I was invited to stay with a nomad family. What a comfortable and large tent it was. The canvas was woven from yak hair and the ground was covered with canvas and well-worn woolen Tibetan carpets the size of a single bed. I instinctively took off my hiking boots before I entered. Tenzin Sangmo, a young woman in her early twenties, poured me butter-tea. Fortunately, the milk was from goats and not yak, which would have been much stronger. She then proceeded to knead dough, which she covered and placed aside. There were two stoves, one in the middle of the tent with a chimney thrust out to an opening in the center of the tent and a second, smaller one, placed near the entrance. She then washed the rice, and placed the pot on the larger stove, washed the lentils, placed it on the smaller stove, and tipped the water into a bowl outside the tent. When the dough had doubled in size, she rolled the dough into a long snake-shape, cut it into one inch pieces, then rolled them into small buns. The buns were placed in a steamer on top of the pot holding the rice. She then peeled and chopped potatoes and dropped them in a covered pan. Another pot contained lentils. Now and then she threw a handful of dried goat dung into the fire. It was surprisingly odorless.
I was so absorbed with the rhythmic ease in which Tenzin Sangmo prepared the meal, I didn’t look around the tent until she finished. There were half a dozen rolled up blankets along the side of the tent. At the back, facing the entrance was an altar with seven silver bowls, an incense holder, and a status of Buddha. On a low table, there was a radio, nail polish and make up. I was puzzled why a nomadic woman would use makeup, but before I could ask her, a cacophony of yells, whistles, bleating and crying in shot gun cadence pierced the quiet. I pulled on my hiking boots and dashed outside. Hundreds of cashmere goats, with their long white fur glistening in the evening sun, encircled the tent.
