Namma

receding blues and greys of the undulating Silver Horn range on the other side of the Yellow river and the barren dustbowl of the abandoned grassland. A train of golden sand billowed from the bike on the track far beneath me. It was silent apart from the swish of the horse's hoofs through the parched grass and a skylark's song. I rode through a herd of grazing yaks, who parted ranks grudgingly, and I felt an overwhelming sense of exhilaration and freedom, that I was alone, that I was on this horse, that I was in Tibet. I knew that this image would be preserved for ever in my imagination, like a camera shutter closing.

For the next few days there was to be an interesting break from the social rounds. It was Nyon Nyi, the twenty-fourth day of the tenth month in the Tibetan calendar: an auspicious time and an occasion for fasting and prayer. It consisted of two days dedicated to contemplation, prayer and self-purification. Tsedup told me that during the fast one was supposed to think of all those who were less fortunate than oneself, who were starving, or whose lives were difficult and miserable. This applied to both people and animals. He explained that on the first day, Gonsuch, we would be allowed to eat lunch, but thereafter we could not touch food for the rest of the day apart from a drink of tea in the evening. On the second day, Nachchet, it would be forbidden to eat, drink or talk, as one assumed the embodiment of an animal. Also, during Nyon Nyi there were rules to be obeyed. There could be no sex, chastising of children or animals, motorbike riding, or anything other than was practically necessary in terms of work around the home and with the animals. I had decided to stay and fast with Shermo Donker, Dickir Che, Gorbo, Annay Urgin and little Tselo. Although they had participated when they were children, Tsedup and his brother Tsedo did not feel up to the challenge and went to town, leaving us to it.

That morning I rose before dawn to pee. Outside, the scene reminded me of a biblical setting. The small clay houses nestled at the foot of the mountain under the stars, winking in the ethereal sky. I felt as if I had arrived at Bethlehem. It was probably the fact that I knew Christmas was approaching back home, combined with the knowledge that I was about to have a religious experience of a different kind over here. I was sleeping in the house as the men were in town and I snuggled down again next to Shermo Donker, feeling pleasantly confused. At seven thirty she woke us and we washed our faces. We did three prostrations on the sleeping platform and then she told us to go back to sleep as she had some jobs to do. I lay down and dozed, in and out of sleep.

When we woke, I prepared breakfast for the two Chinese carpenters who were staying with us. They had come to make a cupboard for the house and scoffed their rice broth through rotting, gold-capped teeth. I guessed that we would all have to tolerate each other. It was a bit of bad timing that they were here for Nyon Nyi, but on the other hand, they didn't understand us anyway, so conversation was limited even before we had started the mute part of our fast. They smiled at us nervously and we grinned back. Those of us who were fasting were only allowed to drink tea for breakfast. I didn't realise that you couldn't get up from where you were sitting while drinking it. You were supposed to finish by purifying yourself with a drink of water, then spitting it out. Only then were you permitted to move. I would remember that for the next meal. Also I didn't realise you couldn't brush your hair, which I already had. In the future, I thought it prudent to ask if it was permitted to do something before I did it. Could I brush my teeth? Could I wash clothes? Could I put on lip balm? I could. But then, seizing the opportunity to exploit my ignorance, the children started humouring themselves by telling me it wasn't permitted to go to the loo and other naughty fibs.

By midday I was feeling quite hungry. I wasn't alone and, since I was the only one with a watch, everyone who had missed breakfast was asking me the time. At last we were given the signal by Shermo Donker and we all went next door to Annay Urgin's house for a feast. Her clay home was dark and damp. In contrast to our house everything was made from earth: the walls, the roof, the floor, the sleeping platform. It was indeed basic, yet she had constructed an incredibly vibrant altar in the darkest corner, housing golden cups – thib - candles and pictures of the lamas. It was the only colourful thing inside the plain dwelling and proudly declared her religious devotion. We prostrated three times before the altar and Annay Urgin placed a small golden bowl of djoma and bread in front of the lamas' pictures as an offering. We then stuffed ourselves. Meat was omitted from this meal as an act of compassion, so instead we ate djoma, tsampa, bread and satsumas, and drank tea. Dickir Ziggy, who was not fasting, had become our slave during the meal as we weren't allowed to move. She scurried around pouring tea and filling the iron stove with dung. Aware of the encroaching fast, we ate so much we felt sick. Then fully satiated and nursing swollen stomachs, we each made a little lanchuch, which looked like a small boat with a bowl on top made from tsampa, filled with a piece of everything we had eaten. We spat water into it to purify ourselves again before we were allowed to get up. Sanjay ran and put our boats on the wall outside and we watched through the window, as the dog ate our handiwork.

There would be no more food until the day after tomorrow. I hoped I could make it. I was enjoying myself so far. Contrary to my expectations, for a religious experience the mood was far from sombre; everyone chatted and laughed and the children shrieked so much that Annay Urgin developed a headache. I hadn't had much time for the contemplation of sentient beings today, but perhaps that would come tomorrow with the silence.

The next morning, I woke to see Shermo Donker pulling on her tsarer inthe dark. I turned on the light and she smiled at me in recognition. Today it was forbidden to talk. Only prayers could be uttered, but since I didn't know any apart from ' Ommani padme hum', I would have to be silent. We prostrated three times and I lay down, listening to Dickir Che mumbling incoherently through closed lips in the next room. She was being teased by Sanjay and Dickir Ziggy, who were not part of the ritual and were trying to make her talk. Then she and Gorbo came into my room to prostrate and we smiled at each other and giggled. It was funny not being able to talk. I nestled down into my thick tsarer and watched the ice crystals melt very slowly on the frosted window-pane. They looked like intricate flowers, flashing white as the sun rose behind them. But too soon they were gone, dribbling in rivulets and racing each other down the warm glass.

By mid-morning I was deep in thought and hungry. I began to think about the fact that I was the embodiment of an animal. What did that mean? Which animal did I represent? I thought about the abra, the small rodent – which the bitch had killed yesterday. It had still been alive when I picked it up and its tiny body had shaken as I held it in my tsarer for comfort. I had guessed it was a mess inside, although it had looked all right. The children and I had made it a home out of an old shoebox and straw, but its damaged intestines had given up an hour afterwards. In all its pain it hadn't made a sound, not a squeak. I was silent. I was the abra. Or maybe I was a bird? I tried to internalise the feeling of being able to fly, then decided that maybe I was trying too hard. Perhaps I wasn't supposed to represent one single beast, but the whole spectrum of creeping, crawling, flying, skulking, living things.

At lunch-time the bitch bit the Chinese carpenter and Shermo Donker hit her with a stick. The bitch was a sentient being worthy of respect, but my sister-in-law had forgotten that rule. Then Rhanjer came round from his house, specifically to tease us. He encouraged us to be less pious by beating us with wet towels and, of course, we were forced to defend ourselves. He giggled like a naughty child and hit Shermo Donker with his silver pipe, which unfortunately hurt her hand. She was struggling so hard not to laugh that the tears poured down her cheeks. It seemed that nobody was prepared to take Nyon Nyi seriously.

That afternoon the hunger set in. It was twenty-four hours since I had eaten anything and a full nineteen since my last drink. I felt tired and my eyelids were heavy, but it was forbidden to sleep during the day, so I fought the fatigue. Although talking was banned, it seemed quite permissible to hum phonetically through pursed lips and it was now becoming something of a game, guessing what people were saying. Of course, my job was much harder. As Dickir Che tried for the fourth time to convey some piece of information to me, I had to give up. Trying to talk in a foreign language with your mouth closed is impossible. The others were quite good at interpreting each other, but Dickir Ziggy had decided to feign ignorance and was taking full advantage of the situation today. If the rules meant that her mother couldn't reprimand her, then she could be as bad as she liked and get away with it. Or so she thought. After a concentrated period of chanting prayers and quietly suffering Ziggy's antics, Shermo Donker thrashed her. Ziggy fled wailing and her mother began swearing under her breath; a weird, dull muttering sound. A new mantra.

I decided to give prayer a try. But I did it in the only way I knew how: in my head and to my