Namma

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 Annay, Shermo Donker, Sirmo and I watched with the children as they made off across the grassland in a procession. The spear protruded from the throng as they disappeared over the brow of the hill into the low cloud.

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. Annay took my hand and led me back into the tent, chattering soothingly, using phrases she knew I would understand. I had not learnt much Amdo from Tsedup in our time together. Since his English was fluent, there had been little occasion to enter into extensive dialogue with him and he was a reluctant teacher. I knew a few basic words and these would have to do until I mastered the language. So far in Amdo, I had relied on Tsedup to translate for me. Now I was on my own. Annay sensed my discomfort at my inability to communicate effectively and did everything in her power to bridge the language divide. When she offered me tea she took an imaginary bowl in her hand and slurped enthusiastically from it. 'Namma, ja'n tong!' she implored with wide eyes, then laughed like a girl when I understood. She urged me to eat, made sure I was comfortable and pampered me. It would be easier than I thought to let Tsedup go and simply enjoy the women's company. To my surprise, once away from their menfolk they were chatty and bawdy. Where before they had remained demure and restrained, they now cackled like banshees and slapped their thighs as they went about their tasks in a more leisurely manner. Shermo Donker and Sirmo drew me into their confidence and teased me. 'Shermo, do you miss your husband?' they giggled.

'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 running from the black tent to join us she narrowed her eyes to angry slits and scolded with such ferocity that I was taken aback. When they tried to join in she shouted at them to leave us alone. She seemed to have adopted me and was not going to share me easily. I urged them all to cease their argument and we all made our way to the tent, in a babble of competitive chatter, 'Ajay Shermo, Ajay Shermo… Aunty, Aunty…', a girl clinging to each of my hands and Sanjay clutching my skirt.

That day I lay in the sun with Annay under the raised edge of the tent flap and spoke to her, as best I could, about what it had been like for Tsedup in England without his family. There was a lot of elaborate gesticulation but we managed. She told me that she had been very ill while he was away and that she had cried on most days for her son, not knowing what had happened to him. The worry had affected her health: her eyesight had deteriorated and she frequently complained of aches and pains. As I looked at her wizened face, watery green eyes tugged down at the corners and her wiry grey hair, I knew that his absence had aged her. I told her that Tsedup had always talked of them all, so much so that I felt as if I knew them without having met them. I had witnessed his suffering for years and now I was hearing what before I could only imagine she had felt.

Annay told me that now that she had met me and my parents she was happy for her son to return to his life in England, when it was time to go. I was touched by her ability to confide in me, immediately struck by the knowledge that, despite our cultural differences and my pathetic language skills, we had developed a bond. I was family. I was her namma.

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, grinning broadly at me. ‘I missed you,' he said. It was the only indication that he was not entirely the nomad he resembled. I was glad that our intimacy had not suffered in the face of normal macho behaviour – his brother, Tsedo, walked past Shermo Donker without so much as looking at her. In fact, our words were now like a special secret since no one could understand what we said.

When we were all settled inside, Tsedup produced the video camera he had taken with him and we all settled around its tiny screen to watch the film of their trip. Everyone was fascinated by the camera, but the women were particularly keen to watch; they had never been present at the ceremony that had taken place and clustered around the machine excitedly, awaiting their turn. The men, of course, saw it first.

The screen revealed their journey in miniature. First came the procession of hundreds of men on horseback to the offering site from their base-camp of white tents. They moved silently and ceremoniously through the summer flowers of the valley and alongside a rushing stream, the horses snorting, their bridles clinking in the sunshine. There were small boys, old men and young, some with hats on to protect them from the glare, some with rifles strapped to their backs. Many carried the ndashung with darchok, prayer flags, tied to the end, balancing the enormous lance across their laps or standing it upright in the saddle so that it pointed skyward. They formed an orderly line that snaked up the side of the mountain to the ridge of the offering site where the shogshung stood. The shogshung, or staff of life, marked the site of the mountain worship. It was the most important symbol of the mountain deities and its base had been buried in the ground along with hdir, treasure, sacred offerings to the earth contained in colourful cloth bags, which, at the time of their burial, were placed with extreme care in exactly the right position so as not to offend the gods. Against the main staff leant many ndashung, forming a tepee-like shape of spears, festooned with hundreds of prayer flags from years of offerings, tired and grey with exposure to the elements, flapping in the wind. Along the ridge stood another ten spears placed at intervals of about five paces, again covered in prayer flags. The men assembled beneath the shogshung and placed their own offerings of prayer flags in a pile on the ground before three monks. They sat quietly as the monks consecrated the offerings, purifying them before they