It wasn't an echo, but a snorting and snuffling that woke me the next day. A yak was licking the side of the tent, its tongue rasping against the coarse canvas. I beat the moist imprint of its muzzle with the back of my hand shouting, 'Sshtoo!' as I had been taught and it thundered away with a snap of the guy rope that continued to vibrate in a dizzying drone. I lay for a few moments, feeling the warmth of our bodies, watching my spiralling breath. Then, pulling my sheepskin tsarer loosely around me, I stood up on the damp grass and shucked on my shoes. It was six a.m. and nature was calling.
Outside was silent, apart from the odd sheep bleat and yak grunt. I crouched, shivering, in the frosted grass by the stream's bank and watched dawn laying down her palette of rose, peach and gold, the low cloud suspended over the Yellow river. It was a rare moment: there was no one but myself and the animals in sight. Behind me our flock of sheep lay sleeping in a large orderly circle on the grass. They were nothing like the sheep I was used to, more like goats, lithe and leggy for scaling the mountain slopes in winter, with thin snouts and long, twisted horns. Their summer fleece was dense and thick shanks of winter wool hung from their sides. Even their bleating was different, a comical refrain, like a man pretending to be a sheep, we decided. Beyond them, the yaks and their calves lay drowsily pegged to the ground in rows, shifting in their churned-up mud-bed. They were hardy beasts, incapable of surviving at low altitude, but perfectly equipped for life on the plateau and its harsh environment. But I knew nothing of that harshness: I had tasted only the balmy summer of stark light, cold nights and sharp morning frosts. The odd day had found us huddled round the fire in the tent as the rain lashed wildly and dripped through the sooty fabric, but I had not yet felt the thrust of a chest-thumping gale. That was to come.
I stood staring up at the platinum moon, heavy and perfect-round, like a medallion in the deep azure pool of the western sky. When I looked down again Shermo Donker was standing by the black tent. She didn't call to me, just smiled. However, she had little time to pause and admire as it was time for the first milking, and she bustled off towards the yaks in the laboured gait characteristic of nomad women, her gumboots scuffing through the wet grass. Rather guiltily, I bustled back to my bed, confident that I would be with her for the lunch-time milking. It wasn't as if anything was expected of me and the other women showed no resentment towards me for being different. In fact I was thoroughly spoilt, but I was keen to show willing. At a reasonable hour, of course.
But as I lay listening to her shouting to the children to get up, I felt a gulf between us. What was it like to belong to a place like this, as she did? It was impossible for me to know. I was too different and had seen too much of the world. Her vision and mine seemed irreconcilable and I tried to imagine what it would be like to share hers. She had been born into this tribe. Sometimes women or men married into other tribes, like Tsedup's brother Gondo and sister Dombie, but through marriage to Tsedo she had secured her future here. She had only left Machu to go to Labrang a few times, and as a child had joined her family on a pilgrimage to Lhasa, but apart from that she had never left this place. Generally nomad women do not leave the tribe much, as they are so busy with their chores. I wondered how it felt to live a life that, to me, seemed so predictable, in a place where you knew everybody. You knew your place. In some ways I was envious of her. The security and communality of this life was a far cry from the mutual isolation of the equally routine rat-race back home in London: the slow shuffling of aliens in an underground tunnel on the way to an office full of gossip, shrill laughter and telephones. It was a world away now.
I felt as if I was standing on the outside looking in. It wasn't just the way I looked that set me apart, it was the knowledge that they had grown and lived together all their lives. What was it like to be part of a tribe of people that you have known all your life? I supposed it might be claustrophobic, but they didn't think like that. For them the tribe meant comfort, safety, identity and stability. The more I thought about it, the more attractive it sounded. I resolved to try to bridge the gap between us by attempting to help more with the workload, before snuggling down again beneath the sheepskin.
Later when I emerged from the tent, the milking was over and Shermo Donker and her two daughters were bent double, spreading fresh dung on the ground. They used their bare hands, grabbing fistfuls of excrement, which they slapped on to the grass and smoothed out with their palms in a thin layer so that the sun could bake it to a crust. This was one job from which I was quite happy to abstain, but shit was fuel and fuel was life to them, and they rinsed their hands in the stream then came in for breakfast.
Inside the tent the family met around the clay fire, where a steaming pot of broth threatened to overflow as its tin lid danced up and down. It was customary for them to wait for Shermo Donker to finish her milking so that she could serve us our breakfast. But today there were complications to the smooth running of the family rota. Sanjay, her little boy, was wailing heartily due to some mishap and would not be comforted. He lay prone on the dirt floor, occasionally raising his matted head to gasp for air through a film of snot and tears, his protruding lower jaw jutting out rigid and determined. Amnye was cooing 'Babko, Baddo…' in his tender voice, reserved for the children. According to Tsedup he had a series of different names for them. He was an adoring grandfather and especially pampered Sanjay, who slept inside his tsarer with him most nights. But today Sanjay was having none of it.
Tsedo was simultaneously laughing at his son and attempting to suppress Sanjay's tears with a few of his own comforting words, though they were delivered somewhat gruffly. It was not common for a father to demonstrate his affection too much for his own child, that was left to the grandparents. Tsedo appeared redundant, embarrassed at his son's tantrum but amused, too, which I found a little cruel. He was a young man, two years Tsedup's senior, with unusually delicate features, a calm stare and an air of gentility, which was frequently punctured by bouts of wicked sarcasm and fits of rasping giggles. He looked older than his years, weatherbeaten and lined, skin scorched, hair tousled, and was incredibly clean for a nomad. He always had a new shirt on, and often glanced in the mirror. A formidable horseman, he had been the dashing prize-winner among the nomads in his earlier years, famed for his agility, with a history of shooting targets from the saddle and plucking flowers from the ground with his teeth while galloping. A nomad girl's dream.
His wife threw him nervous glances from her side of the tent. It was time to defuse the situation. She scurried round to the men's side, placed one hand firmly on her son's collar, the other on the waistband of his soiled trousers, and wrenched him perfunctorily from the floor, causing him to choke then renew his vocal assault. She carried him to the other side of the fire as Amnye urged her not to use such force, Tsedo swore and Annay, who had remained deferential up to that point, began to laugh her peculiarly girlish laugh. Then Shermo Donker lifted her blouse and pushed Sanjay's screaming mouth on to her shrivelled breast. She held his head there in her vice-like grip, as he kicked and resisted, then gradually he became limp, quietened and began to suck.
I knew that Tibetan mothers usually suckled their children for a year or two – but a six-year-old boy at his mother's breast! I was stunned and fiddled with some loose stitching on my shoe, while struggling with an astonishing sense of the impropriety of the act. I was amazed at the feeling that it aroused in me. I had always been a liberal sort of girl, hadn't I? Was it not the most natural form of comfort in the world for a child? These people clearly thought so.
When Sanjay had nursed long enough, he slunk, subdued, from his mother to his grandmother. She embraced him and I watched, astonished, as he lifted her shirt and nuzzled into her aged breast, sucking again. She smacked his head lazily and told him off, but her protest was weak and as she let out a long, contented sigh I could tell that she was happy with her maternal role.
When the last bowl had been licked clean, the men smoked awhile, the children ran off to play and Shermo Donker heaved the huge pot of the morning's milk on to the fire to boil. The daily milking process was central to the nomads' survival. From the milk they churned butter and made yoghurt and cheese. While the milk boiled Shermo Donker set up the turnkor, churn, comprised of various components, which had been dismantled and cleaned the day before. It was a wooden box with a metal basin on top and a metal funnel, containing rotating discs, with two spouts protruding from each side. On top of the funnel was a metal bowl into which the milk was poured and around it was tied a thin piece of muslin, to sieve the milk and trap yak hairs and grass. On the side of the box was a handle and when the milk had boiled Shermo Donker sat on the floor beside the churn, began to pour in the milk and turn the handle vigorously. As the milk passed over the rotating discs and was separated, the cream dripped in a thick stream from one spout into the metal basin and formed pools on top of yesterday's solid yellow butter. From the other spout the skimmed milk rained into a wooden pail at twice the speed and formed a moussy white froth on the surface. She had milked forty yaks that morning and, not surprisingly, after a short while her arm was aching with the effort of turning the handle. I offered to take over, much to everyone's delight and amusement, and took her place as she went off to some other task outside. I began earnestly turning the handle, a little faster than her at first to prove that I was capable.
Tsedo congratulated me. 'The Amdo namma knows how to do her work,' he called, over the whir of the machine.
But as soon as they had all resumed chattering I faltered with the effort of my task. It was a lot harder than I had thought it would be and soon my neck muscles had stiffened into a twingeing knot. Still I smiled and declined the offer of a rest from Tsedup's father. I had to show them I could do something. If dung-spreading wasn't on, then surely milk-churning was possible. I feigned ease and focused on some faraway mountain beyond the open tent door. This had to get easier. In a week I'd have it nailed.
When most of the milk had been separated, Shermo Donker poured the remainder of the cream into a bucket and covered it over with an old sheepskin. She placed it in a dark, cool corner of the tent where it would quickly ferment into yoghurt. She relieved me and praised me, and I rose to my feet as graciously as I could with pins and needles cascading through my legs. If I could have disguised the discomfort, I would have proved my worth. But I was unable to put a foot forward. I just stood resignedly right in her path, as she laboured under the weight of the huge pot of skimmed milk, which she wanted to place on the fire. I gestured to my feet and looked pleadingly at Tsedup for help with an explanation. As he spoke the whole tent burst into hysterics. I would have to be content for now with my role as the incompetent foreigner.
I left the cheese-making to her and breakfasted while she boiled up a pulp from the milk then strained it in a mesh bag. She crumbled the curds thinly on to a plastic sheet outside to dry in the sun, then poured the whey into a bucket for the tzorgin, half yak, half cow, who awaited this treat outside the tent each day. He was drinking it as Sirmo and I left to wash the clothes.
We walked to a stream in a valley between two mountains, she carrying the load in a wicker basket on her back. Then we sat in the sunshine and scrubbed in the warm flow of fresh water as she sang Tibetan songs in her sweet, husky voice. 'Yucka!’ I proclaimed. 'Beautiful.' As she laughed modestly, the tiny, silver chains on her earrings jangled on her shoulders. Then she urged me to sing an English song for her. This didn't feel as awkward as performing in front of the audience at the karaoke bar in Labrang, but I was running out of ideas for good tunes. It seemed so humiliating when the Tibetans had so many lovely folk songs. Most of the chart hits at my disposal would have been a bit too progressive for nomad ears. Progressive or downright ugly, I wasn't sure. I found a compromise in Simon and Garfunkel. Like the Beatles, they were the least offensive and most melodious examples of contemporary western music I could muster, and I remembered that Tsedup had liked them when I first met him in India. I sang the first lines of 'Kathy's Song'. The words, on the breeze of that wild land, appeared more and more uncannily inappropriate, since they were about rain drizzling on a house.
It was a scorching day and I hadn't lived under a roof for a while now. It was only when I got to the bit about England being where my heart lies that I became most acutely aware of the irony of my choice of song. Did my heart lie in England now? As I gazed at the rugged, infinite expanse of grassland and to the dizzy heights of the rocky mountains behind, I realised that I loved this place, and that these images would endure even when I was tramping the drizzly streets of London. I remembered when I was in London trying to imagine what it would be like to be in the vast spaces of Amdo. Would I feel small? Insignificant? Now I was here, I knew that there was a kind of symbiosis between man and nature and, rather than feeling excluded or exposed, I was simply part of the landscape, like the yaks.
Sirmo had become my closest friend. She was twenty-one and more adept than anyone else at interpreting my Tibetan. We were able to chatter away quite intimately together. She was different from the rest, more of a rebel, and although she performed her duties with all the strength and ability of the other women, there was something about her that suggested a reluctance to conform. It was because she had been to school. Like Tsedup before her, she had expressed a desire to be educated when she reached puberty; a rare thing for a nomad girl. She had been a good student but had only stayed at school for four years. I had heard Tsedup telling her off many times for leaving school so soon. He was an avid proponent of education, and he hadn't understood why she had left. However, she had been knifed, and the scar still showed on her arm. Amnye had been vague about the circumstances when he told Tsedup, but apparently a schoolboy had done it. She had never gone back after that. She had resolved to live the nomad life and be a good nomad woman, but I thought perhaps she was bored. It was only a guess, but sometimes I could see the thirst in her eyes. In the evenings, if Tsedup stayed in town and Dickir Che was sharing my bed, she came to our tent to tuck us in. She would sit by the candle and read Tsedup's Tibetan books until she was missed in the main tent, when she would rush back to her duties. The older women were always urging her to marry, but she was secretive about the affairs of her heart. I suspected there was somebody, though. She was quite a catch.
When we had finished wringing the clothes, we made our way back to the tent. She laboured under the weight of our sodden washing, which she insisted on carrying, even though she had damaged her back the day before trying to catch flowers in her teeth while on the back of a galloping yak. She had the exquisiteness of a princess and the guts of a spirited boy. I guess that's what I loved about her most. But I had yet to discover her true bravery. For now we paused in the long grass for a cloud of flies to settle on us, while she rested. She took my hand and stroked the skin of my arm. 'Yucka,' she said, then guided my fingers over her own callused forearm. The skin was tough and ingrained with dirt, the joints of her fingers swollen, their nails buckled and dented. They were working hands.
Back home the children and I hung the washing on the tent lines to dry. They were fascinated by my knickers, which they examined and shrieked at with amusement. It was the number that amazed them most. 'Eight pairs!' They giggled. I hadn't thought that eight pairs of knickers might be excessive for six months.
Then they started jumping around me shouting, 'Karee Ma, Karee Ma!' dragging me excitedly towards the yaks. It was lunch-time milking and White Face was waiting. This was to be a first. They guided me to my yak and sat me down on a tiny wooden milking stool at her side. Then Dickir Che gave me a quick demonstration, and the milk gushed out over her tiny hands. I hugged the side of that beast, whose stomach gurgled next to my ear, squeezing and pulling as instructed, then yanking and tweaking for greater effect, but somehow only a squirt fell into my pail. The children laughed and I persisted. I wasn't much of a milkmaid. Milking was a mystery. The night before last, Annay had wanted me to eat rice and milk so she led me to a yak while I carried her bucket. I was startled when she lifted its tail, matter-of-factly placed her mouth on its bottom and blew hard. Then she proceeded to milk. Even Tsedup could not tell me what that had all been about.
After a lunch of tsampa and yoghurt in the smoke-filled tent, we went to collect the dung. They showed me how to pile the crusty pieces into small mounds with a short rake and a brush of twigs. Then we filled the seeto, wicker baskets, and hoisted their string handles over our shoulders so that they sat on our backs. The women and the two little girls did this with ease, but I could barely lift mine. I was amazed at how heavy dung was. I was even more astonished at how strong the children were. I was no match for them. Bent double, we carried the baskets back to the tent and swung their contents on top of the dung heap in the corner. We continued backwards and forwards in this way until all of the grass around the tent was cleared of yesterday's dung. I was exhausted, but the heap in the tent looked impressively large. Annay would be pleased when she saw it later. A big dung pile was the sign of a good namma.
Later that evening I helped with my favourite job, tying up yaks. This was a battle of wills since these wild animals are loath to be tethered. I heaved at the rope around their necks, coaxing them on in my pidgin Tibetan, although English would probably have done just as well, dragging them through the mud towards the long rope pegged to the ground. A quick flick of a knot and each one was secure. At first I was given charge of the calves with the children – the family were afraid I might be gored by the adults' horns – but I had since graduated to dealing with a tonne of fully grown yak. The only thing I had to look out for was their hoofs. I had often been trampled on. I stood perspiring in the twilight, as the smoke from the tents ghosted gently through the regiments of grunting black beasts, and stared at the silent silhouette of the holy mountain behind our camp. This was the best time of day. The family would all assemble again soon. This woman's work was done.
Annay took my hand and led me to a convenient spot of grass and we squatted together in the moonlight. My dear mother-in-law didn't bat an eyelid as we sat farting together under the stars and, to be honest, I enjoyed the intimacy. As we walked back to the tent, the children's laughter drifted to us on the night air, with the clatter of cooking and the crackle of the transistor radio. A horse whinnied in the dusk-light and I heard a pained snort. A yak was sick with what looked like a festering leg. It was in obvious pain and couldn't move, but we were powerless to help it. I guessed its days were numbered. Today's lame yak was tomorrow's meat here. That was life.