Alexandre Dumas - "Chicot the Jester"

Theodosia Garrison - "The Dreamers"

George Bernard Shaw - "Der Mann des Schicksals"

Allan Pinkerton - "Bucholz and the Detectives"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

From Pole to Pole

S >> Sven Anders Hedin >> From Pole to Pole




This is the country of wild camels. Wild camels live in herds of half a
dozen head. The leader is a dark-brown stallion; the mares are lighter
in colour. Their wool is so soft and fine that it is a pleasure to pass
one's hand over it. Several herds or families are often seen grazing on
the same spot. They look well-fed, and the two humps are firm and full
of fat. In spring and summer they can go without water for eight days,
in winter for two weeks. For innumerable generations they have known
where to find the springs: the mothers take their young ones to them,
and when the youngsters grow up they in their turn show the springs to
their foals. They drink the water, however salt it may be, for they have
no choice, but they do not stay long at the meadows by the springs, for
their instinct tells them that where water is to be found there the
danger is great that their enemies may also come to drink.

Against danger they have no other protection than their sharply
developed senses. They can scent men at a distance of twelve miles. They
know the odour of a camping-ground long after the ashes have been swept
away by the wind, and they avoid the spot. Tame camels passing through
their country excite their suspicion; they do not smell like wild ones.
They are shy and restless and do not remain long at one pasture, even if
no danger threatens.

In some districts they are so numerous that the traveller cannot march
for two minutes without crossing a spoor. Where the tracks all converge
towards a valley between two hills, they probably lead to a spring. On
one occasion when our tame camels had not had water for eleven days,
they were saved by following the tracks of their wild relations.




IX

IN THE FORBIDDEN LAND (1901-2, 1906-8)


THE PLATEAU OF TIBET

South of Eastern Turkestan lies the huge upheaval of the earth's crust
which is called Tibet. Its other boundaries are: on the east, China
proper; on the south, Burma, Bhutan, Sikkim, Nepal, and British India;
on the west, Kashmir and Ladak. Political boundaries, however, are of
little and only temporary importance. They seldom remain unchanged from
century to century, for from the earliest times a nation as it increased
in strength has always extended its domain at the expense of its
neighbours.

The earth's crust, on the other hand, remains unchanged--if we disregard
the continual work performed by rain and streams, weather and wind,
which tends to fill up the hollows with mud and sand, to cut the valleys
ever deeper, and to diminish the mountain masses by weathering. However
powerfully these forces may have acted, Tibet still remains the highest
mountain land of the world.

If you lay your left hand on a map of Tibet so that the part nearest the
wrist touches the Pamir, the flat of the hand covers the region of
central Tibet, where there is no drainage to the ocean, but where the
country falls instead into a number of isolated lake basins. Your thumb
will represent the Himalayas, the forefinger the Trans-Himalaya, the
middle finger the Karakorum, the third finger the Arka-tagh, and the
little finger the Kuen-lun. The highest mountain ranges of the world are
under your fingers; and also, as the longest finger is the middle of the
five, so the Karakorum is the central range of Tibetan mountains.

Now let a little stream of water fall on the back of your hand as you
hold it on a table with the fingers spread out. You will see that a tiny
quantity remains on the back of the hand, but that the greater part runs
away between the fingers. Thus it is in Tibet. The water poured on your
hand represents the rain of the south-west monsoon, which falls more
abundantly on the eastern part of the country than on the western. The
water which stays on the back of the hand represents the small scattered
salt lakes on the plateau country which has no drainage to the sea,
while the large quantity which runs off between your fingers represents
the large rivers which flow between the ranges.

[Illustration: TIBET.]

Of these rivers two stream eastwards: the Yellow River (the Hwang-ho),
which falls into the Yellow Sea, and the Blue River (the
Yang-tse-kiang), which empties its waters into the Eastern Sea. The
others run southwards, the Mekong into the China Sea, the Salwin,
Irawaddy, and Brahmaputra into the great inlet of the Indian Ocean which
is called the Bay of Bengal. A large quantity of water runs off along
the outer side of your thumb; this is the Ganges, which comes down from
the upper valleys of the Himalayas. And, far to the west, nearest to the
wrist, you find two rivers with which you are already acquainted: the
Indus, which flows southwards into the Arabian Sea, and the Tarim, which
runs north and east and falls into Lop-nor.

The Himalayas are the loftiest range on earth, and among their crests
rise the highest peaks in the world. Three of them should be remembered,
for they are so well known: Mount Everest, which, with its 29,000 feet,
is the very highest summit in the world; Kinchinjunga (28,200 feet), and
Dhwalagiri (26,800 feet). Mount Godwin-Austen in the Karakorum is only
about 650 feet lower than Mount Everest.

The Himalayas present a grand spectacle when seen from the south. No
other mountain region in the world can vie with it in awe-inspiring
beauty. If we travel by rail from Calcutta up to Sikkim we see the
snow-clad crest of the Himalayas in front and above us, and Kinchinjunga
like a dazzling white pinnacle surmounting the whole. We see the sharply
defined snow limit, and the steep, wooded slopes below. If it is early
in the morning and the weather is fine, the jagged, snowy crest shines
brightly in the sun, while the flanks and valleys are still hidden in
dense shadow. And during the journey to the great heights we shall
notice that the flora changes much in the same way as it does from South
Italy to the North Cape. The last forms of vegetation to contend against
the cold are mosses and lichens. Then we come to the snow limit, where
the mountains and rocks are bare.

North and Central Tibet have a mean elevation of 16,000 feet; that is to
say, one is almost always at a greater height than the summit of Mont
Blanc. Where the plateau country is so exceedingly high the mountain
ranges seem quite insignificant. We have spoken of five great ranges,
but between these He many smaller, all running east and west.

What a fortunate thing it is for the people of Asia that the interior of
the continent rises into the tremendous boss called Tibet! Against its
heights the water vapour of the monsoon is cooled and condensed, so that
it falls in the form of rain and feeds the great rivers. Were the
country flat like northern India or Eastern Turkestan, immense tracts of
the interior of Asia would be complete desert, as in the interior of
Arabia; but as it is, the water is collected in the mountains and runs
off in all directions. Along the rivers the population is densest;
around them spring up cities and states, and from them canals branch off
to water fields and gardens.

You know, of course, that Asia is the largest division of land in the
world, and that Europe is little more than a peninsula jutting out
westwards from the trunk of Asia. Indeed, Asia is not much smaller than
Europe, Africa, and Australia put together. Of the 1550 millions of men
who inhabit the world, 830 millions, or more than half, live in Asia.
If, now, you take out your atlas and compare southern Europe and
southern Asia, you will find some very curious similarities. From both
these continents three large peninsulas point southwards. The Iberian
Peninsula, consisting of Spain and Portugal, corresponds to the Arabian
Peninsula, both being quadrangular and massive. Italy corresponds to the
Indian Peninsula, both having large islands near their extremities,
Sicily and Ceylon. The Balkan Peninsula corresponds to Further India
(the Malay Peninsula), both having irregular, deeply indented coasts
with a world of islands to the south-east, the Archipelago and the Sunda
Islands.

Tibet may be likened to a fortress surrounded by mighty ramparts. To the
south the ramparts are double, the Himalayas and the Trans-Himalaya, and
between the two is a moat partly filled with water--the Upper Indus and
the Upper Brahmaputra. And Tibet is really a fortress and a defence in
the rear of China. It is easily conceivable that a country surrounded by
such huge mountain ranges must be very difficult of access, and the
number of Europeans who have crossed Tibet is very small.

The inaccessible position of the country has also had an influence on
the people. Isolated and without communication with their neighbours,
the people have taken their own course and have developed in a peculiar
manner within their own boundaries. The northern third of the country is
uninhabited. I once travelled for three months, and on another occasion
for eighty-one days, without seeing a single human being. The middle
part is thinly peopled by herdsmen, who roam about with their flocks of
sheep and yaks, and live in black tents. Many of them also are skilful
hunters of yaks and antelopes. Others gather salt on the dried-up beds
of lakes, pack it in double-ended bags, and carry it on sheep to barter
it for barley in the southern districts, which are the home of the great
majority of Tibet's two or three million inhabitants. There are to be
found not only nomads, but also settled people, dwelling in small
villages of stone huts in the deeper river valleys, especially that of
the Brahmaputra, and cultivating barley. A few towns also exist here;
they are all small, the largest being Lhasa and Shigatse.

When our journey takes us to India again we shall have an opportunity of
learning about the religion of Buddha, which is called Buddhism. In a
different form this religious creed found its way into Tibet a thousand
years ago. Before this time a sort of natural religion prevailed, which
peopled the mountains, rivers, lakes, and air with demons and spirits.
Much of the old superstition was absorbed into the new teaching, and the
combination is known by the name of Lamaism. There are 620 millions of
Christians in the world and 400 million Buddhists; and of the Buddhists
all the Tibetans and Mongolians, the Buriats in eastern Siberia, the
Kalmukhs on the Volga, the peoples of Ladak, northern Nepal, Sikkim, and
Bhutan are Lamaists.

They have a great number of monks and priests, each of whom is called a
Lama. The principal one is the Dalai Lama, in Lhasa, but almost on a par
with him is the Tashi Lama, the head of Tashi-lunpo, the large monastery
at Shigatse. The third in rank is the High Lama at Urga in northern
Mongolia. These three and some others are incarnated deities. The Dalai
Lama never dies; the god that dwells in him merely changes his earthly
body, just as a snake when it casts its skin. When a Dalai Lama dies it
means that the divinity, his soul, sets out on its wanderings and passes
into the body of a boy. When the boy is found he becomes the Dalai Lama
of Lhasa. Lamaists believe, then, in the transmigration of souls, and
the end, the fullest perfection, is peace in Nirvana.

There are many monasteries and nunneries in the upper Brahmaputra
valley. The temple halls are adorned with images of the gods in metal or
gilded clay, and butter lamps burn day and night in front of them. Monks
and nuns cannot marry, but among the ordinary people the singular custom
prevails that a wife can have two or several husbands. Among Mohammedans
the case is just the reverse: men can have several wives.


ATTEMPT TO REACH LHASA

It was from Lop-nor in the year 1901 that I penetrated into this lofty
mountain land for the third time. The summer had just set in with its
suffocating dust storms, and we longed to get up into the fresh, pure
air. The caravan was large, for I had sixteen Mohammedan servants from
Eastern Turkestan, two Russian and two Buriat Cossacks, and a Mongolian
Lama from Urga. Provisions for seven months, tents, furs, beds, weapons,
and boxes were carried by 39 camels, 45 horses and mules, and 60 asses;
and we also had 50 sheep for food, several dogs, and a tame stag.

When all was ready we set out towards the lofty mountains and crossed
one range after another. When we reached the great heights the caravan
lost strength day by day. The atmosphere is so rare that a man cannot
breathe without an effort, and the slightest movement produces
palpitation of the heart. The grazing becomes more scanty the higher you
go, and many of the caravan animals succumbed. At last we seldom
travelled more than twelve miles in a day.

After forty-four days' march due southwards we came to a part of the
country where footprints of men were seen in several places, and Lhasa
was only 300 miles away. Up to this time all Europeans who had tried to
reach the holy city had been forced by Tibetan horsemen to turn back.
The Tibetans are at bottom a good-tempered, decent people, but they will
not allow any European to enter their country. They have heard that
India and Central Asia have been conquered by white men, and fear that
the same fate may befall Tibet. Two hundred years ago, indeed, Catholic
missionaries lived in Lhasa, and the town was visited in 1845 by the
famous priests Huc and Gabet from France. Since then two Europeans who
had made the attempt to reach the place had been murdered, and others
had to turn back without success.

Now it was my turn to try my luck. My plan was to travel in disguise
with only two followers. One was the Mongolian Lama, the other the
Buriat Cossack, Shagdur. The Buriats are of Mongol race, speak
Mongolian, and are Lamaists. They have narrow, rather oblique eyes,
prominent cheek-bones, and thick lips. The dress of both peoples is the
same--a skin coat with long sleeves and a waistbelt, a cap, and a pair
of boots with turned-up toes. My costume was of exactly the same kind,
and everything we took with us--tent, boxes, cooking utensils, and
provisions--was of Mongolian style and make. The European articles I
required--instruments, writing materials, and a field-glass--were
carefully packed in a box. For defence we had two Russian rifles and a
Swedish revolver. Of the caravan animals, five mules and four horses, as
well as two dogs, Tiger and Lilliput, were to go with us. I rode a
handsome white horse, Shagdur a tall yellow horse, and the Lama a small
greyish-yellow mule. The baggage animals were led by my men and I rode
behind. During the first two days we had a Mohammedan with us, Oerdek,
but he was to go back to headquarters, where all the rest of the caravan
were ordered to await our return.

We were to ride south-eastwards and endeavour to strike the great
Mongolian pilgrim route to Lhasa. Many Mongolians betake themselves
annually in large armed caravans to the holy city to pay homage to the
Dalai Lama, and obtain a blessing from him and the Tashi Lama. Perhaps
it was wrong of me to give myself out for a Lamaist pilgrim, but there
seemed no other means of getting to the forbidden city.

We left the main camp on July 27, and those we left behind did not
expect ever to see us again. The first day we did not see a living
thing, and the second day we rode twenty-five miles farther without
hindrance. Our camp that day was situated on open ground beside two
lakes, and to the south-east stood some small hills, in the
neighbourhood of which our animals grazed. Oerdek was to watch them
during the night in order that we might have a good sleep, for when he
left us we should have to guard them ourselves.

Here my disguise was improved. My head was shaved so that it shone like
a billiard ball. Only the eyebrows were left. Then the Lama rubbed fat,
soot, and brown colouring-matter into the skin, and when I looked in a
small hand-glass I could hardly recognise myself; but I seemed to have a
certain resemblance to my two Lamaist retainers.

In the afternoon a storm broke out from the north, and we crept early
into our little thin tent and slept quietly. At midnight Oerdek crept
into the tent and whispered in a trembling voice that robbers were
about. We seized our weapons and rushed out. The storm was still raging,
and the moon shone fitfully between the riven clouds. We were too late.
With some difficulty we made out two horsemen on the top of the hills
driving two loose horses before them--we found afterwards that one was
my favourite white horse, the other Shagdur's yellow one. Shagdur sent a
bullet after the scoundrels, but it only hastened their pace.

It was still dark, but there was no more sleep for us. We settled
ourselves round a small blaze, boiled rice and tea, and lighted our
pipes. When the sun rose we were ready to go forward. First we examined
the tracks of the thieves and found that they had come down on us with
the wind, and had thus eluded the watchfulness of the dogs. One of the
men had crept along a rain furrow right among the grazing horses, and,
jumping up, had frightened the best two off to leeward. There a mounted
Tibetan had taken them in hand and chased them on in front of him. The
third had waited with his comrade's horse and his own, and then he also
had made off. They had no doubt been watching us all day. Perhaps they
already knew that we came from my headquarters, and they might even send
a warning to Lhasa.

Oerdek was beside himself with fright at having to make the two days'
journey back on foot and quite alone. We heard afterwards that he did
not dare to go back on our trail, but sneaked like a wild cat along all
the furrows, longing for night; but when darkness came he was still more
terrified and thought that every stone was a lurking villain. A couple
of wild asses nearly frightened him out of his senses, and made him
scuttle like a hedgehog into a ravine. When he arrived in the darkness
of night at the main camp, the night watchman took him for a stranger
and raised his gun. But Oerdek shouted and waved his arms, and when he
got to his tent he lay down and slept heavily for two whole days.

We three pilgrims rode on south-eastwards, and pitched our tent on open
ground by a brook twenty-five miles farther on. Our positions were now
reversed; Shagdur was the important man and I was only a mule-driver.
With the Cossacks I always spoke Russian, but now no language must be
used but Mongolian, which the Lama had been teaching me for a long time
previously. After dinner I slept till eight o'clock in the evening, and
when I awoke I found my two comrades in a state of the greatest anxiety,
for they had seen three Tibetan horsemen spying upon us from a long
distance. We must therefore expect fresh trouble at any moment.

The night was divided into three watches, from nine o'clock to midnight,
midnight to three o'clock, and three o'clock to six o'clock, and usually
I took the first and the Lama the last. The animals were tethered to a
rope fastened to the ground in the lee of the tent, and Tiger was tied
up in front of them and Lilliput behind them.

At half-past eight Shagdur and the Lama were asleep in the tent, and my
first night watch began. I strolled backwards and forwards between Tiger
and Lilliput, who whined with pleasure when I stroked them. The sky was
covered with dense black clouds, lighted from within by flashes of
lightning, while thunder rolled around us and rain streamed down in a
perfect deluge. It beat and rang on the Mongolian stewpans left out at
the fireplace. Sometimes I tried to get a little shelter in the tent
opening, but as soon as the dogs growled I had to hurry out again.

At last it is midnight and my watch is at an end; but Shagdur is
sleeping so soundly that I cannot find it in my heart to waken him. I am
just thinking of shortening his watch by half an hour when both dogs
begin to bark furiously. The Lama wakes up and rushes out, and we steal
off with our weapons in the direction in which we hear the tramp of a
horse going away through the mud. In a little while all is quiet again,
and the dogs cease to bark. I wake up Shagdur and creep into my berth in
my wet coat.

Next day we travel on under a sky as heavy as lead. No human beings or
nomad tents are to be seen, but we find numerous tracks of flocks of
sheep and yaks, and old camping-grounds. The danger of meeting people
increased hourly, and so did my anxiety as to how the Tibetans would
treat us when we were at last discovered.

On July 31 the rain was still pouring down. We were following a clear,
well-trodden path, along which a herd of yaks had recently been driven.
After a while we came up with a party of Tangut pilgrims, with fifty
yaks, two horses, and three dogs. The Tanguts are a nomadic people in
northeastern Tibet, and almost every second Tangut is also a robber. We
passed them safely, however, and for the first time encamped near a
Tibetan nomad tent occupied by a young man and two women.

While the Lama was talking with these people, the owner of the tent came
up and was much astonished to find an unexpected visitor. He followed
the Lama to our tent and sat down on the wet ground outside the
entrance. His name was Sampo Singi, and he was the dirtiest fellow I
ever saw in my life. The rain-water dropped from his matted hair on to
the ragged cloak he wore; he wore felt boots but no trousers, which
indeed almost all Tibetan nomads regard as quite, superfluous.

Sampo Singi blew his nose with his fingers, making a loud noise, and he
did it so often that I began to think that it was some form of
politeness. To make sure I followed his example. He showed not the
slightest suspicion, only looked at our things and gave us the
information we wanted. We had a journey of eight days more to Lhasa, he
assured us. Then Shagdur gave him a pinch of snuff which made him sneeze
at least fifty times. We laughed at him when he asked whether we put
pepper in our snuff, whereupon, in order to keep up our story, Shagdur
roared at me, "Do not sit here and stare, boy; go and drive in the
cattle." I started up at once, and had a terrible job to get the animals
in to the camp.

We had an undisturbed night, thanks to the neighbourhood of the nomads,
for they too had fierce dogs and arms. Early in the morning Sampo came
with another man and a woman to visit us. We had asked if we might buy
some food from them, and they brought several choice things with them--a
sheep, a large piece of fat, a bowl of sour milk, a wooden bowl of
powdered cheese, a can of milk, and a lump of yellow cream cheese. Then
came the question of payment. Our money consisted of Chinese silver
pieces, which are valued by weight, and are weighed out with a pair of
small scales. Sampo Singi, however, would take only silver coins from
Lhasa, of which we had none. Fortunately I had provided myself with two
packages of blue Chinese silken material in Turkestan, and a length of
that is a substitute for silver of all kinds. The Tibetans became quite
excited when they heard the rustle of the silk, and after the usual
haggling and bargaining we came to an agreement.

The sheep was then slaughtered, some fat pieces were fried over the
fire, and after a solid breakfast, of which a share was bestowed on the
dogs, we bade farewell to the Tibetans and rode on through the valley,
still in pouring rain. Soon we came to the right bank of a broad river
which was composed of about twenty arms, four of which were each as
large as an ordinary stream. Without hesitation our courageous little
Lama rode straight out into the rapid turbid current, and Shagdur and I
followed. When we had crossed about half the river we rested a while on
a small mud flat, from which neither bank could be seen owing to the
rain. On all sides we were surrounded by swiftly flowing water, yet it
seemed as if the water was standing still while the small sandbank
rushed up the river at a terrific pace.

The Lama again started off with his mule into the water, but he had not
gone many steps before the water rose to the root of the animal's tail.
He was also leading the mule which carried our two hide trunks, which
until the water soaked into them acted like corks. In this way the mule
lost her footing on the bottom of the river, swung round, and was
quickly carried down-stream. We saw her disappear in the rain and
thought that it was certainly her last journey, but she extricated
herself in a marvellous manner. Near the left bank of the river she
managed to get her hoofs on the bottom again, and clambered up; and what
was most singular, the two trunks were still on her back.

At length we all got safely across, and rode on. My boots squelched, and
water dropped from the corners of the boxes. Our camp that evening was
truly wretched--not a dry stitch on us, continuous rain, almost
impossible to make a fire. At length, however, we succeeded in keeping
alight a small smoking fire of dung. That night I did not keep watch a
minute after midnight, but waked up Shagdur mercilessly and crept into
bed.

On August 2 we made only fifteen and a half miles. The road was now
broad and easy to follow. On the slope of a hill was encamped a large
tea caravan; its twenty-five men were sitting round their fires, while
the three hundred yaks were grazing close at hand. The bales of tea were
stacked up in huge piles; it was Chinese tea of poor quality compressed
into cakes like bricks, and therefore called "brick-tea." Every cake is
wrapped in red paper, and about twenty cakes are sewed up together into
a hide tightly bound with rope. The caravan was bound for Shigatse. As
we rode by, several of the men came up to us and put some impertinent
and inconvenient questions. They were well armed and looked like
robbers, so we politely refused their proposal that we should travel
together southwards. We pitched our camp a little farther on, and next
morning we saw this curious and singular caravan pass by. It was a great
contrast to the fine camel caravans of Persia and Turkestan, for it
marched like a regiment in separate detachments of thirty or forty yaks
each. The men walked, whistling and uttering short sharp cries; ten of
them carried guns slung on their backs, and all were bareheaded,
sunburnt, and dirty.

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