Namma

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 ru

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-wi

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 A

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 stu

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 fu

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 ru