We left the concrete tents immediately and took a room in town where our two friends were staying with their families. They were returning to Machu the next day and had promised us a lift. The upstairs rooms overlooked the street, providing an interesting perspective on the scurrying life beneath the smeared window. Ours was a simple room with a linoleum floor, three single beds with cleanish sheets and pillows stuffed with what appeared to be sand. On the wall was a mirror, and underneath the window, a table. A bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling and an old-fashioned washstand, containing a tin bowl, stood sentry by the door.
In the courtyard lurked the public toilet; its putrid stench provoked convulsive retching at a distance of ten yards. It was becoming clear to me that, for all their striving for development, public sanitation was not high on the Chinese list for improvement. In fact, I had not been aware of a drainage system since leaving Lanzhou. Obviously the Tibetans had got it right: wandering off inconspicuously into a field had its merits.
We joined Sortsay, Tsorsungchab and their families in a room down the hallway. They had just got back from the Tibetan hospital across the road. It was my first time in the company of Tibetan townswomen, who were quite different from the nomad women. These women's appearance owed more to Chinese dress sense. Sortsay's wife, Dolma, sat on the bed looking pale and ill. She wore black polyester trousers, a white patterned blouse under a pink cardigan and a large gold ring. On her feet were high-heeled black shoes, and her long hair was woven into one thick plait, not two tied at the bottom, as the nomads wore it. She smiled weakly at me, then scolded her eight-year-old son, Tenzin, as he hit her knee with a small plastic gun. Meanwhile Tsorsungchab's wife, Tashintso, who needed treatment for a blood disorder, sat on a chair splitting melon seeds between her teeth and spitting the husks into a plastic bucket. She was beautiful, with a soft face and large, slightly drooping eyes, and was dressed in a similar fashion to Dolma. She had a curious indigo tattoo on her left hand: a series of dots in a circle. I wondered whether it related to some form of treatment or if it was a symbol of something. In the corner of the room sat Sortsay's mother, who was a true nomad and was dressed accordingly in her tsarer and jewellery. She seemed incongruous in this setting and was the only reminder that, despite these families' adoption of modern dress and all the trappings of 'civilisation', they were nomads, who had been born in tents.
It began to rain outside, the first drops heavy. The air was cooling after days of scorching heat. We sat in the crowded room and the smoke from the Chinese cigarettes hung torpidly in the fug. I was feeling a bit alienated. With Mum and Dad gone, I was beginning to grasp that Tsedup was the only person with whom I could communicate effectively. I wanted desperately to be able to talk to these women, but they seemed as embarrassed as I was to initiate a conversation, which would inevitably grind to an abrupt halt after the first sentence. We just giggled as Tsedup attempted to start things off by teasing Tashintso and trying to make her talk to me. I hoped they liked me. Perhaps they thought I was strange. I felt as if I was under a microscope.
The atmosphere lifted, however, when Tashintso's four-year-old son, Lhamochab, who had inherited the lovely brown eyes of his mother, was cajoled into performing a dance for us in the centre of the room. He was the most cherubic-looking child you could imagine, with a cheeky plump face and a quizzical smile. He strutted around, flailing his arms, in his bright yellow and black striped jumper, like a distressed bee, while singing at the top of his voice the words of the only Tibetan song he knew:' Ah latze, ah latze, ahhh latze, ah latze, ah latze, ahh latze.…' Needless to say, it was somewhat repetitive, but had the whole room in uproar. Lhamochab was pleased with his new-found fame and spun round and round, until Tenzin poked him in the eye and it was curtains for the show. He sat grizzling on his mother's lap as Tenzin gloated, then ran out of the door screeching. His parents were obviously used to such behaviour for they made no attempt to discipline him. Dolma continued to smile weakly and Sortsay chuckled and smoked some more.
That evening I sampled my first karaoke. We had all dined on broth, cooked by a young Muslim man over the open fire at his street stall, under a plastic awning out of the drizzle. We slurped in unison from the clay pots that contained various ingredients, such as furry, tentacled stomach, which I ignored. Then we went back to our hotel and up the steep staircase at the other side of the courtyard to a glass-fronted room. Inside was a dimly lit bar with Formica tables and chairs and a dance-floor. A Chinese man sat at a table fiddling with the knobs on the karaoke machine, which winked synchronised neon blue lights out of the darkness, while the barmaid leant lethargically over the counter. The only customer so far was an inebriated Chinese man talking to himself by the wall. From the ceiling hung coloured lights, flashing brazenly like a school disco, and an enormous television screen that was belting out Chinese pop music. On the screen a bikini-clad girl wandered around a park, followed by a cameraman, who was wasting no time with his zoom lens. Sex on TV is censored in China, but there seemed to be an awful lot of sublimation going on. Karaoke is big in China, and even in remote parts, the locals take it seriously.
As the men fetched some drinks and we sat down at a table, the barmaid came to life. She took the microphone stand and began howling in a pseudo-operatic whine. She was loving it. Tashintso looked at me, attempting to suppress her mirth, but we burst into fits of giggles that were drowned, none the less, by the cacophony. The men joined us and we sipped our drinks and surveyed the menu of songs. I was lucky: there was nothing in English, so I would not have to humiliate myself. But I was soon invited to dance, and reluctantly joined Sortsay on the floor for a quick turn. He was remarkably gentlemanly and guided me in some kind of waltz to the strains of a love song, singing along to the words. I struggled not to stand on his feet as I wrestled with the intricacies of the steps and he smiled encouragingly. This was a world away from a club night in the West End, not that I was ever a fervent party-goer. Soon everyone took their turn at the mike, and their familiarity with Chinese popular culture became evident in that they knew every word and inflection to every song. The best songs were those about Tibet, in Chinese, of course, but sung to evocative images of nomadic life on the video screen: yaks and sheep, festivals and horse-racing, dancing and monks.
The inevitable happened later. The song list changed and I found myself with no excuse to avoid singing an English song. I stood blushing under the glitterball that rotated in the disco lights and trembled my way through the Beatles' 'Yesterday', as the drunk man shimmied around in his blue Mao suit and cap, splashing beer over the lino. When I finished the whole room cheered and clapped, and I have to say that in some strange way I found the experience quite liberating, if surreal.
When we returned to our room, bleary-eyed and a little the worse for beer, someone was in one of the beds. Aka Tenzin had found his way in and was snoring in the lamplight. I guessed he fancied a change from the monastery. I felt most uncomfortable with the idea of undressing in front of a monk, so climbed into my bed on the other side of the room fully clothed as Tsedup woke him to chat. I fell asleep to the rise and fall of their voices and the barmaid's final song.
The next morning we left in another Beijing jeep, as Aka Tenzin waved from the noodle shop where we had breakfasted. I sat in the back with Tsorsungchab and Tashintso, who held Lhamochab on her knee. Tsedup sat in the front next to the driver as he was prone to travel sickness. It wasn't him that we had to worry about this time, however; we had gone only fifty yards when Lhamochab was sick over his father's legs. Many Tibetans are not used to motorised vehicles, especially the nomads who traditionally prefer the horse if they have any distance to travel, but for these townsfolk the vibration of the engine, the smell of the petrol and the sense of claustrophobia were an unfamiliar hazard. Tsorsungchab did not drive because of the car crash that had damaged his eyesight. When he took off his dark glasses to wipe his weeping eye I saw the two-inch scar that ran beneath it. He told me, quite cheerily, that beer had caused the crash and ruined his sight. Now he didn't drink.
We had been five hours on the road and the weather was inclement. An all too familiar English grey had dissolved the sky, and I searched the smudged landscape through the steamy windows for signs of home: a curve of a mountain, the sweep of the grassland that fell from the Wild Yak range. I had missed my surrogate family and the tribe. The few days of drifting in Labrang had left me feeling displaced and I craved a sense of being rooted. I had never been much of a pioneer; too much a suburban girl at heart. However, now that his role as tour guide was officially over, Tsedup was desperate to return to Machu town to be reunited with his friends. He still hadn't seen many and was as keen to make contact with them as he had been to meet his family again.
First, though, we went to Tashintso's house. It transpired that she and Tsorsungchab also had a daughter, Tsepharchab, who must have been about eight and had been staying with her grandmother while they were in Labrang. She burst into tears as soon as she saw her parents and clung to them, in her yellow dress and pink socks, as we got out of the stuffy car. Their house was in the heart of the town, among the sprawl of concrete dwellings and courtyards divided by a grid of narrow alleyways and high walls. They unlocked their metal gate and we made our way into the courtyard, up the little path, past the tap -a much-coveted item – and round to the back of a shambles of outbuildings. In front of a red-brick inner courtyard was a gaily painted house with a conservatory of fashionable blue glass displaying potted plants. We sat at the table under the glass roof and Tashintso brought us some beer.
They had just finished building the house. It was simple, with a lounge area and two bedrooms all with wooden floors. In the front room sat two armchairs, a coffee table, wardrobe and dresser with silk flowers and a clock on it; otherwise the room was bare. The bedrooms contained only a bed with a neatly folded shiny pink quilt and a small cupboard. The house looked as if they had never set foot inside it.
The outbuilding crouching opposite in the yard was their real home and had been for years. It consisted of a parlour, with an electric cooker and glass-fronted cupboards, a bedroom with a small stove and television, and a back room for eating and for the children to sleep in. Its walls were decorated with newspaper but it was clear that Tashintso and Tsorsungchab had all the mod cons – except a fridge; that was the ultimate goal. If you had a fridge, you were someone. Tashintso's brother had a fridge; one day she would have one.
As we sat and drank our beer, Tsorsungchab busied himself. Something trilled shrilly from under the table and I was astonished to see that he had a mobile phone, which he answered proudly. I could see that he was fond of gadgetry – a land-line telephone sat on a small table in the corner, covered by a handkerchief to protect it from dust. Whether the calls were work-related or not was difficult to say. He looked important anyway, as he puffed on his cigarette and grunted loudly and repeatedly into the mouthpiece, 'Ah… Ah… Ah …' meaning 'what'. He seemed oblivious of anyone speaking to him, for the whats continued for some time before he settled into a rhythmic and repetitive boom of 'Oh… oh… oh.…' meaning 'yes'. Whoever was struggling to get a word in gave up after a short time and Tsorsungchab turned off the phone without saying goodbye. Amdowas don't say goodbye, they just say, 'Da de chi roi,' which means, 'OK, that's it.' I laughed eventually as his monosyllabic retorts seemed to be the only thing he was uttering and he laughed heartily back. 'Shermo, drink beer!' he cried, flicking ash into the green china ashtray. I was as much a source of humour to him as he was to me.
Tashintso busied herself with the children and unpacking. Lhamochab was turning circles on his tricycle in the yard, while his sister grizzled on the flower-bed wall. She had been abandoned and was not going to let her parents forget it. Her mother cooed comfortingly as she simultaneously swept the floor, put away the clothes and chatted animatedly with Tsedup and her husband.
'Tashintso is a policewoman,' Tsedup told me. I don't know why, but for some reason I found this difficult to believe. In my limited understanding of local authority and the machinations of this alien society, it seemed inconceivable that a Tibetan man could be a policeman, let alone a Tibetan woman, but I suppose this was Communist China, and women were just as likely as men to occupy positions of authority.
Tsedup pointed to a green uniform, which hung on a peg by the door. 'Look. That is her uniform.' She was indeed a woman of the law. Paranoia kicked in. Perhaps she was watching us. We should be careful. As if he was reading my mind, Tsedup explained, 'Tashintso is going to help us. She says she will arrange for us to meet the local police sergeant soon. He will want to have an interview with me.' Perhaps it would be a good thing to have a friend in the police station after all, but the thought of an interview made me shudder.
The next day as I was brushing my teeth in a tin bowl in the sunny yard a familiar figure appeared. He wandered around the edge of the outbuilding and said, 'Hello, Kate.'
I was so shocked to hear a Tibetan speaking English that I nearly choked. He looked older, but it was unmistakably Tsempel. He had been a great friend of Tsedup's in India when we had first met, but had returned to Tibet soon after I left for England. I had not seen him for five years. His front teeth were chipped now from splitting melon seeds and around his eyes were deep lines I didn't remember. He was thin and slightly stooping, with an apologetic air, and he spoke calmly and quietly in a low, husky voice.
'Arro, Tsempel. Cho demo?' I asked, as we shook hands firmly.
He replied in English again, 'I'm happy to see you.'
I ran to the bedroom to wake Tsedup and he sprang out of bed. The two embraced warmly in a blurt of excited dialect, and it struck me, as I looked at them together, how much time had passed. It seemed now almost as if they were from two different worlds. Except, as with all the other reunions I had witnessed, there was an immediate connection between them. It didn't need to be spoken; they were like brothers. Whatever they had experienced, whichever path they had chosen, they were essentially the same. They were 'Amdo boys', and that, I had learnt, was a phenomenon unto itself.
The clarity of the concept is derived from the exiled community in India, which is split into the three regions of Tibet: Kham, Amdo and the Tibetan Autonomous Region, (TAR) with those who have been born in exile. For the most part they live harmoniously, but certain hostilities and prejudices exist. For a start they all speak different dialects. The majority, who are from the TAR or who were born in India, do not understand the regional dialects of Amdo and Kham, and it is the responsibility of the latter to learn the dialect spoken by the TAR. Meanwhile the Amdowas and the Khampas always stick together in their regional groups, like small tribes. They are from farther away and as most of them have left their families behind, the young men are freer than the others to express themselves and take advantage of their new-found freedom. When I met Tsedup, he shared a tiny cell-like room with seven other Amdo boys where they baked bread to sell on the street. They relied on each other for everything and an even greater bond existed between them than when they were in Tibet. The ' Lhasa boys' are often afraid of the Amdowas who, like their Khampa neighbours, have a reputation for brutality in fights. The Amdowas are often made to feel coarse and crude by the older Lhasa Tibetans especially, being 'countryfolk'. But they are also revered generally for their dominance of Tibetan literature and music, of which Amdo is the heartland.
The average Amdo boy is fiercely loyal and would die for his friend. He conducts himself with something verging on medieval gallantry. He is brutally honest, so candid, in fact, that he does not understand the meaning of tact. If you are fat he will say so. If there is a dispute to be had, there is no subtle sidestepping: the cards are always on the table. The 'civilised' world would describe it as naivete and it was the source of much miscommunication in the early days of Tsedup's and my relationship. I had not realised the levels of cunning to which we westerners aspire. A complicated combination of emotional bribery and evasive action had always worked for me. Now things were different. The Amdo boy is also proud; he does not display the arrogance of the foolish but has a genuine sense of identity and belief in self that comes from being a member of a tribe. He is often contemplative, and it is, presumably, the vastness of the grasslands that has prepared him for his lateral observation of life. But the Amdo boy is also mad, with a wild sense of humour, and is full of teasing tricks, which prevents him from appearing too dour. When the jokes are over, the Amdo boy is, above all, sincere. I had never heard anything as sincere as my husband's first words of love.
Tsedup and Tsempel stood giggling in the early heat. Tsempel wanted us to come to their friend Rabtan's house, so we thanked Tashintso for her hospitality and watched as she swung her leg over the saddle and cycled off down the alleyway in her uniform and oversized officer's cap. She called after us to stay whenever we liked; we were always welcome. Tsorsungchab was still in bed and the children were at school so we went off down the dusty track of dried mud. Rabtan was another friend from India, one of the seven who had shared the tiny house. Today he lived with his wife and baby in one of the houses close by, in the network of alleyways.
We arrived outside an orange wooden door in a wall and Tsempel pushed the bell. It rang somewhere within and an electronic voice announced our arrival in Chinese. The door opened, and another familiar face presented itself. 'Hello!' Rabtan exclaimed joyously, as he popped his cigarette back between his lips to free his hands and threw his arms around Tsedup.
Rabtan was not your average Amdo boy: with a nose for business and a finger in every pie, he had wised up to the idea that to get on you had to know Chinese, and although he didn't have a job – he had given up his shop which he found unprofitable – he was a seasoned wheeler-dealer. Judging from his house, he was doing all right. He led us into a small concrete courtyard past several outbuildings, sauntering like a hood from the Bronx. He bowled along in his tracksuit bottoms, letting his weight rest on one leg for longer than the other as if he had a limp; but it was done smoothly and consciously. An enormous holstered knife bounced threateningly on his hip; the last vestige of his nomadic costume. He touched it sporadically to remind himself it was there; one never knew when it would be needed. He was always ready either to defend himself or cut up a sausage. A beautiful young woman stood at the entrance to their blue-glass conservatory, smiling shyly. She wore dungarees and a red T-shirt, with long black hair tied in a ponytail at her neck and some gold jewellery. A tiny boy, who was a miniature replica of his father, clutched her leg and looked up at me in astonishment.
They had been expecting us, and the smell of steaming momos and tart chilli teased our nostrils. We were seated around a table inside the cool of their lounge on a leather-upholstered sofa. The room was flagged with tiles and had an iron stove against the wall, which sported colourful posters of galloping horses and a pop star. Beneath the pictures was a row of lacquered cupboards and a dresser with a large mirror, on which stood several black and white photographs of Rabtan, in which his moustache was more prominent and his hair was longer and hung loose over his shoulders. There was a TV and a sophisticated stereo system in a black glass cupboard. But the most startling piece of décor was a yak's skull, which hung on the wall like a hunting trophy. It stared down at us with glowing eyes, since Rabtan had placed a lightbulb in each eye socket. Chains hung about its horns. It was macabre, but Rabtan was proud of his artistry and asked me what I thought of it. 'It's nice,' I replied, noncommittally, with typical western deceit. He smiled wryly. He was used to westerners.
Rinchen, his ever-attentive wife, fussed and scurried from parlour to table, bringing dish upon dish of fried, steamed and boiled food. My offer of assistance was firmly refused, and I had to remain seated as she took orders from her husband, who occasionally barked a little too vehemently for this or that. He had tasted the world outside, but here he was a true Amdo husband. I withheld my prejudice: it was not my place to judge the roles that each member of this family played. However, a degree of mutual respect was a prerequisite of marriage, as far as I was concerned, and being barked at was something that had never worked with me. Rinchen was little more than a girl. When Rabtan had returned from India, his mother, who was old and infirm, begged him to stay as she had few children and her husband was dead. She wanted him to marry and stay with her in Machu, and she made him promise he would. Rinchen was selected as a match by their respective families, a schoolgirl at the time. Her older brothers insisted that she complete her education before the marriage so Rabtan had to wait for her. As he carefully poured our tea, his shirtsleeve lifted and a tattoo of her name in English was exposed on his arm. Rabtan showed a trace of honour.
Half-way through the copious meal the doorbell rang and the Chinese voice announced another guest's arrival. It was Nawang, a relative of Tsedup. His brother, Tsering Samdup, was married to Tsedup's sister Dombie. The Tibetan family tree is a vast and convoluted mesh of branches and sub-branches and I became more confused the more relations we met. I could pinpoint Nawang, however: this piece of genealogy was just about comprehensible and I was pleased with myself. Nawang had also been one of the magnificent seven who had shared the cell and baked bread in India. He approached us clumsily in black army boots and a bomber jacket. His long curly hair was tied back and his moustache etched out a permanent grin that sent his small eyes deeper into the crease of his brow until they were little more than two black buttons. If Tsempel was the gentle one and Rabtan was the wheeler-dealer, Nawang was the clown. He stood before us laughing as Tsedup teased him. Another friend was embraced and another round of beers were clinked together and downed. 'Shabda!' they cried in unison, then began the long recounting of shared memories.
Many hours later I climbed alone into Rabtan and Rinchen's bed. They wouldn't hear of Tsedup and me sleeping on the sofa and after much protestation I had accepted their generous offer and settled down beneath another pink shiny quilt.
'Nanka a nyee hdar jig n'jowjer,' Rinchen said, as she tucked me in. I didn't understand anything but nanka, meaning 'tomorrow', so she mimicked the action of riding a horse. As she turned out the light I smiled. Was I going riding with her tomorrow? I had only been on a horse once and had been completely out of control. I prayed that I would be saved from this humiliation as, in the next room, the Amdo boys slapped backs and broke into drunken song.
Thankfully my fears were allayed. As we woke and breakfasted on soft-baked bread and broth, Tsedup told me that we were going to watch the annual horse-racing. Today my equestrian skills were not required. Rinchen was dressed in her tsarer and coral necklace especially for the occasion and looked splendid. Tashi Thondup, their diminutive son, was sporting his baseball cap and matching jacket. He sat on his own tiny chair by the stove in his knitted split-crotch trousers, chewing a piece of bread and staring at me. He still hadn't worked out what I was.
Tsedup's younger brother Gondo arrived, in full nomad attire, on his motorbike. He gave it one last rev as he pulled up in the yard in his sheepskin tsarer and sunglasses, a cigarette dangling from his lips and his hair dishevelled. He had heard we were here and offered to ferry us to the grassland nearby for the races. Nawang also had a bike, so between them our lifts were secured. Bikes were the new thing and the young nomad men had converted from four legs to two wheels for getting around. I was amazed that biker chic was cross-cultural. With no access to the film Easy Rider, the boys had emulated the certain something that had given Dennis Hopper his ticket to Coolville. For they were cool, of that there was no doubt.
But despite the gradual 'civilisation' of the nomads, in terms of transport at least, horses were still their passion. As we rode out across the flat grassland from the town, I could see a large crowd assembling along the bank at the side of the track. Tsedup and I sat among them and waited for the others to arrive. Around us, men, women and children had settled in groups and were picnicking together. Old men cradled babies and young men huddled in their gangs smoking silver pipes. Among the mingling crowd were about fifty horses, each with a boy in the saddle, some no older than twelve. Their steeds whinnied and chewed clover, their silver-studded bridles clinking like bunches of keys. The manes of some had been clipped and stood stiff and straight, like a monk's hat. The people chatted and the air of expectancy was broken only by the occasional bout of laughter or excited cry. A flock of sheep dallying on the track were dispersed by the sharp beep of a motorbike horn, as Gondo and Nawang arrived with Rabtan, Rinchen and Tashi Thondup.
On the other side of the track, the racecourse stretched out in a flat sprint from the town boundary, and the first group of jockeys were walking their horses down to the starting point. Among them I was delighted to see Tsedup's youngest brother, Gorbo, on his father's white stallion. Apparently the rest of the family had teased him for choosing that horse to race: it was too slow, they had said. Behind the jockeys, someone in a white Tilley hat was shouting orders. It was Amnye, and he appeared to be the master of ceremonies. I felt a curious mixture of pride, affection and amusement as I watched him officiating, pointing his wooden truncheon and yelling at any errant boys. His was a responsible role for today the boys were racing in the presence of a visiting lama, who would present the winner with a prize. The holy man and his entourage of monks had made an encampment on the hill adjacent to the racetrack and were watching the proceedings from a white tent.
Suddenly there was a commotion. The sky was filled with what sounded like an Apache war-cry as all the young men flicked their tongues and cried out in a primitive chorus. People moved closer to get a glimpse of the race, and we joined them on the lip of the bank. Tsedup stood beside me hollering at the top of his voice and I laughed. Women didn't do the war-cry thing, so I restrained myself. The horses that had assembled in the distance were now moving abreast in steady formation. Behind them, the backdrop of Machu town lay flat on the massive green plain, and the azure river meandered into the horizon. The horses were so far away that the thud of their hoofs was mute in the haze of blue, white and yellow flowers. A motorbike buzzed alongside them on the mud track, and the shouting increased as they got closer to the finishing line. I could see the small boys swinging their lassoes above their heads in great arcs and flicking the horses' hindquarters. Some were bareback. But Gorbo was in front. My heart thumped in my chest. Come on, Gorbo. You can do it! 'Yahoo!' I cried, like the embarrassing sister-in-law I so obviously was. But I didn't care. Gorbo was going to win and as he crossed the line he looked magnificent. Everyone cheered as the horses slowed, and the barefoot older boys ran to catch them in the sweat and nerves of the post-race wind-down. 'Che, che, che, che, che …' they shushed, as someone threw coloured ribbons around Amnye's slow horse. Gorbo had been right.
But this was only the first heat and there would be no lama's prize for him that day. Race followed race and the white horse got tired. Gorbo had had his one taste of glory. A small boy riding bareback won the final and, to the applause of the onlookers, Amnye escorted him to the lama's tent for the prize-giving. It was amazing to have seen the young boys handling horses with ease, and as I looked at Gorbo, I found myself imagining how Tsedup would have been when he was a young nomad child. Each one of his brothers and sisters had had a horse and could ride before they could walk; it was second nature to them. He had once been wild and free, laughing and galloping in the grassland. How could my childhood compare with that? And how much of that wildness and freedom of spirit would return to him on this trip I had no idea. He was a man now, and so much had changed in his life, but I couldn't help feeling, and hoping, that there would be an awakening in him.
We said goodbye to Rabtan and his family and went with Gondo up to the lama's encampment. Several white tents were arranged in a circle on the hill and Tsedup's tribe had their own. The yaks and horses grazed lazily beneath the rocky peaks of the mountains and the clouds made shadow patterns on the golden-tipped grass. A nomad woman played with her children in the afternoon heat, and the young men and monks had set up a volleyball net and were involved in a tournament. Tsedup's father joined us at the tent, where piles of meat and offal were laid out on a plastic sheet inside, ready for feasting, should anyone fancy it. Tsedup's brothers, Tsedo and Gondo, sat in their tsarers, smoking an enormous pipe made from antelope horn, decorated with patterned silver from ten melted coins and encrusted with coral and turquoise. They puffed expertly and spat the last chip of hot tobacco into the fire. They had bought the pipe for Tsedup to take home to England and it was a most beautiful object. I imagined Tsedup lounging around in his slippers watching TV and puffing on it. That was an incongruous image.
It was hot in the tent so I decided to go and watch the volleyball. No sooner had I sat down among the scattering of onlookers than the young nomad children who had previously been engaged with the match found something better to stare at. I was suddenly surrounded by urchins whose eyes were glued to my every move. If I spoke to them they hid behind each other, especially the older ones, who lost the power of speech when addressed. I really was an extra-terrestrial: I was not of their earth. Then one of Tsedup's friends joined me and I recognised him as one of the boys who had collected us from the airport. He had been the one with exquisitely polished shoes. It was peculiar how that detail had remained in my mind from the chaos and emotion of that day. I welcomed the company, especially the cold beer he proffered; but should I drink it and risk appearing more bizarre than before to these kids? I decided I was trying too hard to please – they were only children after all. I sipped from the icy bottle as they giggled uncontrollably. Suddenly I was tired of being a spectacle and I felt a new sympathy for hounded Hollywood stars. In Labrang it had been different, with so many tourists around. Back in Machu, where I was the only white person, I was conspicuous. It would take a lot of getting used to. But I comforted myself with the thought that this was a small place. Soon everyone would know me and I wouldn't be such an oddity. I just had to give it time. I really did think that would be the case. I had no idea.
As the evening sun stretched our shadows over the grass-stalks, we left the lama's encampment for the tribe. After the confines of the town I was thrilled at the prospect of living in the grassland again. There, I could just be Namma and would have a home. Speeding through the undulating grassland on the back of the bike under the infinite dome of the blue sky, I felt the wind in my hair and the falling sun on my face, and the sense of space that filled me was overwhelming. I might not have had the wildness of a young nomad jockey, but right then, inspired only by the vast emptiness of this grand spectacle of nature, I felt a freedom of spirit unequalled in my life.