Tsampa and hairy legs

At the bottom of this site, I have posted a day-to-day route of where we've been travelling for those interested. I will keep updating it whenever I enter new posts.

Off to the grasslands we go! A battle begins: concrete, dirt,
concrete, dirt. Dirt wins and the roads are bumpy for the next 200km. We leave Zioge. It is 74 km to Langmusi, but we will take a small road for roughly 200km to get there instead.

Day 18 (August 5th) consists of mostly biking. We cover 73km through the small, but persistant rolling hills of the grasslands, and a relentless, unclouded sunshine. Night falls and we reach the impressive Tsogetsanz monastary, near Tonken. We are greeted by Yoni, a 22 year-old monk, who escorts us to his quarters for some tsampa. From fruit to waterfalls, bedsheets to baby faces, Yoni's walls are covered with an array of colored posters and pictures, anything to make his home look warm and welcoming. Throughout the evening, dozens of monks come and go, some staying for an hour, others literally for 30 seconds. Many had never seen a foreigner before and their curiosity takes over. They touch my leg, pull a little, amazed at all the hair I have; we laugh with the little Tibetan we know, and they gaze at our postcards from home and family pictures in awe. Yoni's face beams with pride knowing others are envious we are staying with him.
The following morning, Maria and I leave early to the top of the mountain, to witness the sunrise. It's quiet and beautiful, little puffs of smoke appear one by one from nearby nomad tents, the mist along Yellow River slowly rises, and prayer flags flap with the heavy wind. We walk down and Yoni greets us with a bowl of tsampa. He tours us around the entire monastary grounds, spinning the prayer wheels, visiting friends and we sit outside the gompa listening to comforting humming prayers. We meet Yoni's mother, living in a small mud house a short walk away, where we eat tsampa and yak yoghurt. We learn the holy Silosanfherden Lama from Hezuo will be visiting in two days. It's a big affair and people are already preparing for his arrival. Not wanting to get in the way, Maria and I pack light and head out on an overnight trip, taking a small single track road along the prairies and wildflowers, through gopher paradise; hundreds of gophers run around jumping in and out of their holes squeaking to one another as we ride by. We rest on a mountain ridge for the night.
We return from our trip and in the wake of the lama's arrival. Yoni goes into his room and soon returns with two typical tibetan garbs for us to wear on this important day. It's a massive jungle green thick wool coat falling down to your ankles, the sleeves twice the usual length, and a long red scarf wrapped several times tightly around the waist. Except for the monks, everyone else wears it, so I obviously feel cool.
The lama arrives 5 hours later than expected, but it does not matter; patience comes naturally when you're a monk. It's a beautiful procession. The path leading up to the gompa is decorated with white chalk designs, the monks line up along the path shoulder to shoulder according to their rank. Two trumpets break the silence as they step onto the path, the lama walking some steps behind, and one-by-one the monks peel off and follow him into the gompa. I keep a respectful distance before Yoni waves to me, frantically pointing to where I should stand for the best view. We are allowed inside the gompa for the prayer.

August 9th, 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.