Namma

by Kate Karko

  'Why?' I said, not quite happy to go alone, and wondering what on earth he was talking about.

  'Because I have to bite a chunk out of their fireplace,' he stated matter-of-factly.

  I'd heard it all now. 'What?' I exclaimed.

  'I can't be bothered to go through with all that,' he replied lamely.

  'You and your bloody superstitions!' I stalked off leaving him frowning after me.

  But I had been unfair. Later, in more generous spirits, I would learn that it was indeed as he had said. According to nomadic custom, he was forbidden to join me unless he performed the ritual of biting a chunk out of his uncle's fireplace: the jib, fireplace, was protected by the family deity, which might be offended by his fresh scars and cause the family bad luck. If he bit the fireplace he would be demanding his rightful protection from the deity; his scars would not get worse and the family would not be punished. When he was feeling better, he performed the ritual at Annay Urgin's tent next door. He entered, and before he said a word, he knelt down and bit a piece off the front of the clay fire and spat it into the ashes.

  On the fifth day, when Tsedup was sufficiently rested, we rustled up a jeep from the mayor of the tribe to take us to Labrang. Ells and Chloё wanted to sample a couple of weeks of nomad life for themselves. They had been Tsedup's English teachers when in India and were among our closest friends – and I was looking forward to having a girlie chat. I sat in the back, bouncing through the landscape. We moved through lush green mountains to arable lowlands, where farmers were busy harvesting, past rows of momo-shaped barley bundles, beside which men and women scythed the crops and sat under umbrellas in the hot sun. We drove through villages of clay-built hovels and changed down a gear to negotiate the mass of yellow straw spread on the road by the farmers. Meanwhile, piglets scurried on to the verge and a lazy horse refused to move from its resting place in the middle of the road. I ducked down in the back when we passed through the town where we had previously been stopped by the police. Then we passed rows of ploughed soil and planted steppes, a satellite dish balanced on a rickety stone house, clay settlements and strings of rain-washed prayer flags, patchwork hillsides, cattle corrals and holy mountain upon holy mountain, with ndashung standing sentry on each peak. We crossed white picket bridges and glistening streams, passed nomads wandering on the long, open road, and lethargic Chinese road-workers feigning industriousness with cocked spades and copious tea-breaks.

  We met the girls in a side-street cluttered with ramshackle guest-houses and ran towards each other with all the melodrama of a Bollywood blockbuster. Then, after they had got over the shock of Tsedup's scarred face, we all settled into the cool of their hotel room. It had been a long time since I had talked in depth to anyone of the same sex and the joy of speaking my own language was indescribable. Also, I had been living in the tent for so long now that I had almost forgotten the pleasure of sitting in an armchair and reclined, sighing with pleasure, as they spilled out the goodies they had brought from England. Sadly for them I was immune to the wonders of anything, except the chair. Even the scrumptious biscuits lay unopened on the table. I had lived without such trappings for so long that they no longer tempted me. Among the items they had carted lovingly across China were boxes of packet soup, soap, a huge mountain of books, a bottle of champagne from our friend Tenzin – we would save that for a special day – and magazines, one sporting a semi-naked woman on the cover. I tore out the page inside that revealed a little more than was necessary – a small dose at a time of western anatomy for the tribal elders. Censorship was a must if I was to protect them from the wantonness of my culture. I pored over the pages of the magazines, discovering a world I had forgotten. I learnt that kitten heels were in, and that black was out. I enjoyed the glossy images, but had trouble finding a relevance to them now.

  Then Ells inspected my neck, gave me her washbag and pointed to the door. 'Shower. Now!' she commanded. Her father was in the army. The layer of grime that I had been lovingly cultivating for the past few months would have to go, along with leg hair of unmentionable length. So far I had only escaped once to de-fuzz. Ells was here to instil some order.

  The next day we drove back to the tribe listening to some strange Moroccan music the girls had brought with them, which they proclaimed 'atmospheric'. I don't know what the driver thought of it, but he seemed happy to experiment. We stopped beneath some rocky mountains on the way and Ells, overcome with emotion, cried at the beauty of her surroundings. When we finally arrived home in the tribe, the family ran out of the tent to greet their guests. Everyone except Gorbo, of course, who had mysteriously disappeared, fearing that he would be devoured by his 'bride'. He didn't know how these weird English people would behave and he wasn't going to risk it. Ells and Chloё were ushered inside, where they took pride of place by the fire. Annay served them tea and they sat in embarrassed silence as everyone stared at them. It was difficult being scrutinised at such intimate quarters and I knew how they felt, for that had been me, not so long ago. On the journey, Tsedup had taught them how to say, 'Hello, how are you? I am very happy to be here,' at their instruction, but they had forgotten it in the rush of emotion. They both spoke a bit of the Lhasa dialect, but nobody understood that here.

  'Arro,' they said instead, flushing crimson.

  'Hello, dog!' replied Tsedo, grinning.

  These were the only two English words I had so far managed to teach him, though I had not intended him to use them simultaneously. He was well aware of his clever joke, though, and the whole tent burst into laughter. As I had discovered, a nomad needed little excuse to tease and the girls were going to have to get used to it. Rhanjer asked for their passports and examined them in his usual, serious way. He asked about each country they had visited, what it had been like. He was fascinated by the world and everything in it. So was Ells. Tsedup's job as translator was thus secured. I hoped he wouldn't tire of it too quickly over the next couple of weeks as Ells and Rhanjer became more and more animated: he thirsty for new knowledge, she characteristically happy with her role as informant. Ells was a formidable talker.

  We talked long into the night, then settled them into their white tent. It had been especially lent by Tsedup's uncle, Gombo Sonnam, who had also made a clay fire for them inside. It was a splendid home and we all tucked under the quilts and listened to Tsedup strumming the guitar and Ells's voice until the small hours. Then, after squatting together under the stars, which we would not have done in England, and concluding that, in Chloё's words, we were now 'closer than close', we retired for the night. I was glad to have them there.

  Since they had come so far to see us, Tsedup thought it was only right that he plan some excursions for them. The next day he went off to make some arrangements in town, leaving us to amuse ourselves. They wanted to go for a walk, so I suggested we go down to the Yellow river for a dip. Nomads don't walk anywhere – why walk when you have a horse, yak or motorbike at your disposal? Still, they felt protective enough to accompany us through the minefield of mastiffs. Amnye was worried. 'Be careful,' he warned, as we tripped off through the grasses.

  But by the time we got to the river, we were too shy to go in. About six or seven young men from the tribe had chaperoned us and were now sitting impassively on the bank, smoking. They stared at our white legs as we paddled pathetically. Since we were all dressed in our Tibetan chubas (Lhasa-style dresses), swimming would involve stripping to our underwear, which none of us felt comfortable about. I hadn't seen any Tibetan women swimming here. Instead we watched the men splashing self-consciously and flexing their muscles. They really were a vain bunch.

  No women played volleyball either, but somehow that afternoon we found ourselves invited to join a game in the middle of the tribe. It seemed that different rules applied to us. We tried to convince Sirmo to accompany us, but she declined and for the first time I felt uncomfortable with my role. I was aware that I needed to maintain an air of respectability and behave like the other women as much as I
could, but the presence of my English friends meant that I was having to compromise my position. It was dawning on me that we Englishwomen occupied some sort of middle ground between the sexes here. With the women, I had been comforted to discover that despite our cultural differences there were universal female characteristics that bound us. Yet as foreign women we were able to enjoy similar freedom to the men, which set us apart from the nomad women. We drank beer, enjoyed the occasional cigarette, sat on the wrong side of the fire. It was complex. In the end I sat and watched most of the ball game. I was rubbish anyway.

  In the evening the girls played with the children, who adored them, and, determined to get to grips with nomad life, helped tie up the yaks. Shermo Donker and Sirmo giggled as Ells chased them through the mud. Needless to say, it was harder than they had thought.

  'Do you miss England?' Chloё asked.

  It didn't take me long to reply. 'No,' I said.

  We stood staring at the blaze of golden cloud, dazzling the vermilion horizon, our breath clouding, watching Ells spinning the children round, laughing. I think they both knew exactly what I meant. That evening was as seductively beautiful as every evening in this strange land. They, too, were falling under its spell.

  A few days later, we found ourselves honoured to be accompanying the men up to the summit of Amnye Kula. For a woman to climb a holy mountain is a sensitive issue and the brothers had agreed that we could go, provided we did not climb on to the offering site or participate in the ritual for fear of offending the mountain god. Tsedup, Tsedo, Gondo, Cumchok (their monk brother), Samlo (Rhanjer's son), Tsering Tashi (our neighbour) and Tsering Samdup (Tsedup's sister Dombie's husband) were all escorting us. Our convoy left the encampment early that bright morning armed with tent poles, bread, dung and a rifle: essentials for a night in the wilderness. We trailed through the dewy valley and through a deep gorge of fresh spring water, as the mountains closed in around us. These guys knew how to ride. They guided the horses with such adept ease and grace, and as we ascended the sheer slopes, they wove a lateral path through the dense scrub for us to follow. The girls were also experienced riders. I was undeniably the worst. My bravado went when I was unable to grasp the infinitely subtle complexities of using the reins. My horse got bored and confused by my ineptitude and began to stumble and descend. Below me the ground receded into a dizzy kaleidoscope of scrub, rocks and gushing water as the poor beast struggled to find a foothold. Tsedup attempted to save me, but his frisky horse refused to obey him and he fell down the slope, the horse tumbling after him. He wasn't crushed, just swung himself back into the saddle, swearing, but I was terrified. If he couldn't stay in the saddle, there was little chance for me. Thankfully, Gondo, with more sense than I and with the aura of an experienced mustang drover, took my reins and led me the rest of the way to our base camp, where I slipped gingerly from the saddle with aching knees. I was disappointed not to have impressed them with my equestrian skills, but told myself that for me, on my second ride, to try to compete with men who had been born in the saddle was ludicrous.

  They erected the white tent and we continued up to the craggy heights of the mountain top, abandoning the horses when the route became inaccessible for them. The rest of the way we managed on foot, scrambling among the shale and rocks, pausing to gasp for oxygen, which was sparse at this altitude. The view from the summit took our breath away. Below us was the great grassy desert of our home. Beyond, the Machu river snaked between the flatland and the undulating mountains, which receded into an azure horizon. The tribe's tents formed a circle in the middle of the scene, smoke drifting from each tiny roof and the black and white dots of yaks and sheep formed pointillist brush marks on the canvas.

  We were making history. No woman had ever before set foot on Amnye Kula. We sat in silence on a rock beneath the men, and as I watched the rain-stained prayer flags fluttering in the wind, I felt a deep sense of humility. Rhanjer and our neighbour, Namjher, had arrived on horseback at the summit, from the east. We sat and watched as the men heaped their offerings of tsampa and butter on to the platform of rocks and soil and lit a fire underneath using sheepskin bellows. Each one began to mutter rhythmically, calling on the mountain spirit to protect them. Some were more vocal than others, crying out then resuming a hypnotic chant, delivering their own personal messages to the mountain. All the while they tossed into the sky fistfuls of wind horses, which caught the breeze and danced down into the dark valley behind Kula. Namjher fired off a round from his pistol and they all fell silent as we sat among the paper snow, watching the black stormclouds roll in from the northern mountain range.

  We returned to our camp and lit a fire, which proved difficult as it had begun to hail gently. We girls bundled up in blankets inside the tent, while the boys braved it, squatting in their tsarers around a bubbling cauldron of tea. Then the sky sealed over in a thick, grey shroud and the wind quenched the thin flame. Most of the men set off for home on horseback, leaving seven of us to brave the night. Tsedo sat for the remainder of the afternoon feeding the fire with the bellows, hunched in the snow in his tsarer and Stetson. He didn't seem ruffled, just puffed at his cigarette for hours, and I realised that this was no big deal for him. A bit of light snow and a sharp wind were nothing compared to a harsh Tibetan winter in the mountains with his flock, where temperatures can reach below zero.

  That night was a veritable tuckpa of arms, legs and feet. The tent, which had been made to sleep two comfortably, now seemed inadequate. The competition for space under Ells's British army-issue survival blanket, which resembled a sheet of tinfoil, was tremendous. We had consumed the botde of Veuve Clicquot that they had brought and were comfortable for about an hour, until its effects had worn off. I lay contorted in the dark, remembering the last time I had drunk champagne. It was at a celebrity-packed party for the magazine at the Mirabelle. I had worn my wedding chuba and the massive coral ring Annay had sent me. Lying on top of the holy mountain, I felt divorced from that previous world. I came round to the poke of a toe in my bottom. Reality was a cauldron of tea, more bread and a wet tent full of nomad cowboys.

  Midway through our pretence at slumber, Chloё and I needed to relieve ourselves. We slunk out of the tent into a pea-souper of a fog and, as we squatted in the blackness, were alarmed to hear horses and men's voices. Then a gunshot. We tugged at our jeans as torchlight pierced the mist and swung in our direction. Petrified, we split for the tent only to meet Tsedo, rifle in hand, reassuring us that it was only some wandering nomads who had stolen some yaks and were transporting them undercover of night. A restful night's sleep was thus assured.

  We woke again at daybreak, disentangled and washed in the mountain stream. After more tea we took down the tent and saddled up. The men led us down the sheer mountainside by the reins, as we lay horizontal in the saddle for balance. Back on flat valley ground, Tsedo shot a prairie dog for no particular reason. It seemed that despite his compassion for the sheep he killed, he also enjoyed the odd hunt. This was a man's world, and although we girls were appalled by his savagery, there was something about the masculinity of it that appealed.

  A few days later we made a pilgrimage to a religious festival. But it was not an average pilgrimage, as we soon found out. The town of Tugsung Lhamo was two hours away by road, and on that chilly morning, about twenty bikers converged on the crossroads in the middle of Machu, revving their engines. Everyone was dressed in their tsokwas with their heads wrapped in balaclavas and scarves. Tsedo and Gondo took Chloё and Ells on the back of their bikes and I hopped on behind our friend Wharden. We sped out of town in a convoy, straight through a swollen river, lifting our feet in the air to keep from getting soaked. Gondo, feeling particularly chivalrous, commandeered a passing horse from a nomad and ferried Chloё across. All the way, the boys overtook each other, speeding forward then dropping back. I passed Ells who grinned excitedly, cheeks flushed, clinging on for dear life. She had developed a Tom Cruise fixation and was singing the theme tune to Top Gun right in
to Tsedo's ear. 'Take my breath away,' she wailed, before the wind choked her.

  Tugsung Lhamo was an old town that nestled in the crook of a green valley, and spread on up a hill to where its monastery stood. When we arrived it was packed with pilgrims. They had come from far and wide for the annual event, Rughda, and were all dressed in their finest costumes and jewellery. We followed the train of chattering people up through the town, over the bridge of a stream and past white chortens until, breathless, we reached the top. The monastery and its surrounding buildings resembled those I had seen in Labrang. Their white walls sat close together in a jumble of dwellings. Opposite the main monastery building was a steep slope where everyone had congregated under the tall pine trees. Men, women and childrenjostled for a patch of ground so that they could see the performance. In the courtyard of the monastery in front of us, rows of magenta-clad monks were sitting on the steps under the huge black banners of the overhead balconies.

  In the cobbled square two monks, dressed in yellow, were dancing. As they spun round, their skirts spread like twirling umbrellas and they stared out at the crowd through the white-painted eyeballs on their brown masks. They were enacting the story of Milarepa and a monk bellowed a stream of dialogue through a loud-hailer, as the cymbals crashed wildly. It was the tale of a wandering yogi, who moved from cave to cave covered with rags, eating only nettle soup. He was a Tibetan peasant who, in the eleventh century, attained Buddhahood by practising tantric meditation while sitting in one cave for twelve years. The monk spoke of Milarepa's magical powers, of how he had walked through rock, flown in the sky, eaten stone. Then more monks came on, dressed as a deer, a dog and a hunter to perform the Deer Dance. The monk bellowed louder into the speaker, telling the story of the deer that dropped exhausted at Milarepa's feet one day while he was meditating in a cave in Nepal. It was pursued by a hunting dog that gave up its chase and lay down quietly. Then the hunter arrived and was converted by the holy man. The hunter spread Milarepa's fame throughout the land of Nepal.