (1916), Li Yuanhong granted him the title “Supreme Head of the Ancient Nyingmapa Teaching, Gurong Khutugtu, Great Vajra Holder,” embroidered on a great diploma in golden thread with letters of five colors in the four languages—Chinese, Tibetan, Manchu, and Mongolian—as well as a golden seal, … a crowned ceremonial hat, and full regalia with ornaments. He presented him too with an inscription reading, “Greatly Promulgating the Conqueror’s Teaching, Great Skillful Liberator of the Six Beings from Suffering,” an endowment for Namdzong monastery, and a railway pass for the transport [of his party and baggage] as far as Guanyintang [in Henan province] at the time of his return [to Amdo]. Afterward, in accord with President Li Yuanhong’s intentions, with two officials who were assigned to accompany him, he performed an elaborate ritual feast and longevity rites in the shrine of Bhairava in the victory st
ūpa that had been established by the [Thirteenth] Dalai Lama, Tupten Gyatso, atop a hill. He then gave to the Chinese president the longevity vase [that had been consecrated by these rites] and one of his own compositions, the
Omnibeneficent Wheel, both with dedicatory labels, whereupon the president was highly delighted. He immediately had [Gurong’s] composition translated into Chinese and awarded him extensive praise and prizes as a great author. So it was that he established a golden bridge of friendship with President Li Yuanhong.
Henceforth, because the responsibility he bore for the doctrine and material circumstances of the Nyingmapa was even weightier than it had been before, he realized that a precious advantage, which he could not do without, would be promotion in his homeland of scientific technologies. Therefore, he himself visited hospitals, big and small factories, schools, and gentlemen who had specialized experience, and he undertook to learn about science and technology. For instance, he went to the Yangli Heyuan Hospital [probably the Peking Union Medical College Hospital] and for more than ten days he carefully investigated many doctors and patients, their diseases, causes, diagnoses, treatments, medical equipment, and the hospital administration. Afterward he instructed his companions, saying such things as, “according to your own capacities, prepare yourselves to benefit beings in these ways,” and “the record-keeping here with respect to the illnesses of each patient is an excellent method.” As in this illustration, he went to twenty-five larger and smaller hospitals practicing Western or Chinese medicine, and he prepared a memorandum concerning medical experience, knowledge, and advice in those hospitals.
Moreover, he visited metalworking factories and from one goldsmith received instruction on gilding techniques. In these and other ways, he carefully studied several of the sciences of manufacture.
One afternoon he boarded a train and traveled to Tianjin. At several larger and smaller factories, with his foremost disciples and companions—Mipam Drakchen, Kaji Pöntruk Lhadruk, Gurong Lagen, Ngakchö, and others—he learned [printing techniques using] copperplates, lead type, lithography, xylography, etc. Afterward, accompanying the director of the great Linchin Bank, the American Dhis-kun-krin [Dickenson?], he was invited to voyage by boat, and in six days of divine feasting and sightseeing reached Shanghai. He toured the city and the waterfront markets and [later] said that in this way he realized the truth of the prophecy of the mad treasure finder of Gyarong: “China’s trade will come from the ocean isles.…”
10 He investigated many schools and factories, large and small, before returning [to Beijing].
On reaching Beijing, he visited the amazing st
ūpa holding the remains of the supreme Pa
ṇchen,
11 on which occasion he mentioned becoming exceedingly distraught at its dilapidation due to the damage that had been caused by the Germans.
12 On the twenty-second day [month unspecified] he visited and performed lavish offerings at all the shrines of the Yonghegong.
13Then [Gurong Tsang] met with the translator Yeshé Tokmé. They discussed together such topics as Chinese history, the historical harmony between China and Tibet, and the parts of the old and new Tang Annals on Tibet. They also spoke of views regarding many of the designations found within the Tang Annals. Then, to Künzang Norbu, an important official of the Tibetan and Mongolian Affairs Bureau, he presented his observations and recommendations on many conditions in Tibetan and Mongolian regions. He gave advice about how to establish and develop schools in the future in these Tibetan and Mongolian regions. Then, on the thirteenth of the eighth month, at the invitation of Lhawang Rikdzin of Qinghai, he performed the extensive, efficacious rites of the feast and propitiation of the Great Glorious Vajrakīla [a tutelary divinity of the Nyingma order].
On the twenty-seventh day, in accord with the wishes of the great president, he presided over the funeral ceremonies of the translator Yeshé Tokmé in the imperial palace [i.e., the Forbidden City]. His composition, The Hundred Rays of Lightning Letters, was published lithographically in the imperial palace and widely distributed.
The next day, he was invited by a religious woman called the “Venerable French Lady” [Alexandra David-Neel], who explained how she had studied with many lamas all over India, China, and Tibet; how she had practiced meditation; how she had learned the Tibetan language; how she had translated such works as the Root Wisdom of the Madhyamaka and the Great Perfection Tantra of the Prayer of Samantabhadra into English; and her understanding of the subtle points of their philosophies. They discussed these together and she requested [instruction] about the view of the Great Perfection, grammar, and so on, adding, “If you go to Amdo, by all means take me with you.” He granted his permission.
[Dgu rong sku phreng snga phyi’i rnam thar, ed. Bstan ’dzin (Lanzhou: Kan su’u mi rigs dpe skrun khang, 1994), 197–204. Trans. MTK.]
It is well known to all who have read accounts of the earliest attempts to climb Mount Everest that these British expeditions arrived at the mountain from the northern, Tibetan side. Their approach route lay up the Rongbuk Valley where they visited in passing the Rongbuk monastery. C. K. Howard-Bury described the valley and its monastery in 1921 in these terms:
The valley was considered very sacred and was apparently a great place of pilgrimage. We found the base camp of the Alpine climbers pitched close to the Rongbuk monastery, where there lived a very high re-incarnated Lama who was in mediation and was not allowed to see anyone. This valley was called the Rongbuk, or inner valley—a name well suited to it; the legend was that from this valley there used to be a pass over into the Khombu Valley, but the high Lama who lived here forbade the use of it, as it disturbed the meditation of the recluses and hermits of which there were several hundred here. At first these good people did not at all approve of our coming into this valley, as they thought we should be likely to disturb and distract their meditations.
The Rongbuk monastery lies at a height of 16,500 feet, and is an unpleasantly cold spot. This monastery contains twenty permanent lamas who always live there together with the re-incarnated Lama. Besides these, there are three hundred other associated lamas who come in periodically, remaining there for periods of varying length. These associate lamas are mostly well-to-do, and having sufficient money to support themselves are not a drain upon the villagers. They will often invest several thousand
trangkas with some village, and in return for this money the village will supply them with food, barley, milk, eggs, and fuel. Higher up the valley there was a smaller monastery, and dotted along the hillside were numerous cells and caves where monks or nuns had retired to meditate. Every animal that we saw in this valley was extraordinarily tame. In the mornings we watched the burhel [i.e., the bharal, or Himalayan blue sheep] coming to some hermits’ cells, not a hundred yards away from the camp, to be fed, and from there they went on to other cells. They seemed to have no fear whatever of human beings. On the way up the valley we passed within 40 to 50 yards of a fine flock or rams, but they barely moved away, and on the way back we passed some females that were so inquisitive that they actually came up to within 10 yards of us in order to have a look at us. The rock pigeons came and fed out of one’s hand, and the ravens and all the other birds here were equally tame; it was most interesting to be able to watch all their habits and to see them at such close quarters.
14
What is perhaps less well known is that the lama in question noted in his autobiography the passage of these strangers. One reads on folio 287a of the xylograph of
The Biography of Ngawang Tendzin Norbu, a Reverend Preacher of the Dharma During the Final Age, Entitled “Playful Ocean of Deathless Nectar”:
After that six British Sahibs with a group of thirty servants and a train of seventy baggage animals, and with a permit issued by the Tibetan Government, arrived here on their way to Mount Everest in this area. They pitched their camp at the mouth of the Eastern valley, and prepared their beds. The group then left for the mountain. Although they remained there an estimated twenty days, since they could not climb the mountain, they returned without incident and without harm to this vale. They then crossed over to Kharta.
The following year there was another British expedition; its leader, C. G. Bruce, described its arrival at the same site in these words:
We pitched our camp just below the monastery with considerable difficulty, as the wind was howling rather more than usual. Then we went to pay our respects to the Rongbuk Lama. This particular Lama was beyond question a remarkable individual. He was a large well-made man about sixty, full of dignity, with a most intelligent and wise face and an extraordinarily attractive smile. He was treated with the utmost respect by the whole of his people. We were received with full ceremony, and after compliments had been exchanged in the usual way by the almost groveling interpreter, Karma Paul (who was very much of a Buddhist here), the Lama began to ask us questions with regard to the objects of the Expedition. He was very anxious also that we should treat his people kindly. His inquiries about the object of the Expedition were intelligent, although at the same time they were very difficult to answer. Indeed this is not strange when one comes to think how many times in England one has been asked, “What is the good of an exploration of Everest? What can you get out of it? And in fact, what is the object generally of wandering in the mountains?” As a matter of fact, it was very much easier to answer the Lama than it is to answer inquiries in England. The Tibetan Lama, especially of the better class, is certainly not a materialist. I was fortunately inspired to say that we regarded the whole Expedition, and especially our attempt to reach the summit of Everest as a pilgrimage. I am afraid, also, I rather enlarged on the importance of the vows taken by the members of the Expedition. I told the Lama, through Paul, who fortunately enough was able to repress his smiles (an actual record for Paul, which must have strained him to his last ounce of strength) that I had sworn never to touch butter until I had arrived at the summit of Everest. Even this was well received. After that time I drank tea with sugar and milk which was made specially for me.… The Lama finally blessed us and blessed our men, and gave us his best wishes for success. He was very anxious that no animals of any sort should be interfered with, which we promised for we had already given our word not to shoot during our Expedition in Tibet. He did not seem to have the least fear that our exploring the mountain would upset the demons who live there, but he told me that it was perfectly true that the Upper Rongbuk and its glaciers held no less than five wild men. There is at any rate, a local tradition of the existence of such beings, just as there is a tradition of the wild men existing right through the Himalaya. As a matter of fact, I really think that the Rongbuk lama had a friendly feeling for me personally, as he told the interpreter, Karma Paul, that in a previous incarnation I had been a Tibetan Lama. I do not know exactly how to take this.… The following morning, in cold weather, we left to try and push our camp as far as possible.
The lama’s account of these happenings is as follows:
In the third month (of the Tibetan year) once again a group of thirteen Britishers with a hundred coolies and three hundred pack-charges pitched their camp in front (of the tantric chapel) and stayed one day. The Dingri representative from Sheldzong also came as guide and assistant.
He said to me, ‘The best thing would be to meet the leaders and all their servants or at least the principal Saheb. There is no means of avoiding it.’
I said, ‘If one meets one heretic, there is no point in keeping all the others back’; but I was feeling very sick.
The next day I greeted the General, three other Sahebs and their interpreter in the big shelter in front of the tantric chapel. The leader gave me a photo of the Dalai Lama and a length of gold brocade with a ceremonial scarf. I had tea and rice-with-curds served.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked.
‘As this snow peak is the biggest in the world, if we arrive on the summit we will get from the British Government a recompense and high rank,’ he said.
I replied, ‘As our country is bitterly cold and frosty, it is difficult for others than those who are devoted to religion not to come to harm. As the local spirits are furies, you must act with great firmness.’
‘Thank you. As we shall also come under the lama’s protection, we trust you will allow us to collect a little brushwood for firewood. Moreover we won’t harm the birds and the wild animals in this area. I swear we have no kinds of weapons apart from this little knife, the size of a side-knife.’
After saying this, they took their leave. Then from here, according to the custom of the country, I had conveyed to them a carcass of meat, a brick of tea, and a platterful of roasted wheat flour. After they had left, they established a big camp near the mountain. It is said that they next pitched seven successive camps. They stayed about a month and a half. Making use of instruments such as iron pegs, wire-ropes and crampons they strove to ascend the mountain. They climbed with the most extreme difficulty. Two Sahebs got frost-bitten feet. After their passage down it was said that they lost the first joints of their fingers. Meanwhile the others climbed on ahead. When they had reached about a third of the way up the mountain, one day, with a roar, an avalanche occurred and some men were projected over the cliff face. It was not known whether two big Sahebs died. Seven or eight coolies died. The leader of the expedition sent to where I am, fifteen silver
sang with a request to perform a dedication ceremony [on behalf of the deceased]. I was filled with great compassion for their lot who underwent such suffering on unnecessary work. I organized very important dedication prayers.
At the time of the rites of Attainment and Worship in the fourth (Tibetan) month, five Sahebs and many coolies arrived back. They took photos of the ceremonial dances, etc. After that the group changed their quarters for the return journey. I asked them to stay the night. The following day I met eight Sahebs and all the servants present on the balcony.
The leader started by saying, ‘Previously I sent one hundred ṭamka with a request for a dedication ceremony for the seven coolies who died. Just now I sent rice and a cook-box for the Sheldzong representative. Did they arrive?’
I asked, ‘Are you not weary?’
‘Me? I’m alright. A few men died,’ he replied and was a little ashamed.
I gave him a wooden tub-full of bread and a new gold and copper image of Tārā; I resolved to pray for his conversion to Buddhism in the future. Then, as he left, as is the custom in Tibet, he took off his hat and said: ‘Be seated, be seated,’ and so saying went away.
After that, getting to know that there remained much roasted barley flour and rice and oil, etc., in the places where the Britishers had stayed near the mountain, some youngsters from Chöbuk, about twenty of them, but unknown to the monasteries—the upper and the lower one in this area—passed by secretly at midnight and, at dawn, arrived at the base of the mountain. From a cleft in the nearby scree, seven bears came out. At first one man caught sight of them; after that they all saw them. Whatever their hope when they saw the supplies, in a great panic, they all ran away. When they came back here, they asked, ‘Is not this inauspicious sight terrible and will not our lives be harmed?’
I said, ‘It is a sign that at the moment Zurawa, the “lord of the site” of the hidden land and Sharlung the “lord of the earth” are not pleased. If we do the ritual of contrition and propitiation in order, no harm will come.’
One can of course speculate as to what degree of objectivity was sought and achieved in the respective writings of the lama and the general. Certainly in these circumstances Karma Paul’s position was unenviable. Caught between his loyalty to his religion and his fidelity to his British employers, he had no easy role to play. Moreover, Bruce sometimes clearly misunderstood what Paul said. It is most improbable, for instance, that Karma Paul ever told him that “this Lama has the distinction of being actually the incarnation of a god, the god Chongraysay (read: Chenrezi, i.e., Avalokiteśvara), who is depicted with nine heads.”
Years later, the same Karma Paul was asked by Tilman at Rongbuk to “disabuse the minds of our hosts that expeditions to climb Mount Everest are undertaken at the instigation of and assisted by the British Government for the sake of national prestige.” Tilman continues: “We assured them that this was not so and explained that Mount Everest, supreme though it was, was not the only mountain we tried to climb; that we belonged to a small but select cult who regarded a Himalayan expedition as a means of acquiring merit beneficial to soul and body, and equivalent to entering a monastery except that the period of renunciation was short and that such admirable macaroni stew as was served in monasteries was seldom available.” Karma Paul does not seem to have gotten this message across in 1922.
[Introduction, translations, and comments: Alexander W. Macdonald, “The Lama and the General,” Kailash I, no. 3 (1973): 225–233. The notes accompanying the original article, being of specialized interest, are not given here. Edited for the present publication by MTK.]
Gendün Chöpel (1903–51) was one of the most important Tibetan intellectuals of the twentieth century, renowned as a scholar, translator, historian, essayist, poet, and painter. He was born in the Repkong region of Amdo in 1903, the son of a respected Nyingma lama. At the age of five, he was recognized as the incarnation of the abbot of the famous Nyingma monastery, Dorjé Drak. Following his father’s untimely death, Gendün Chöpel entered a local Geluk monastery before moving to the large Geluk monastery of Labrang, where he gained particular fame as a debater. In 1927 he left Amdo for Lhasa, where he entered Drepung monastery. There he resumed his studies, again gaining a reputation as a skilled debater and controversial figure.
In 1934, the Indian scholar and nationalist Rahul Sankrityayan (1893–1963) arrived in Lhasa in search of Sanskrit manuscripts. He enlisted Gendün Chöpel as his guide, just as the latter was completing the final examinations for the
geshé degree. After their bibliographic tour had concluded, Rahul Sankrityayan invited Gendün Chöpel to return with him to India. Over the next twelve years, Gendün Chöpel would travel extensively, and often alone, across South Asia (including Nepal, India, and Sri Lanka), learning Sanskrit, P
āli, and Indian vernaculars as well as English. He assisted the Russian Tibetologist, George Roerich, in the translation of the important fifteenth-century history of Tibetan Buddhism by Gö Lotsawa, the
Blue Annals, selections from which have been introduced in
chapters 6 and
7 above. Some years later, in Kalimpong, he assisted the French scholar Jacques Bacot in the translation of several Dunhuang manuscripts from the Tibetan dynastic period. He visited and made studies of many of the principal Buddhist archaeological sites in India, writing his
Guidebook for Travel to the Holy Places of India, which is still used by Tibetan pilgrims. He also studied Sanskrit erotica and frequented Calcutta brothels, producing a famous sex manual written in verse, the
Treatise on Passion. In addition, he contributed articles and poems to the Tibetan-language newspaper
Melong (
The Mirror, on which see the following chapter). Among his translations from Indian languages into Tibetan were the
Dhammapada and several chapters of the
Bhagavad Gītā.
In January 1946, Gendün Chöpel returned to Lhasa, where he taught Sanskrit poetics to a circle of friends and students. He also gave teachings on Madhyamaka philosophy, which would be published posthumously as the controversial Adornment for Nāgārjuna’s Thought. Within a few months of his arrival in Lhasa, Gendün Chöpel was arrested by the Tibetan government on the fabricated charge of counterfeiting foreign currency. The true reasons for his arrest remain the subject of debate, with his involvement in the ill-fated Tibet Improvement Party often suggested as the primary reason. Sentenced to three years in prison, he served at least two. He was given paper and pen in his cell and continued to write, working on his unfinished political history of Tibet, the White Annals, and writing poems. He emerged from prison a broken man and died in 1951 at the age of forty-eight.
Although the titles mentioned above are the most famous, Gendün Chöpel considered his magnum opus to be his lengthy collection of essays on Indian and Tibetan culture entitled
Grains of Gold: Tales of a Cosmopolitan’s Pilgrimage. Over six hundred pages in the original Tibetan, it was intended to be illustrated with several hundred watercolors by Gendün Chöpel himself. However, the work remained unpublished for decades, during which time most of the paintings were lost. It was published for the first time in 1990. The work is seventeen chapters in length. The opening pages of the first and last chapters appear in this volume, the first chapter here (followed by Gendün Chöpel’s most famous poem) and the last in
chapter 23.
The first selection below comes from the beginning of the first chapter of
Grains of Gold, “How I Set Out from Lhasa on the Journey.” It begins with a poem, the first four lines of which offer praise to the Buddha. Gendün Chöpel goes on to proclaim the influence of ancient India on many elements of Tibetan culture, and hence the need for educated Tibetans to know something about India. As he notes elsewhere in the book, cultural traffic between India and Tibet, so crucial during both the first and second disseminations of the Dharma, had all but ceased since the Muslim invasions of the thirteenth century. Elsewhere in
Grains of Gold, he explains that one of the purposes of his book is to describe for Tibetan readers the major events of Indian history under Muslim and British rule. He pledges to write this history relying only on evidence and reason, despite the consequences for his reputation and resources. Indeed, throughout the book he represents himself as the rare renegade scholar willing to speak the unvarnished truth to his compatriots, regardless of how that truth might be received in Tibet.
Gendün Chöpel goes on to explain how he came to meet Rahul Sankrityayan and how they began their tour of the monasteries of southern Tibet. The remainder of the chapter (not included here) describes in detail the Sanskrit manuscripts they discovered and concludes with his arrival in India: “From Nepal, going southwest and crossing the pass called Candragiri, we soon encountered the Indian railway line. So on the eighteenth day of the first winter month of my thirty-second year, I drank the water of the Ganges.”
He notes that he felt sad during his first year away from Tibet. That sense of sadness provides the leitmotif of many of his writings, in both prose and verse, from his twelve years in India and Sri Lanka. It is perhaps expressed most poignantly in his famous poem, which appears as the second selection below. DSL
This is entitled Grains of Gold: Tales of a Cosmopolitan’s Travels. I pay homage with my body, speech, and mind and go for refuge with great reverence at the lotus feet of the Blessed One, the perfectly enlightened Buddha.
You destroy the world of darkness with wisdom’s wheel of light, profound and clear.
You step down upon the peak of existence with the feet of the samādhi of liberation and peace.
You are endowed with the mind of the stainless sky, unsullied by clouds of elaboration.
May the sun, the glory of all beings, rain down goodness upon you.
Whatever expressions of civility are seen
To come from the fine past traditions in the Snowy Land,
Remain like a picture casting a reflection
Of the conduct of the three doors of the people of the Noble Land.
Thus, for those who enjoy the flavors of meaning
From the learned treatises of ancient times,
Speaking in detail about the conditions of this land [India]
Might help them complete the branches of learning.
However many things there might be, both subtle and coarse,
That cannot be known through investigation at home in bed
Without becoming objects of the senses of sight and hearing.
I shall explain here using the clearest examples.
Here in our country, following the example of the bodhisattva kings and ministers, everyone—the eminent, the lowly, and those in between—has immeasurable faith, affection, and respect for India, this land of the noble ones, the special land from which the teachings of the Conqueror came to Tibet. Everything we do with our body, speech, and mind—the manner in which our scholars analyze topics, our style of composition, our clothing, our ceremonies, all of these are permeated by Indian influence as a sesame seed is permeated by oil, so much so that when it is necessary to provide a metaphor in part of a poem, only the names of Indian rivers, mountains, and flowers are suitable. For example, if one composes the following:
Your body is majestic like the Vindhya mountains,
Your speech pure and stainless like the flowing Ganges.
the stanza would be worthy of being counted as a well-composed verse. If one composes the following:
Your body is majestic like Mount Machen Pomra
Your speech flows ceaselessly like the Machu river.
although this composition is not inelegant—the first syllables in the two lines are identical—it would cause laughter.
Because many types of that mode of expression have always been present [in Tibet], there were occasions when numerous amazing yet meaningless things were written due to failing to recognize what are everyday objects in India. In general, most of these kinds of things can only be determined by seeing them with one’s own eyes and hearing them with one’s own ears. Thus, it is not the case that knowing about them makes you a scholar and not knowing about them makes you a fool. Still, there is no need to say that if one speaks about them with pretension, that makes one a liar. Furthermore, in some cases, some very important points have been understood, but many times the fault of error has been made. Thus, if something can be understood exactly as it is, it is certain that this can serve a great purpose. Therefore, I have collected in one place whatever understanding I have gained about various fields of knowledge, which I have seen and heard about during my wanderings in many places and regions of India and Tibet. As for drawing conclusions based on guesses, writing the astonishing tales that have no authoritative sources for the sake of pleasing many people, making clear distinctions between what is and is not in order to protect my own sack of
tsampa but lacking the courage even to tell true stories out of excessive concern for the opinions of others, all these things, I have set aside with indifference. Giving up such things as hope for a good reputation, I wish to write a volume, from time to time inserting, in the style of ordinary conversation, whatever I have found, only for the sake of those few intelligent ones who remain reasonable.
When one is very timid, fearing that one might contradict the ways of others, then the understanding that is capable of enhancing wisdom cannot grow. But if one takes an honest approach, saying, “This is an error,” “That is also an error,” and so on, this can trample on the hearts of many, great and small, and can do much damage to such things as one’s means of livelihood. As a Tibetan, I am familiar with my own country, so I know all this very well. Still I shall write without giving this any thought. Thus I beseech the small-minded a hundred times not to bear malice against me.
Empty talk that makes fools amazed,
Fawning words piled up to flatter great men,
Stories that make the faithful sigh,
Leaving these far behind, I set out upon the straight path.
This is the intention with which I begin.
So it was in the wood-male-dog year of the sixteenth sixty-year cycle [1934], when I had reached age thirty-two that I reached India. That year was the two thousand four hundred seventy-sixth year following the Buddha’s passage into nirvāṇa, as accepted by the Theravāda of Sri Lanka. This system of calculation also seems to be respected as authoritative these days in other countries where the Buddha’s teaching has recently spread. And since there is a need for such things as looking up dates easily, in what follows, in whatever context, such as the royal lineages [of Tibet], I will use this [system] for counting years after the Teacher’s passing. The great Sakya Paṇḍita’s statement that the śrāvaka schools are unreliable because they calculated the year of the Teacher’s birth by confusing the construction of the Buddha’s image at Bodhgayā with the birth of the Buddha is highly offensive talk.
From the time I was a child I have wondered again and again whether I would be able to go to India just once. Having been at Drepung monastery for about seven years after arriving in Central Tibet, I met a paṇḍita from India by the name of Rahula who had come to Tibet. He encouraged me to go with him. This was a wish come true, and we set out. First, the paṇḍita and I went on a pilgrimage to places such as the Penpo region and Radreng monastery. In our spare time, I began to study a little Sanskrit with the paṇḍita. He had a lot of money and knew about as much Tibetan as a seven-year-old child. Because he was under the protection of some Lhasa aristocrats, we were able to examine the sacred objects of the various monasteries closely.
Son of
Śuddhodana, friend to transmigrators unfamiliar,
Delighting in the festival that fulfills two vast aims,
Send down the seasonal rains of blessing, without limit or end
From the pavilion of dense clouds filled with the water of compassion.
The froth of clouds of smoke on a great endless plain,
An unfamiliar friend plays a thighbone trumpet,
The pattern of a huge land where five colors shine;
Whatever I see, I am melancholy.
The relatives and servants we meet are but guests on market day.
The rise of power, wealth, and arrogance are pleasures in a dream.
Happiness alternates with sorrow, summer changes to winter.
Thinking of this, a song spontaneously came to me.
When we lack it, fearing hunger, we seek food and drink.
When we have it, fearing loss, we arrange our gathered profits.
Slowly counting the beads of an old rosary, striving at such petty affairs,
The thread of this short human lifespan comes to its end.
Worldly affairs, no matter what they are, never end.
At the end of doing deeds, there grows despair.
When all pleasures and wealth proudly gained are gathered,
They make up but one tenth this pile of pain.
Matching the games of lies and deception
With worldly schemes, pursued with great pains,
After waiting so long, it turned to nothing, just deceit.
Three years of miserable labor have worn me down.
When you are rich, they slink up close;
When you are poor, they scorn you from afar with pointing fingers.
The nature of bad friends who do not know kindness as kindness;
I think of this; tears and laughter rise up in me.
The talents of a humble scholar, seeking only knowledge
Are crushed by the tyranny of a fool, bent by the weight of his wealth.
The proper order is upside down.
How sad, the lion made servant to the dog.
Endlessly busy with the work of the seasons, summer and winter,
Human life is wasted in pointless distraction.
Still, I indulge in the flamboyance of careless distraction.
How sad, this sense of being old in body, not old in mind.
On a flowery plain in the land of the mind’s six objects
A child of uncertain knowledge wandered afar.
The way I used to think about meaningful things
Is now lost without a trace. I see this, and it makes me sad.
Wandering like a deer from the realm of six ranges
To arrive in a distant kingdom of unfamiliar humans,
There I lost my heart to a glamorous fickle woman.
A wretched son who has forgotten his kind parents, I am sad.
Following the dance steps of the demoness of ignorant thoughts,
These false confusing phenomena move to and fro.
Material things seen today are forgotten tomorrow.
Being in this aimless state is sad.
When looked at, the marvels of the world seem pleasing.
When attained, each has its own suffering.
After moments of brief happiness become but a dream,
There is always something that makes me sad.
Curdles of suffering, misconceptions beneath our hopes and fears,
Mix with the milk of the experience of spontaneous delight.
Although the comforts of food, drink, and possessions are all arranged,
The experience of inner happiness, content and carefree, is missing.
The basis of my ambition for greatness is consumed in fire;
The unwanted tax of the monk’s robe is left in ashes;
If only I had the utter freedom to wander from one land to another
With a madman’s behavior, chasing whatever comes to mind.
The castle of the threefold reason is utterly destroyed;
The knots of claims about the eight extreme views are severed at their site.
If only I had the joy of the deepest awareness,
Knowing that whatever appears is without foundation, has no basis.
Into the sphere of clear light, empty, without edge or center,
The nature of the mind, grasping nothing, dissolves as one taste.
If only I had the good fortune to practice this day and night,
Knowing for myself unspoken untainted bliss.
A sad song recalling fleeting appearances, my mother’s changing frowns and smiles,
And my own experiences, sometimes happy, sometimes painful,
Was sung by the gullible wanderer Gendün Chöpel,
In the land of Bengal, unfamiliar realm beyond the mountain range.
[The first text is from the forthcoming translation of Gendün Chöpel’s Grains of Gold by Donald S. Lopez, Jr., and Thupten Jinpa (from Dge ’dun chos ’phel, Rgyal khams rig pas bskor ba’i gtam rgyud gser gyi thang ma, in Dge ’dun chos ’phel gyi gsung rtsom [Lhasa: Bod ljongs bod yig dpe rnying dpe skrun khang, 1989], vol. 1, 3–6). The second selection is from Donald S. Lopez, Jr., trans. and ed., In the Forest of Faded Wisdom: 104 Poems by Gendun Chopel (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), 67–71.]
