is longer, but the road is easier, and you have not yet
acquired either the mental attitude or, what is more
important, the muscles of a hill man. Through junipers
and birch you pass out to the bare hill-side, and descend
sharply to the monastery.
This is a curious place. It is the most important
religious community in the valley. It is a special
favourite with the Dalai Lama, and when, some years
ago, owing to certain scandals which were, unfortunately,
too well known in the valley to be disregarded, the
older monastery in these parts was broken up, the
lamas were permitted to build a far more magnificent
temple within a mile of the scene of their misdoings.
Service is going on as you enter the courtyard. They
will pay no attention to you if you go into the shrine
itself— that is, the monks will not. Only the acolyte
children will gaze, round-eyed, at the unknown white
men, while their mouths still move with the shrill and
simple cadence of the chanted office. Now and again a
bell is rung, or a drum beaten with the sickle-shaped
stick. Once in a while the long, eight-foot trumpets
emit a ponderous blast of discordance. Tea is handed
round continually, and the chant pauses now and again
to allow the presiding lama to monotone a passage from
the Buddhist scriptures. At the further end, in the
darkness, lighted by the pale beads of butter-lamps, sits
the gilded image of Gautama, half-hidden by “ katags ”
or scarves.
Leaving the monastery, the track flings itself down
the steep sides of a hollow, and at last comes out upon
the good and welcome level of the Chumbi road. We
have almost reached the end of the first stage of the long
journey.