Namma

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.