Namma

local influence in the form of governors, such as Tsedup's father, so a method of democratic demarcation was employed, in the same way that they had always organised their choice of settlement. They divided it up with dice.

In Tsedup's tribe they had thrown three dice to see who had the choice of land, and the size of each tract was decided according to population numbers. Their land encompassed the stretch from the valley to the north of Kula down to the Yellow river. They decided to divide the tribe in half. A natural split emerged, with certain families wanting to stay together. From that day the two halves would live separately and see little of each other. The original tribe had consisted of fifty families, and today twenty lived on our land to the south of Kula and the remainder with Namjher in the north. I thought it a tragic rift.

Tsedo and some of the other men from our half of the tribe had wanted the northern land, as it was deemed more sheltered and had better grass at the time. Where we were, on the flat grassland, the wind could sweep mercilessly down the river valley whipping up the topsoil of the overgrazed land and further eroding it. However, when we arrived at Namjher's half of the tribe it was clear that they were not doing so well. The valley was steep and heavily grazed, covered in heather and sparse areas of grass, which had dried up in the winter sunshine. It was beautiful with the snow-capped Kula rising majestically above us, but because of its northern aspect, it was also shady beneath the mountain slopes and in these dark shadows the temperatures were at zero and below. Ironically, this place had turned out to be the worst of the two sites, although Namjher's half of the tribe had chosen it.

They had already all moved into their winter houses and their dwellings were at various stages of comfort. Most were clay-built, with wooden roofs and brick floors, sparsely decorated, with newspaper displacing wallpaper and the odd picture of a Chinese pop star. We were greeted with warmth and hospitality by our hosts, most of whom were relations. Tsedup explained patiently who was related to whom and by what connection, but it was so hard to keep up with that I was soon lost. We had come with Aka Choedak, a monk who was a relative and who had also been in India. He was a cheerful soul, always laughing and chatting. He accompanied us to each dwelling – where we must have been offered about five hundred momos in all, and at every house a plate of djomdi, small brown beans dug from the earth, with rice, sugar and melted butter. When we reached the last house that day, we were forced to decline any further sustenance and sat sipping bowls of tea.

I had the greatest pleasure in meeting one relative who was tirelessly inquisitive about life in the West, staring intently with the smallest, most close-set eyes I have ever seen, exclaiming, 'hschuck chair! Scary, wow!' over and over as he listened to Tsedup's descriptions of routine things, such as trains that carried people under the ground. Tsedup spoke with authority about life in England. He sounded confident and settled and yet I knew that, deep down, he was neither back home. He still felt like a stranger. England hadn't matched up to his expectations and he had found it hard to forge a living there, but now we were in Amdo, I was glad that he sounded proud to be part of that life in the West, for it had rarely appeared so when we were there. I supposed that the grass was always greener on the other side of the fence.

That night I went to bed earlier than the rest of the throng, who carried on into the small hours. I was slightly overcome by the heat from the iron stove in Medo's tiny house and bewildered by the language barrier. I found it hard sometimes to appear attentive at these gatherings, as after a while of not understanding a conversation, my mind would wander. I retired to Namjher's house, and slept wrapped up in my tsarer next to Aka Choedak, who was snuggled up in his fuchsia robes. I had never slept in such close proximity to a monk before, and although we were separated by a low table in the middle of the platform, it felt sacrilegious.

In the morning Tsedup told me that I should have politely declined Namjher's offer of the platform to sleep on. All guests were treated as equals, but according to protocol, it had been wrong of me to sleep next to a monk. I felt embarrassed by my ignorance once again.

That day we had another seven houses to visit. At the first, there were so many children inside and they looked so alike that it was hard to tell whose they were. Tsedup and I talked about them with our host for some time, as they huddled together in the corner with wide eyes, eating their djomdi and whispering. It was amazing how much Tibetans talked about children. The word shyee, child, was mentioned frequently in conversation and it was clear that they loved their children deeply. They were also fiercely proud of their family heritage, and their children were important to them as they represented the immortality of the blood line. The children clustered eagerly outside as we photographed them, then an elderly relative called Gayko arrived to escort us. Like Azjung, he was a man of distinguished features. We walked over the hill and through the heather with a view of Amnye Kula. It looked different from this side of the valley, inaccessible and monolithic. It towered above us and I couldn't envisage that we had actually climbed it. As we walked, Tsedup told me that his family had lived here during the Cultural Revolution. He pointed to a hillock. It seemed innocuous enough.

'When I was a boy, I watched my father being made to stand there and hold a wooden post above his shoulders for a day,' he said. 'His arms were shaking uncontrollably, but they wouldn't let him put it down.'

As I stared at the spot I had a mental image of the scene, a glimpse of more brutal times. For Tsedup, the land was mapped with memories and ghosts and at times he would draw back the veil for me, so that I understood that it was not just a manifestation of physical beauty. There was much more to it than that.

Gayko led us patiently from family to family as we ate and I listened to them talk. At his own house, his two sons took turns with Tsedup to shoot a gun at a bottle perched on the mud wall outside. They whooped with delight when they struck it. Then we set off to the last house up the valley, which was probably the most interesting of all.

It was the home of two brothers, Karko and Cumchockchab, who shared one wife. As we sat in the shafts of sunlight on yak skins I watched, intrigued, as the family entertained us. Karko was an amiable old man, naked except for his sheepskin tsarer, a real nomad. He sat on the dried mud floor smoking his pipe and laughing. Tsedup informed me that he was considered a man of integrity and intelligence among the nomads. His brother Cumchockchab was the joker of the two. It had been he who had exclaimed at the wonders of western culture the night before. Their wife sat between them and made momos, which she placed in front of me on a wooden dish. She smiled and urged me to eat. 'Soul Sou!' She was unremarkable in appearance and looked incongruous in their mud hut. Her eyes were quite round and she was almost western-looking. I felt as if I might have bumped into her in the supermarket back home. Yet she had the pleasure of two men's company on those cold winter nights. It set me wondering about their sleeping arrangements. Was there some kind of rota system? Did she tire at all? Apparently polyandry was quite acceptable in these parts, although it was not widely practised. My astonishment was greeted later with mirth by Tsedup. who found my ignorance amusing.

After an exhausting but enjoyable tribal tour we left, armed with presents of cloth, kadaks and money, for it was a Tibetan custom not only to fill guests' stomachs but to send them away with a gift. We skidded home through the heather, aided by Gayko on his antiquated motorbike; he showed us how to pick a path across the river and down the valley.

We drove straight to Annay and Amnye's house near the town. They were leaving for Lhasa the next morning. As part of Amnye's work, they were to accompany a lama from Ganden Monastery and would stay on for a month in the city. They were both excited and more animated than I had ever seen them. This was their pilgrimage and they were to visit the great monasteries of their Tibetan heritage to pay homage to their gods. Tsedo and Gondo arrived soon after and we all chatted as Annay and Amnye packed their travel bags and warm clothes for the seven-day journey on the truck. Amnye had his bourgea, a fine Tibetan hat, fur-lined and silk-trimmed, and his traditional Tibetan boots, shangtee, which they urged me to try on. Everyone including Amnye, who was usually so serious, then fell about laughing at me, as they are rather comical in appearance, although functional and warm. Annay was ill with swollen glands. She could hardly speak, but would not let that curb her excitement and her stubborn will to complete the journey.

We went to bed early, and awoke at five the next morning to accompany them to the truck. It