The average Amdo boy is fiercely loyal and would die for his friend. He conducts himself with something verging on medieval gallantry. He is brutally honest, so candid, in fact, that he does not understand the meaning of tact. If you are fat he will say so. If there is a dispute to be had, there is no subtle sidestepping: the cards are always on the table. The 'civilised' world would describe it as naivete and it was the source of much miscommunication in the early days of Tsedup's and my relationship. I had not realised the levels of cunning to which we westerners aspire. A complicated combination of emotional bribery and evasive action had always worked for me. Now things were different. The Amdo boy is also proud; he does not display the arrogance of the foolish but has a genuine sense of identity and belief in self that comes from being a member of a tribe. He is often contemplative, and it is, presumably, the vastness of the grasslands that has prepared him for his lateral observation of life. But the Amdo boy is also mad, with a wild sense of humour, and is full of teasing tricks, which prevents him from appearing too dour. When the jokes are over, the Amdo boy is, above all, sincere. I had never heard anything as sincere as my husband's first words of love.
Tsedup and Tsempel stood giggling in the early heat. Tsempel wanted us to come to their friend Rabtan's house, so we thanked Tashintso for her hospitality and watched as she swung her leg over the saddle and cycled off down the alleyway in her uniform and oversized officer's cap. She called after us to stay whenever we liked; we were always welcome. Tsorsungchab was still in bed and the children were at school so we went off down the dusty track of dried mud. Rabtan was another friend from India, one of the seven who had shared the tiny house. Today he lived with his wife and baby in one of the houses close by, in the network of alleyways.
We arrived outside an orange wooden door in a wall and Tsempel pushed the bell. It rang somewhere within and an electronic voice announced our arrival in Chinese. The door opened, and another familiar face presented itself. 'Hello!' Rabtan exclaimed joyously, as he popped his cigarette back between his lips to free his hands and threw his arms around Tsedup.
Rabtan was not your average Amdo boy: with a nose for business and a finger in every pie, he had wised up to the idea that to get on you had to know Chinese, and although he didn't have a job – he had given up his shop which he found unprofitable – he was a seasoned wheeler-dealer. Judging from his house, he was doing all right. He led us into a small concrete courtyard past several outbuildings, sauntering like a hood from the Bronx. He bowled along in his tracksuit bottoms, letting his weight rest on one leg for longer than the other as if he had a limp; but it was done smoothly and consciously. An enormous holstered knife bounced threateningly on his hip; the last vestige of his nomadic costume. He touched it sporadically to remind himself it was there; one never knew when it would be needed. He was always ready either to defend himself or cut up a sausage. A beautiful young woman stood at the entrance to their blue-glass conservatory, smiling shyly. She wore dungarees and a red T-shirt, with long black hair tied in a ponytail at her neck and some gold jewellery. A tiny boy, who was a miniature replica of his father, clutched her leg and looked up at me in astonishment.
They had been expecting us, and the smell of steaming momos and tart chilli teased our nostrils. We were seated around a table inside the cool of their lounge on a leather-upholstered sofa. The room was flagged with tiles and had an iron stove against the wall, which sported colourful posters of galloping horses and a pop star. Beneath the pictures was a row of lacquered cupboards and a dresser with a large mirror, on which stood several black and white photographs of Rabtan, in which his moustache was more prominent and his hair was longer and hung loose over his shoulders. There was a TV and a sophisticated stereo system in a black glass cupboard. But the most startling piece of décor was a yak's skull, which hung on the wall like a hunting trophy. It stared down at us with glowing eyes, since Rabtan had placed a lightbulb in each eye socket. Chains hung about its horns. It was macabre, but Rabtan was proud of his artistry and asked me what I thought of it. 'It's nice,' I replied, noncommittally, with typical western deceit. He smiled wryly. He was used to westerners.
Rinchen, his ever-attentive wife, fussed and scurried from parlour to table, bringing dish upon dish of fried, steamed and boiled food. My offer of assistance was firmly refused, and I had to remain seated as she took orders from her husband, who occasionally barked a little too vehemently for this or that. He had tasted the world outside, but here he was a true Amdo husband. I withheld my prejudice: it was not my place to judge the roles that each member of this family played. However, a degree of mutual respect was a prerequisite of marriage, as far as I was concerned, and being barked at was something that had never worked with me. Rinchen was little more than a girl. When Rabtan had returned from India, his mother, who was old and infirm, begged him to stay as she had few children and her husband was dead. She wanted him to marry and stay with her in Machu, and she made him promise he would. Rinchen was selected as a match by their respective families, a schoolgirl at the time. Her older brothers insisted that she complete her education before the marriage so Rabtan had to wait for her. As he carefully poured our tea, his shirtsleeve lifted and a tattoo of her name in English was exposed on his arm. Rabtan showed a trace of honour.
Half-way through the copious meal the doorbell rang and the Chinese voice announced another guest's arrival. It was Nawang, a relative of Tsedup. His brother, Tsering Samdup, was married to Tsedup's sister Dombie. The Tibetan family tree is a vast and convoluted mesh of branches and sub-branches and I became more confused the more relations we met. I could pinpoint Nawang, however: this piece of genealogy was just about comprehensible and I was pleased with myself. Nawang had also been one of the magnificent seven who had shared the cell and baked bread in India. He approached us clumsily in black army boots and a bomber jacket. His long curly hair was tied back and his moustache etched out a permanent grin that sent his small eyes deeper into the crease of his brow until they were little more than two black buttons. If Tsempel was the gentle one and Rabtan was the wheeler-dealer, Nawang was the clown. He stood before us laughing as Tsedup teased him. Another friend was embraced and another round of beers were clinked together and downed. 'Shabda!' they cried in unison, then began the long recounting of shared memories.
Many hours later I climbed alone into Rabtan and Rinchen's bed. They wouldn't hear of Tsedup and me sleeping on the sofa and after much protestation I had accepted their generous offer and settled down beneath another pink shiny quilt.
'Nanka a nyee hdar jig n'jowjer,' Rinchen said, as she tucked me in. I didn't understand anything but nanka, meaning 'tomorrow', so she mimicked the action of riding a horse. As she turned out the light I smiled. Was I going riding with her tomorrow? I had only been on a horse once and had been completely out of control. I prayed that I would be saved from this humiliation as, in the next room, the Amdo boys slapped backs and broke into drunken song.
Thankfully my fears were allayed. As we woke and breakfasted on soft-baked bread and broth, Tsedup told me that we were going to watch the annual horse-racing. Today my equestrian skills were not required. Rinchen was dressed in her tsarer and coral necklace especially for the occasion and looked splendid. Tashi Thondup, their diminutive son, was sporting his baseball cap and matching jacket. He sat on his own tiny chair by the stove in his knitted split-crotch trousers, chewing a piece of bread and staring at me. He still hadn't worked out what I was.