It was a scorching day and I hadn't lived under a roof for a while now. It was only when I got to the bit about England being where my heart lies that I became most acutely aware of the irony of my choice of song. Did my heart lie in England now? As I gazed at the rugged, infinite expanse of grassland and to the dizzy heights of the rocky mountains behind, I realised that I loved this place, and that these images would endure even when I was tramping the drizzly streets of London. I remembered when I was in London trying to imagine what it would be like to be in the vast spaces of Amdo. Would I feel small? Insignificant? Now I was here, I knew that there was a kind of symbiosis between man and nature and, rather than feeling excluded or exposed, I was simply part of the landscape, like the yaks.

Sirmo had become my closest friend. She was twenty-one and more adept than anyone else at interpreting my Tibetan. We were able to chatter away quite intimately together. She was different from the rest, more of a rebel, and although she performed her duties with all the strength and ability of the other women, there was something about her that suggested a reluctance to conform. It was because she had been to school. Like Tsedup before her, she had expressed a desire to be educated when she reached puberty; a rare thing for a nomad girl. She had been a good student but had only stayed at school for four years. I had heard Tsedup telling her off many times for leaving school so soon. He was an avid proponent of education, and he hadn't understood why she had left. However, she had been knifed, and the scar still showed on her arm. Amnye had been vague about the circumstances when he told Tsedup, but apparently a schoolboy had done it. She had never gone back after that. She had resolved to live the nomad life and be a good nomad woman, but I thought perhaps she was bored. It was only a guess, but sometimes I could see the thirst in her eyes. In the evenings, if Tsedup stayed in town and Dickir Che was sharing my bed, she came to our tent to tuck us in. She would sit by the candle and read Tsedup's Tibetan books until she was missed in the main tent, when she would rush back to her duties. The older women were always urging her to marry, but she was secretive about the affairs of her heart. I suspected there was somebody, though. She was quite a catch.

When we had finished wringing the clothes, we made our way back to the tent. She laboured under the weight of our sodden washing, which she insisted on carrying, even though she had damaged her back the day before trying to catch flowers in her teeth while on the back of a galloping yak. She had the exquisiteness of a princess and the guts of a spirited boy. I guess that's what I loved about her most. But I had yet to discover her true bravery. For now we paused in the long grass for a cloud of flies to settle on us, while she rested. She took my hand and stroked the skin of my arm. 'Yucka,' she said, then guided my fingers over her own callused forearm. The skin was tough and ingrained with dirt, the joints of her fingers swollen, their nails buckled and dented. They were working hands.

Back home the children and I hung the washing on the tent lines to dry. They were fascinated by my knickers, which they examined and shrieked at with amusement. It was the number that amazed them most. 'Eight pairs!' They giggled. I hadn't thought that eight pairs of knickers might be excessive for six months.

Then they started jumping around me shouting, 'Karee Ma, Karee Ma!' dragging me excitedly towards the yaks. It was lunch-time milking and White Face was waiting. This was to be a first. They guided me to my yak and sat me down on a tiny wooden milking stool at her side. Then Dickir Che gave me a quick demonstration, and the milk gushed out over her tiny hands. I hugged the side of that beast, whose stomach gurgled next to my ear, squeezing and pulling as instructed, then yanking and tweaking for greater effect, but somehow only a squirt fell into my pail. The children laughed and I persisted. I wasn't much of a milkmaid. Milking was a mystery. The night before last, Annay had wanted me to eat rice and milk so she led me to a yak while I carried her bucket. I was startled when she lifted its tail, matter-of-factly placed her mouth on its bottom and blew hard. Then she proceeded to milk. Even Tsedup could not tell me what that had all been about.

After a lunch of tsampa and yoghurt in the smoke-filled tent, we went to collect the dung. They showed me how to pile the crusty pieces into small mounds with a short rake and a brush of twigs. Then we filled the seeto, wicker baskets, and hoisted their string handles over our shoulders so that they sat on our backs. The women and the two little girls did this with ease, but I could barely lift mine. I was amazed at how heavy dung was. I was even more astonished at how strong the children were. I was no match for them. Bent double, we carried the baskets back to the tent and swung their contents on top of the dung heap in the corner. We continued backwards and forwards in this way until all of the grass around the tent was cleared of yesterday's dung. I was exhausted, but the heap in the tent looked impressively large. Annay would be pleased when she saw it later. A big dung pile was the sign of a good namma.

Later that evening I helped with my favourite job, tying up yaks. This was a battle of wills since these wild animals are loath to be tethered. I heaved at the rope around their necks, coaxing them on in my pidgin Tibetan, although English would probably have done just as well, dragging them through the mud towards the long rope pegged to the ground. A quick flick of a knot and each one was secure. At first I was given charge of the calves with the children – the family were afraid I might be gored by the adults' horns – but I had since graduated to dealing with a tonne of fully grown yak. The only thing I had to look out for was their hoofs. I had often been trampled on. I stood perspiring in the twilight, as the smoke from the tents ghosted gently through the regiments of grunting black beasts, and stared at the silent silhouette of the holy mountain behind our camp. This was the best time of day. The family would all assemble again soon. This woman's work was done.

Annay took my hand and led me to a convenient spot of grass and we squatted together in the moonlight. My dear mother-in-law didn't bat an eyelid as we sat farting together under the stars and, to be honest, I enjoyed the intimacy. As we walked back to the tent, the children's laughter drifted to us on the night air, with the clatter of cooking and the crackle of the transistor radio. A horse whinnied in the dusk-light and I heard a pained snort. A yak was sick with what looked like a festering leg. It was in obvious pain and couldn't move, but we were powerless to help it. I guessed its days were numbered. Today's lame yak was tomorrow's meat here. That was life.