Sheep chase and ... more tsampa

Day 22. It is time to move on. We say our goodbyes, leaving good friends, and ride off onto the dirt road. Light rain awaits. Bump, bump, bump we go until we hit traffic: sheep crossing with a woman on horseback bringing up the rear. One gets away, squeezing through a fence and onto the fields. It's a desperate battle as I see the woman running after it. Off I go, my helmet still on, sprinting ahead, hoping to corner the sheep. We work together, signalling to one another: victory. The sheep crosses the fence once again to meet up with the others.
Testing our luck we ride until near-sunset. The wind picks up and the temperature drops. Smoke signals a nomad tent in the distance. We approach and are most welcome. Along with the family of seven, we sit around the warm mud stove, fueled by yak dung. Before I know it, I have a bowl of tsampa in my hands and soon fall asleep in their tent. Our nomad family moves twice a year. They pick up and go where the grass grows thick. They own three dozen yaks. Their diet consists of tsampa, yak meat, and yak milk. Fruits are a luxury. But when we offer a bag of apples, they politely refuse; we offer, they refuse, we offer, they accept - the usual protocol - and they eat them immediately with delight. They rise with the sun to milk the cows. Actually just the women - I am discomforted by the fact that they do most of the work and I try in vain to understand the cultural roles of gender. After the milking, the yaks are let loose to graze, and it's time to get down and dirty; rolling up our sleeves, my sister and I jump in and begin to pick up the fresh yak dung as they do, to pile it up to dry; the warmth actually feels quite nice against the bitter morning breeze. Inside the tent, the grandmother cranks a wheel to separate the milk fat used for butter. I make a sign and take over, cranking for half an hour until all the morning's milk is processed. We then spend the rest of the morning sitting in a circle sharing each others pictures. It's a peaceful setting. In retrospect, I regret leaving so soon. They wave goodbye. A great storm awaits.

We do not reach Langmusi that day due to the rain. When it gets too slippery and dangerous, we find the nearest nomad tent. A mother, her two small children, and a visiting monk greet us. The rain clears, but we stay longer. We cannot leave; it's all about the company. I am given an up-close lesson on how to milk a yak. Later, the kids show me how they can ride the smaller yaks. Three hours later we set off and pitch our tent on a hillside 45km later, with a view of a tower of mountains.Tomorrow we leave the grasslands.

Breakfast consists of an array of powders. Powdered milk, soya, and oatmeal with a little honey to top it off. We still have not been able to buy kerosene. We arrive to Langmusi after a short but steep 45km. It's been 22days since I've had a proper shower. I scream with joy at the luxury of a warm shower.