Namma

sheep I was used to, more like goats, lithe and leggy for scaling the mountain slopes in winter, with thin snouts and long, twisted horns. Their summer fleece was dense and thick shanks of winter wool hung from their sides. Even their bleating was different, a comical refrain, like a man pretending to be a sheep, we decided. Beyond them, the yaks and their calves lay drowsily pegged to the ground in rows, shifting in their churned-up mud-bed. They were hardy beasts, incapable of surviving at low altitude, but perfectly equipped for life on the plateau and its harsh environment. But I knew nothing of that harshness: I had tasted only the balmy summer of stark light, cold nights and sharp morning frosts. The odd day had found us huddled round the fire in the tent as the rain lashed wildly and dripped through the sooty fabric, but I had not yet felt the thrust of a chest-thumping gale. That was to come.

I stood staring up at the platinum moon, heavy and perfect-round, like a medallion in the deep azure pool of the western sky. When I looked down again Shermo Donker was standing by the black tent. She didn't call to me, just smiled. However, she had little time to pause and admire as it was time for the first milking, and she bustled off towards the yaks in the laboured gait characteristic of nomad women, her gumboots scuffing through the wet grass. Rather guiltily, I bustled back to my bed, confident that I would be with her for the lunch-time milking. It wasn't as if anything was expected of me and the other women showed no resentment towards me for being different. In fact I was thoroughly spoilt, but I was keen to show willing. At a reasonable hour, of course.

But as I lay listening to her shouting to the children to get up, I felt a gulf between us. What was it like to belong to a place like this, as she did? It was impossible for me to know. I was too different and had seen too much of the world. Her vision and mine seemed irreconcilable and I tried to imagine what it would be like to share hers. She had been born into this tribe. Sometimes women or men married into other tribes, like Tsedup's brother Gondo and sister Dombie, but through marriage to Tsedo she had secured her future here. She had only left Machu to go to Labrang a few times, and as a child had joined her family on a pilgrimage to Lhasa, but apart from that she had never left this place. Generally nomad women do not leave the tribe much, as they are so busy with their chores. I wondered how it felt to live a life that, to me, seemed so predictable, in a place where you knew everybody. You knew your place. In some ways I was envious of her. The security and communality of this life was a far cry from the mutual isolation of the equally routine rat-race back home in London: the slow shuffling of aliens in an underground tunnel on the way to an office full of gossip, shrill laughter and telephones. It was a world away now.

I felt as if I was standing on the outside looking in. It wasn't just the way I looked that set me apart, it was the knowledge that they had grown and lived together all their lives. What was it like to be part of a tribe of people that you have known all your life? I supposed it might be claustrophobic, but they didn't think like that. For them the tribe meant comfort, safety, identity and stability. The more I thought about it, the more attractive it sounded. I resolved to try to bridge the gap between us by attempting to help more with the workload, before snuggling down again beneath the sheepskin.

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 running of the family rota. Sanjay, her little boy, was wailing heartily due to some mishap and would not be comforted. He lay prone on the dirt floor, occasionally raising his matted head to gasp for air through a film of snot and tears, his protruding lower jaw jutting out rigid and determined. Amnye was cooing 'Babko, Baddo…' in his tender voice, reserved for the children. According to Tsedup he had a series of different names for them. He was an adoring grandfather and especially pampered Sanjay, who slept inside his tsarer with him most nights. But today Sanjay was having none of it.

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-winner among the nomads in his earlier years, famed for his agility, with a history of shooting targets from the saddle and plucking flowers from the ground with his teeth while galloping. A nomad girl's dream.

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 Annay, who had remained deferential up to that point, began to laugh her peculiarly girlish laugh. Then Shermo Donker lifted her blouse and pushed Sanjay's screaming mouth on to her shrivelled breast. She held his head there in her vice-like grip, as he kicked and resisted, then gradually he became limp, quietened and began to suck.

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 stunned and fiddled with some loose stitching on my shoe, while struggling with an astonishing sense of the impropriety of the act. I was amazed at the feeling that it aroused in me. I had always been a liberal sort of girl, hadn't I? Was it not the most natural form of comfort in the world for a child? These people clearly thought so.

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 funnel, containing rotating discs, with two spouts protruding from each side. On top of the funnel was a metal bowl into which the milk was poured and around it was tied a thin piece of muslin, to sieve the milk and trap yak hairs and grass. On the side of the box was a handle and when the milk had boiled Shermo Donker sat on the floor beside the churn, began to pour in the milk and turn the handle vigorously. As the milk passed over the rotating discs and was separated, the cream dripped in a thick stream from one spout into the metal basin and formed pools on top of yesterday's solid yellow butter. From the other spout the skimmed milk rained into a wooden pail at twice the speed and formed a moussy white froth on the surface. She had milked forty yaks that morning and, not surprisingly, after a short while her arm was aching with the effort of turning the handle. I offered to take over, much to everyone's delight and amusement, and took her place as she went off to some other task outside. I began earnestly turning the handle, a little faster than her at first to prove that I was capable.

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