bi, where it crosses the stream. After
crossing the bridge, a mile of almost level ground takes one into Chumbi
camp. I reached Chumbi on the evening of January 12, and was able to
send the _Daily Mail_ the first cable from Tibet, having completed the
journey from Darjeeling in two days' hard riding.

The camp lies in a shallow basin in the hills, and is flanked by brown
fir-clad hills which rise some 1,500 feet above the river-bed, and
preclude a view of the mountains on all sides. The situation is by no
means the best from the view of comfort, but strategic reasons make it
necessary, for if the camp were pitched half a mile further up the
valley, the gorge of the stream which debouches into the Ammo River to
the north of Chumbi would give the Tibetans an opportunity of attacking
us in the rear. Despite the protection of almost Arctic clothing, one
shivers until the sun rises over the eastern hill at ten o'clock, and
shivers again when it sinks behind the opposite one at three. Icy winds
sweep the valley, and hurricanes of dust invade one's tent. Against this
cold one clothes one's self in flannel vest and shirt, sweater,
flannel-lined coat, poshteen or Cashmere sheepskin, wool-lined Gilgit
boots, and fur or woollen cap with flaps meeting under the chin. The
general effect is barbaric and picturesque. In after-days the trimness
of a military club may recall the scene--officers clad in
gold-embroidered poshteen, yellow boots, and fur caps, bearded like
wild Kerghizes, and huddling round the camp fire in this black
cauldron-like valley under the stars.

Officers are settling down in Chumbi as comfortably as possible for
winter quarters. Primitive dens have been dug out of the ground, walled
up with boulders, and roofed in with green fir-branches. In some cases a
natural rock affords a whole wall. The den where I am now writing is
warmed by a cheerful pinewood blaze, a luxury after the _angeiti_ in
one's tent. I write at an operating-table after a dinner of minal
(pheasant) and yak's heart. A gramophone is dinning in my ears. It is
destined, I hope, to resound in the palace of Potala, where the Dalai
Lama and his suite may wonder what heathen ritual is accompanied by 'A
jovial monk am I,' and 'Her golden hair was hanging down her back.'

Both at home and in India one hears the Tibet Mission spoken of
enviously as a picnic. There is an idea of an encampment in a smiling
valley, and easy marches towards the mysterious cit