Outside, in the blinding sunlight, we passed pilgrims prostrating at one of the temple doors in a courtyard. An offering site, made of clay and painted white, scented the air with fragrant juniper, which burned and crackled at its heart. The Tibetans love that smell and juniper is often bought and burned as an offering. According to pre-Buddhist belief, juniper is the symbol of life, a representation of the goddess of fertility.
At another temple we were shown intricate murals of the deities, painted in the style of the thankas. I was not used to such unabashed use of colour: I thought of our churches, which often verge on the clinical in some modern dioceses, and wondered what had happened to real craftsmanship in our society. It seemed that only the absolute devotion of a population could produce such works of beauty. Here, the monks worked for the love of the place, and practised their art as they had for centuries.
Finally we visited the museum in the grounds, which housed examples of Tibetan scripts, and other fascinating paraphernalia including a fossilised dinosaur egg. The Tibetans believed it to be the egg of a bird often depicted in religious paintings, holding a snake in its beak. In the centre of the room was a mandala, Wheel of Life, an elaborate, symmetrical picture made from coloured sand. The grains were painstakingly laid on the surface using a metal instrument in the shape of a thin cone with a tiny hole in the end. A monk, who had received special training in the art, would rub a stick along the serrated side of the instrument causing it to vibrate and the grains to fall from the hole. He could control the exact number of grains that would go to make up the picture with incredible precision. The 'painting' was not flat; often there were grooves dividing the patterns, delicate peaks and troughs or tiny paths of triangle-shaped relief. The mandala we saw had been preserved in a glass case for viewing, but usually they are made at the start of a religious festival then thrown to the elements on the last day, as a symbol of the impermanence of life. I thought of the work of street painters in the West, whose masterpieces are washed away by the rain. Generally, apart from the most modern conceptual art, the material value of a painting in our consumer society is paramount. The older it is, the more value it acquires; it is unthinkable to destroy it. Seeing the mandala reminded me of how we sometimes attach the wrong kind of significance to objects in the West. Sometimes we just can't admit life's impermanence.
After our splendid tour we bade farewell to Aka Damchu, and Aka Tenzin accompanied us into town. He proved a useful accomplice. Tsedup told us to buy nothing and just look around, while he made more enquiries about his father. The monk and he made off down the road while my parents and I sauntered around the shops and stalls of the hot street. Scrawny Muslim boys called to us from their trinket havens, beckoning and thrusting pipes, knives and necklaces under our noses. My mother picked out a pair of embroidered silk tapestries of birds that had caught her eye. Then, further down the parade, she chose a thanka, but we did not buy, just as Tsedup had instructed. Instead we waited for him in a cafe under the shade of a canopy, while the flies buzzed around us and a woman with a twisted body begged for change. She wore the old blue Mao uniform and a black scarf tied around her head. I paid her and watched her limp away on her crutches, muttering plaintively. Then Tsedup appeared, and I gathered from his expression that he had still not found Amnye. What if there had been a crash? Tsedup had only just got home after nine years. What a dreadful tragedy it would be if he had lost his father the week after they had been reunited. Itjust didn't bear thinking about. He had phoned a friend in Machu town, but apparently Amnye had not returned. He must be in Gannan, but Tsedup didn't have the number of the meeting-place. He said that Sortsay and Tsorsungchab might know it. They were also helping to sort out my parents' car to Lhanzou so Tsedup would find them later.
He asked my mother what she had found to buy. We described the items, where they were, and told him what prices we had been offered. He laughed drily. 'Wait here. We'll go and buy them for you,' he said.
The best person to shop with in Labrang is a monk. Monks know the prices and they never get ripped off. In fact, it is better that you are not there at all: send a monk.
When they returned they had bought everything my mother had asked for, at about a fifth of the tourist price. We thanked Aka Tenzin for his help, and he grinned, happy to have seen justice done. Then we drank some tea together and I accompanied my parents back to the hotel. Tsedup stayed to look for the men in leather coats.
Later that evening the three friends arrived at the hotel, all smiling. Tsedup had spoken to his father. Apparently the bus had broken down in the middle of nowhere and the passengers had waited all day for help. This had made him late for his meeting. He would not be able to come to Labrang. He had seemed unfazed by the experience, as if things like this happened all the time. What had his son been worried about? Tsedup had reprimanded him for not contacting him when he had got to Gannan, but had had to conclude that he was behaving like an Englishman. It would be a slow process to get the West out of his system. Time means little to a nomad. As long as Amnye had his pouch of tsampa and cheese with him, he could wait patiently for days for any delay to resolve itself.
We all went to the bar. It was dark and sober inside, with leather seating and a row of fancy drinks in optics with tantalisingly exotic names. We opted for beer. Sortsay and Tsorsungchab had come to inform my parents that they had arranged the car and driver, which would leave the next day; it had been 'loaned' by the town mayor. My parents seemed very pleased, so we 'forgot' to give them the exact details. One thing was for sure: the mayor's chauffeur would be hotfooting it back to Labrang tomorrow afternoon before the boss found out or there would be a high price to pay for a little overtime on the side. The two plotters toasted my mother and father with great gusto and downed many drinks in their honour, as we sat laughing at each other across the lacquered table.
The next morning I woke and got up. I have never liked leaving my parents, although I have done it many times. There was still some invisible sinew that held me to them. It was true that things would be easier when we didn't have to worry about their welfare, and I wouldn't have to witness them fighting over the video camera any more, and part of me was looking forward to a break, although I knew I would miss them. However, as the car rolled up to the hotel gate and we loaded their bags, I had to put on a brave face. My father hugged Tsedup – he had not done that before, being an emotional man who rarely betrays his emotions. A very English man. Then he hugged me and I felt the warmth of his plump, safe embrace. My mother was trying not to cry. She clung to me and I held her, and tried to suppress the feeling welling up inside me. If she didn't cry then I could control it.
Then I just stood and watched the arms waving from each window, right over the bridge, through the barley-field, down past the mud huts, out of sight.