Namma

I watched as the fat and blood were mixed with tsampa and a little meat in a huge cauldron. They cut the stomach lining into wide strips then proceeded to make a rich black pudding, spooning the mix on to the textured lining, rolling it up and sewing it together down its length with thick thread. These were then boiled too. The smell of the meat and blood and the thick odour from the floating tallow on the bubbling water filled my nostrils.

When the animal had been cooked, they hung the skin outside on the tent lines to dry and some strips of meat from the roof of the tent to smoke, a nomad delicacy. Then they ate a little while Shermo Donker prepared a saddle-bag full of tsampa, butter, fried barley, rice, jo – wheat husks – tea, milk and different pieces of fabric. These would be the offerings, gifts from the family to the holy mountain, representing their livelihood.

The rest of the male contingent from the tribe then arrived at our tent on horseback. Gurdo carried a ndashung, a wooden spear about six metres high, with a brightly painted flight. He looked like a medieval knight with his lance. The small boys chattered excitedly in the saddle, thrilled to be accompanying their fathers and grandfathers. Tsedup, Amnye, Tsedo, Gorbo and the rest of the men who had been helping with the sheep mounted their horses, and A

There had been no room for an embrace, not here. From what I had seen, men and women didn't display affection publicly. I made do with a lingering glance from Tsedup as he pulled his tsarer across his face and turned in the saddle. Without a doubt he fitted in. Despite his years away his face that morning was the face of a nomad, like his brothers': wind-whipped and wild-eyed.

This was to be my first time alone in the family. A

'No, I don't!' I exclaimed, and we all fell about laughing.

On the second day I was feeling more independent. I had spent the night in our white tent with Dickir Che, the oldest of Shermo Donker and Tsedo's girls. She had chattered animatedly to me as we lay drowsily in the dark and sang at the top of her voice when she woke. Unlike some of the young girls, whose voices rang out in a resounding tremolo, Dickir Che shouted her Amdo song like a military drill. It was a rude awakening, but she was happy and I was loath to silence her. She began the day by examining every item in my wash-bag, including a tampon, which I told her was for putting in your ears if they hurt. I immediately regretted telling her this. It would be just like her to catch an ear infection. Worse, she might recommend them to my father-in-law. Visions of Amnye walking round with strings dangling from his ears entertained me for a while.

It was becoming clear to me that privacy was a scarce commodity in the grassland. Usually my first lavatorial exercise of the day was most prized, since it was the only time when I could be alone in the riverbed. At all other times in the day I was accompanied by at least three other children, who had been instructed to follow me in case I got eaten by the dogs. But I was becoming more confident and was not afraid of them. Actually the children only wanted to get a glimpse of my white behind, but I knew their game and used my tsarer cleverly as a mini-tent, hoisted round my hips to avoid their eyes. The family were fascinated by my white skin and found it inconceivable that their own brown-nut colour was attractive. They laughed incredulously when I told them that people back home covered themselves in oil and lay virtually naked under the sun in order to look like them.

There was certainly no escaping Dickir Che that morning. She thoroughly inspected the contents of my rucksack and told me my clothes were too dull. 'You should wear pink, like Mother,' she instructed. Then she followed me to the riverbed, carrying my soap and towel like a diligent maidservant and watched me studiously as I washed, copying every action and laughing at me. The nomads thought my method of splashing water on my face strange – they scrubbed theirs with a soapy towel, a Chinese habit. But when Dickir Ziggy, Dickir Che's younger sister, and Sanjay, her tiny brother, came ru

That day I lay in the sun with A

A

On the third day the men returned from the holy mountain. At the sound of approaching horse hoofs we ran out of the tent to greet them, and Tsedup, his father and two brothers dismounted outside. The rest of the men in the tribe dispersed to their own family tents where the hues of their wives' bright shirts signalled each welcoming party. It was good to see Tsedup again. He had lost the slate shade that the English climate had given his skin and it shone like mahogany. His hair hung blue-black and tousled around his shoulders as he stood before me in his tsarer, gri