󠀳󠀱XIꓸ Mongolia (1926-1927) - blame None

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# Nicholas Roerich. Altai-Himalaya

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## XI. Mongolia (1926-1927)

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***Bang!***

A shot. The bullet pierced the window. It is good that George had just gone away from

the window at that very moment. Who shot? Was it intentional, or was it a prank?

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We are forewarned: “But you will not depart.” I answer: “We shall depart as always. We

shall not delay even for one day.” Our Americans arrive. Boris is with them. The doctor

is annexed. After a long correspondence, N. K. is found. Ludmilla and Raya will go with

us: the first thirteen-year-old girl traveler into Tibet.

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The Tibetan Donyer (Consul) is coming. He brings a Tibetan passport and a letter to the

Dalai Lama. The Donyer gives such passports to pilgrims. Our knowledge of Buddhism

entitles us to receive the same attention.

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Four Buriat lamas come and ask us to take them with us. They saw the banner of the

Expedition—the image of Maitreya with Ak-Dorje on top. All the servants have put little

signs of Ak-dorje upon their caps. And like recruits they walk through Ulan Bator Khoto.

George put them through a military drill. We bought eight more rifles. Everybody is

amused by a Lewis machine gun standing in the dining room. Let them know that we have

enough arms!

Coincident with our maneuvers, a Mongolian detachment was practicing to storm the

stronghold. And on the other side our convoy went through the same maneuvers. You can

imagine how completely confounded were both parties when they confronted each other!

“The Ruler of Shambhala.”

This painting coincides unexpectedly with the prophecy of the Lama. “The Great Rider

appeared and the heads of all people were turned towards the west, but the hand of the

Rider turned all peoples toward the East.”

A representative from the Mongolian government comes and begs us to make a design for

the temple-shrine where the painting “Ruler of Shambhala” will be placed with other

venerated objects.

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The publication of “Foundations of Buddhism,” and “New Era” is being completed. It is

difficult to give a fine form to the book in a little printer’s shop. The former lama,

now a lithographer, lovingly redraws for the book “The Conquering Buddha” with the fiery

sword. Again the messenger from the Government comes. They beg for permission to

translate “Foundations of Buddhism” into Mongolian.

Much expectation and excitement! Nevertheless, we did not delay our departure. E. P.

tensely stands at the threshold and says: “I await the solution of Him, who solves all

things.” And here comes a telegram. G. hustles about; he knows much. One can sometimes

converse with him about the most sacred legends. It was he also who told us of a

Mongolian version of the visit of the Teacher to Mongolia. It is strange to have heard

the beginning of the tale in India and its conclusion in Mongolia. Thus is the entire

desert encircled by one intense thought. We do not know how Tibet will greet us. If

Ladak, called “Little Tibet,” is beautiful, then “Great Tibet” must be unusually

majestic. But often humanity errs in its appraisals and the small “proves to be great.”

Unprejudiced, without superstition, we shall observe the reality.

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Again all sorts of difficulties and expectations. And again unexpected friends. Among

them the Esperantist. They help us to depart and prove an attentive escort. Like towers,

are the highly packed automobiles.

There is a fully accredited story that on the river Iro an extraordinary child was born.

Shortly after his birth he pronounced a prophecy and then became normal. The prophecy

proved to be the same one about the future Mongolia as was given to us by a lama in

Sikhim. It is well remembered in Mongolia.

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The action of will used at a great distance has been remarkably developed in Mongolia.

Quite recently one young Mongolian lama wrote a book about the path to Shambhala. Books

about this path written by the Tashi Lama, the Abbot of Wu-t’ai-shan, a Buriat lama, are

also known. The aspirations of the Mongols all face in this direction. Many other

neighboring nationalities also understand all the reality of the meaning of Shambhala.

Some of the Mongolian lamas know a great deal. Whenever we asked them questions, their

answers showed deep knowledge. But then, it is not so easy to win their confidence in

spiritual matters. Of the monasteries close to Ulan Bator Khoto, the most far-famed is

the so-called Manjushri Khit. From it the late Bogdo-Gegen was kidnapped. All places in

Mongolia are enveloped in legend.

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In the camp among the yurtas and the herds, upon the hills of the Gobi, the Mongols of

our convoy are heard singing a song about Shambhala recently composed by a Mongolian

hero, Suche Bator: “We march to the holy war of Shambhala. Let us be reborn in the

sacred land.” . . . And thus, valiantly and resonantly, the Mongols send out their

hopes. Even in new Mongolia they know the reality of Shambhala. In Ulan Bator Khoto, the

site for the future Dukang of Shambhala is already fenced around. The Mongols know about

the arrival of the Ruler of Shambhala to Erdeni Dzo and Narabanchi. They know about the

great “Guardians.” They know of the great times. They know of the Chalice of Buddha

which, after it left Peshawar, was preserved in Karashahr and disappeared for a time.

They know of the coming of the Blessed Ones to Altai. They know the true significance of

Altai. They know of the White Mountain. They know the sacred signs above the ancient

Suburgan near Khotan. They know the news from China. Through all the silent spaces of

Asia is heard the voice of the spirit of the future. They know that the time of Maitreya

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is come.

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In the automobiles, crossing the small rivers in the spring and because of the lack of

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roads, we have ten breakdowns a day. If one can traverse seventy miles it is indeed a

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lucky day. Ordinarily, one does not make even twelve miles. Many Kereksurs (old graves),

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Kurgans: traces of great migrations. A remarkable stone figure—they say that here lived

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a notorious bandit and that now he has become a guard of the Path. The travelers smear

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the lips of the statue with grease in order to request a favor. Konchak, our servant,

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stands for long before this image and repeatedly demands that we have a good road. On

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the way, skulls and bones, the corpse of a baby wrapped in a sheepskin coat. Turpans,

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wild geese, all sort of ducks fly toward the north. Herds of kulans.

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It is evident that we shall not go far in our automobiles. The road is not marked. The

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local guides themselves confuse the direction. And, for the most part, the automobiles

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are altogether poor. If only we can reach the border, the monastery Yum-Beise. There we

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shall have to take camels.

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We hear legends. That which was told us about the visitation by the “Ruler of

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Shambhala” to monasteries in Narabanchi and Erdeni Dzo is confirmed in various

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palaces.

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Yum-Beise is an unpleasant, windy place. The monastery itself is not an inviting one and

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the lamas are not gracious. Beyond and above the monastery, on the mountain, a

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tremendous phallus is erected. . . .

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There are endless negotiations concerning the engaging of the caravan. They propose to

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go as far as Chibochen (beyond Anhsi) in three weeks. By the end of April it is not good

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for camels; by that time it is hot, the camels are shedding, and during this time their

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strength leaves them. An old lama guide, a smuggler, is found, who offers to lead us by

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a short road through uncultivated parts. Usually no one goes there, fearing lack of

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water, but the lama has passed there no less than twenty times and knows that there are

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wells, streams and springs. But at this season even on the general road the wells also

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dry up and for this reason it is best to take the short way. The only danger of this new

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direction is the presence of the bands of the notorious Ja-Lama. But he was himself

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killed and his fellows are dispersed. Notwithstanding this, the region is dangerous. The

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lama guide assures us that now one may pass these places safely. We suspect our

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guide—may he not himself have been in the confidence of Ja-Lama? He knows too much of

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him and is too sure that we shall pass safely with him. He knows how Ja-Lama made his

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prisoners erect his city citadel which we shall pass on our way. We decided to go by

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this new way, however.

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Limitless seems the Central Gobi. White—pink—blue—and slaty black. The gales bury the

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flat slopes with a layer of stones. One must not be caught in this stony gale. The

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danger in the Gobi is that the wells may have dried. Sometimes the mouths of the wells

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are filled with fallen animals. One can avoid the lack of water by taking another

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direction to the east, although the Chinese bands infest these regions.

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Night. Fires. Sentries. Recently within this canyon a caravan was looted. Suddenly the

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night silence is broken by a loud rifle shot. The fires are stamped out. A line of our

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men, armed with revolvers, lies low. Who opened fire on our camp? From somewhere comes

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the barking of a dog. We call for a volunteer to reconnoiter. It is decided that if he

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begins to sing, all is well. A vigilant silence and, at last, out of the darkness comes

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a merry song: “A Chinaman, proprietor of a caravan, did the shooting. He got frightened

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at the sight of our fires and thought we were robbers.”

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Nyerva, leader of the caravan, whistles to attract the wind in the heat of noon. Like a

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barterer of winds on the shores of ancient Greece, the Mongol whistles long in a minor

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key; and the tips of the desert grass stir as in a breeze. The breeze rises and the

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Mongol winks, calling our attention to this. Barterers of winds! What a subject for an

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opera or symphony.

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From the white pebbles on the bosom of the Gobi the hand of an unknown traveler has

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fashioned certain figures. There are sacred inscriptions; but there are also erotic

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drawings repulsive amidst the majesty of the desert.

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Again precautions are necessary. Again it is necessary to don Mongolian kaftans. We

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approach the city of the notorious robber Ja-Lama or Tushegun Lama. We will camp

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somewhere nearby for the night. In the dense twilight some objects loom dark behind the

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hills. A dog barks. . . . Although Ja-Lama himself was recently killed by the Mongols,

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his bands are not yet scattered. We did not light our fires for the night. We double the

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sentries. In the morning we hear the astonished exclamation—“Here is the city above us!”

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On the hills high up are perched the towers and walls—a veritable citadel. It is

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imposing and picturesque. George and P. K., with rifles ready, go to investigate, and

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the Mongols bid them farewell with warnings of caution. We watch through our field

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glasses. But, finally they appear on the wall—it means that the robbers now have

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deserted the castle.

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Ja-Lama was not an ordinary bandit. He was a graduate of Law from Petrograd University

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and became a high lama of Tibet, possessing great occult knowledge. Would a night-robber

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have erected this city upon a high elevation, visible from afar? What thoughts and

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dreams fretted the gray head of Ja-Lama, which was carried for long afterward on a spear

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through the bazaars of Mongolia? . . . All through the Central Gobi, the legend of

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Ja-Lama will persist for a long time. What a scenario for a moving picture!

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Some peculiar riders approach the caravan and ask the Mongols about the amount of arms

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we carry. The Mongols whisper and gesticulate, indicating something very great and then

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inform us—“Ja-Lama’s men; they will not attack us.”

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We near Anhsi. Vague rumors reach us about some Chinese troops. To encounter them would

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be worse than Ja-Lama’s men. We will encircle Anhsi by night. But Nivra loses the way.

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Dawn finds us before the walls of Anhsi. They turn the camels and hasten to cross the

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broad, swift stream. By evening we shall already have left the boundaries of Gansu, and

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shall enter the region of Kuku-nor. On the mountains are the ruins of

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fortresses—landmarks of the former rebellions of the Dungans.

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Swift streams. Before us is the snowy ridge of Nan-shan.

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The Central Gobi is ended. Interior Mongolia, waterless, with its eroded auriferous

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ridges, is ended. In the mighty bottoms of these departed streams are concealed all

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manner of remains of the giants of antiquity.

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It is the first of June. Already for ten days we have been camping on the silvery

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banks of Shih-pao-ch’ang. Nan-Shan glows in the sunrise. The mountain stream murmurs.

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Whitely gleam the herds of goats and rams. Riders speed by us—is there any news?

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Rumors are in the air. When shall we advance? They try to frighten us by telling us

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not before September. There are many reasons. The grass must thicken. The camels must

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fatten and their wool must grow; and also the treacherous swamps of Tsaidam must dry.

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The Blue River will also subside by fall. We await news from Su-chow and Chamnar, and

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in the meantime, sly Machen, pupil of the Chinese, overcharges us. The old cheat calls

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me “the American King” and frequently during the day gallops over from his camp to our

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own.

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Because we successfully administered medicine to them, the Mongols request us to invoke

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the rain, because of the unprecedented drought. They offer us five dollars from each

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yurta.

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In spite of all the machinations of Machen we moved on to Sharagol under the ridge named

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after Humboldt. We crossed the cloudy quicksands of the Sharagol river with its endless

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tributaries just in time. Konchok almost drowned his gray Chinese horse.

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We camp beside a mountain spring on the foothill before Ulan davan (sixteen thousand

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feet) on the road to Tibet.

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The Tibetans relate that during the time of the flight of the Dalai Lama in 1904, at the

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Chang-thang crossing, the men and horses felt a severe tremor. The Dalai Lama explained

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to them that they were at the hallowed border of Shambhala. Does the Dalai Lama know

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much of Shambhala? The Tashi Lama knows far more.

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On July fifth we celebrated the Festival of Maitreya. In the tent of Shambhala a long

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service was performed and neighboring Mongols came and sang with our lamas.

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Mongolian “noblemen” drape around themselves the broad pleated medieval kaftans. They

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wear gray felt caps, as though from the paintings of Gozzoli, and sacred chains and

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amulets around their necks. Whirlwind and sandstorm. At two o’clock in the afternoon we

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had to box ourselves tightly within the tents and light the candles.

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I draw a plan of a Suburgan on the site of Shambhala where the Great Guardian stopped

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for the night. On July eleventh Nyerva from Kumbum monastery brings the prophecies and

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the new prayer of the Tashi Lama to Shambhala.

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For three days P. K. has been galloping to Mahoi for camels.

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Three new books are being compiled. The peaks glow white with snow; the air is fresh and

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the stillness recalls our Himalayan heights, toward which our spirits yearn. The Mongols

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admire the views of New York. For them America is a Promised Land. They whisper: “It is

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the attainment of Shambhala!” Not a day passes without its conversations on miraculous

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America.

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On July fourteenth the annual holiday of the Mongols is celebrated. They are building a

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new obo (a kind of Suburgan); there are races and festivity! The young people of our

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camp beg us to let them go to the festival.

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Since morning we have discussed the need of a Pan-Asiatic language which, at least

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elementally, would reconcile the three hundred dialects of Asia. In the evening our

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lamas read the prayers to Maitreya and Shambhala. If the West could understand what

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meaning the word Shambhala or Gessar has for Asia!

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The rain and wind begin. The middle of July is more like autumn. At night the rain beats

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on the mountains.

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In the midst of the rain and storm, most unexpected news reaches us. Such conquest of

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space is amazing. There is even news of the passing here of the Mahatma forty years ago.

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Again a veritable buran and showers. It is cold.

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On July twentieth directions of the utmost importance reached us. They are difficult to

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execute but they may lead to certain results. No one in the caravan as yet suspects our

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immediate program.

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On the next day also important news came and once again our fellow-travelers did not

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know of it. Compare these dates with your events. Gold was brought from Ulan Davan. Once

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again the gale. Raya, who is already thirteeen years old, has never yet heard of Christ.

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Thus do the fundamental teachings vanish out of life.

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July twenty-fourth. This is not only our day, but also the day of the completion of our

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Suburgan. Mongols help in the erection of it and bring the treasure—norbu-rinpoche—tiny

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stones and seeds to put into the chalice of the Suburgan. Within is also laid the

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Ak-dorje and the Maitreya Sanga.

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Lai—in Hindu means red.

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The end of July: “I am going joyously into the battle.” Lapis exilis—the wandering

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stone. Yesterday the Buriats foretold something impending. Precisely, “I am sending the

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best currents for the happy decision of the works.” We decide to start through Tsaidam

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to Tibet on August 19th. We shall dare to cross dangerous Tsaidam in a new direction.

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Toward evening on the twenty-eighth N. V. came galloping along with his sword and the

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ring. We had hardly time to hear him, when, down the canyon, in place of the peaceful

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stream, swept a devastating torrent. This was the result of the strange night-tumult in

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the mountains. The torrent swept away the kitchen, the dining tent, George’s tent. Much

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was destroyed and many Mongol yurtas were swept away. We walked up to our waist in

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water. Many irreplaceable things were destroyed. N. V. told us that on the eve of his

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departure, for some inexplicable reason, the tankas sent by us to Y. were destroyed by

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fire. It is significant! Correlate!

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We complete the Suburgan. The Elder Lama of Tsaidam comes to consecrate it. Prince

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Kurlik Beise sends envoys; he offers his caravan. It is significant because the Prince

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usually molests travelers.

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On August fifth—something remarkable! We were in our camp in the Kukunor district not

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far from the Humboldt Chain. In the morning about half-past nine some of our caravaneers

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noticed a remarkably big black eagle flying above us. Seven of us began to watch this

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unusual bird. At this same moment another of our caravaneers remarked, “There is

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something far above the bird.” And he shouted in his astonishment. We all saw, in a

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direction from north to south, something big and shiny reflecting the sun, like a huge

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oval moving at great speed. Crossing our camp this thing changed in its direction from

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south to southwest. And we saw how it disappeared in the intense blue sky. We even had

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time to take our field glasses and saw quite distinctly an oval form with shiny surface,

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one side of which was brilliant from the sun.

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On August seventh the Suburgan was consecrated. Gegen of Tsaidam arrived; about thirty

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Mongolian guests also came. We held the service to the Suburgan. They promised to guard

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the Suburgan of Shambhala. If only the Dungans would not destroy it!

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There was revolt among our Buriats. They went to the Chinese with a false report about

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us. Instead of the rebellious Buriats we took three Torguts with us. They are good

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shots.

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Following the false report of the Buriats, the Chinese soldiers, with an official of the

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Sining Amban, arrived. They examined our passports. Of course, again extortion. We paid

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the Chinese. The Mongols are indignant about this incident.

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Unexpected guests come swiftly from out the desert. Toward evening a mysterious

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stranger, in a beautiful gold embroidered Mongol garb, came galloping along. Who was he?

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Hurriedly he entered the tent. Without naming himself he said that he was our friend,

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that he must warn us concerning an attack prepared against us on the border of Tibet. He

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warned us of the need of increasing our guards and our reconnoitering troops. Thus he

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spoke and galloped away. Who was he? Our lamas say: “He is either a thief or a robber or

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a collector for the monastery.” No one liked the luxurious garments of the stranger. But

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he was a friend. He desired to help. Again an operatic episode.

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On August nineteenth we started through Tsaidam to Tibet. A memorable night in

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Tsaidam—when we crossed the salt marshes. We could not stop but had to go a hundred and

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twenty miles without a halt. In the darkness of night the road is invisible and yet we

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crossed the most dangerous parts during the night without realizing it. On either side

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of the narrow path are bottomless pits. If the horse trips it is impossible to extricate

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him. One false step and all is finished. It was difficult but at last Tsaidam was

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crossed in a new and in the shortest direction. There are many errors on the maps.

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When we passed Tsaidam, which is by no means as the maps indicate it, one unconsciously

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looked toward the west. There glowed the endless pink sands. We recalled that between

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Tsaidam and Kunlun the maps show a complete desert area. Of course, this entire space is

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unexplored. Whereas, in the folds of these hills there may be much which is remarkable.

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In this direction, from the regions of Khotan and Scherschen the ancient Buddhist

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monasteries might have spread. There may be interesting hermitages and monumental caves.

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But even the Mongols speak little of these regions. They speak of caravans lost in the

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sands, of buried cities—but all this is legendary.

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The gesture of greeting of the Tsaidam Mongols is remarkable. They uplift their arms as

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though paying their reverence to the sun. It is so rhythmical and beautiful! It reminded

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me of the beautiful gesture of the Hindu Brahmins that I saw in Benares during the hour

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of morning prayer. In the same way I recall the beautiful gesture of the Mussulmans when

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they are paying homage to the old Mazars (tombs).

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They talk about some foreigners who were in Taiginer and bought old things. Again they

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say that foreigners came and took away “Burkhans” from Tun huang. Evidently something

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took place at the celebrated cave temples. There is too persistent talk about it in

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different districts. Not a few things were stolen for the Museums of Europe—but they

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talk of these especial “burkhans” from Kashgar, from Urumchi to the very borders of the

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Tibet.

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Half-devoured corpses of men and horses are beside the road. The traces of the recent

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battle of the Mongols and the Goloks are seen here. The Mongols are removing their

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yurtas and hurrying under the protection of Prince Kurlik Beise. Soon we approach the

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Naiji Pass, the point of which our unknown well-wisher warned us. All seems quiet but

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near the camp we find a fresh camp-fire and a lost long-pipe. The place has been

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recently inhabited.

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In the morning we proceed as usual. In the front, George and P. K. Then all of us on

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horseback—we and the lamas. Behind at a distance the Torguts with the mules and further

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behind, the caravan with camels, guarded by Golubin, Konchok and Tsering. In front of us

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is a canyon between two hills. Elena Ivanovna, always sensitive, hears the distant

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barking of dogs. Suddenly across the canyon among the hills, armed riders begin to leap,

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hiding between the hills. Zangin Lama shouts out “arangan,” meaning robbers. I give the

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order to turn back so that we can occupy the peak of the hill and be closer to the

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Torguts. On the peak, instead of being the attacked we become the aggressors and take

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command of the situation. The troop of Panagis stops, is evidently surprised at our

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unexpected maneuver. The Colonel with Oschir the Torgut and the Buryat Buchaieff gallop

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toward them with threatening shouts. The rest of us, ready for battle, keep watch. The

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Panagis, unexpectedly caught, become confused and as a sign of submission lower their

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arms. One of them holds a long spear—the sign that war is declared. We wanted to buy the

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spear—but the Panagis said, “We cannot sell it. It is our friend.” The chief thing is

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always to act boldly!

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The next day another attack was prepared but a terrific snowstorm, mingled with thunder,

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dispersed the superstitious Panagis. And so we crossed Naiji. We admired the tremendous

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herds of wild yaks. One of them was killed by the Torguts. Before us was the snow ridge,

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Angar Dakchin, or Marco Polo. How strange to give European names to the mountains and

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lakes which have their own names from ancient times. Toward night, the Mongolian lama

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died of hemorrhage. It is sad.

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Behind Angar Dakchin is Kokushili. The same Kokushi which is known to the Old Believers

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on Altai—the seekers for Belovodye. Not far from here also are the sacred borders. We

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pass the rivers successfully. They cannot be crossed on horseback in spring or in the

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summer. But now, in the fall the water is not higher than the reins of the horses. Only

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two horses sank. Even the Blue River with its swift current was not an obstacle.

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We look for the Tibetan outposts. Why are they not here? Something glows white in the

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distance. . . . Snow—but there is no snow around here. Is it a tent? But this is

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something truly superb. It is a gigantic geyser of glauber salt. A snowy mass—glistening

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in the sun—verily, a sacred boundary.