As we approached the site of Tsedup's tribe the light was almost gone. We turned off the track on to the grass, and I could just make out the silhouette of black tents huddled in a valley between two ridges. This was the Valley of the Rocks. Suddenly the convoy stopped. Everyone opened the car doors and got out. As we stood peering into the dark, I could see figures moving slowly towards us. Then one broke free and ran faster. An old woman in a dark tsarer, grey hair streaming, necklace thumping on her chest, arms outstretched. It was Tsedup's mother. She flung herself around him, weeping. I watched her clinging and sobbing and stammering with joy. I was already crying when she pulled me to her and held me tight. I could smell the outdoors in her hair.

'Namma, shata go! Shata go! Bride, thank you! Thank you!' She wept.

I didn't know what she was thanking me for, but the pain and relief in her voice touched me. Then his father came, followed by his sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, their children and dogs, and I saw him standing before Tsedup: he wore his tsarer and a smart waistcoat beneath the tufts of tangled sheepskin. He was a real nomad, a proud man with a fine, lined face. He stood still for some time, staring into Tsedup's eyes.

We were guided back to the tent. His mother held my hand and I felt the warmth of her rough fingers as she led me through the wet grass, carefully sidestepping the yak dung. Tsedup was the first to enter. We waited behind him as he paused at the doorway and wept into his hands. The sight of the tent was too much: he wept with recognition of all he had missed, for the lost years, the waiting, for his aged parents, for love of Tibet.

The tent was empty. At its heart the clay fire danced orange and red, casting shadows over the yak-wool roof. They had laid out their best woven rugs and a table of bread and meat. The smell of juniper and dung smoke filled the air. It was all so perfect, just as he had remembered, and in a moment Tsedup was a child again. We all sat down in the warm glow and they served us tea. Then Tsedup turned his head to me and smiled as I have never seen him smile, before or since.

'I am home,' he said.

Two. In The Tribe

‘She sells sea-shells on the seashore.' The next day Rhanjer was in full swing. Having mastered the basics of the English language he was feeling rather pleased with himself. The tent was full. The rest of the tribe had allowed us time last night for the joyful reunion but now they flocked impatiently to see Amnye Karko's son. Everyone seemed to be a relative. There were hordes of dreadlocked children clustered in the entrance to the tent staring at the strangers. We sat inside breathing the thick, fragrant dung smoke, as the nomads talked together and the rain fell on the yak hair outside. It seemed that we had achieved minor celebrity status and I began to feel slightly self-conscious.

Last night had been a riot of excitement and talk before eventually we had retired to our white tent with Gondo and Rhanjer, who drank beer with their brother into the small hours. I had had an interesting time tackling an army of ants that had built a nest directly under my sleeping mat. This morning my parents were nursing pounding heads from a sleepless night of fear: the altitude, and the Tibetan mastiffs who had sniffed round their tent and barked all night, had sent them into pulmonary palpitations. Today we were all a little deflated.

But it was wonderful to see the landscape revealed now that the darkness had lifted. The grassland was lush and covered with summer flowers. Herds of yaks and sheep wandered the hillsides above the tents and as I looked down the valley I saw the Yellow river and the cobalt mountains of the Silver Horn range. There was an overwhelming sense of space. Machu had exceeded my expectations.

We ate breakfast in the main tent, then Tsedup and I were presented with our own tsarers, which my new sister-in-law, Shermo Donker, had sewn. Shermo was the title by which she referred to me and I her from now on. I had only been here a day and had already acquired two new names: Shermo and Namma. I was part of the tribe. My tsarer was made from thick black fabric in the shape of a long coat, trimmed with snow-leopardskin, silk and gold piping with a colourful woven hem called tugh. She had obviously spent hours making it for me. She helped me to dress, carefully readjusting the length until she was satisfied, then tied the long red sash, the kirok, tightly round my waist. I could barely breathe. But I felt the part.

As I sat quietly watching Tsedup, a thousand eyes seemed to bore into me, but there were smiles of encouragement from his mother Annay. She knelt by the fire, fingering her prayer beads in a steady rhythm between thumb and forefinger, mumbling the Tibetan prayer, 'Om mani Om mani Om mani Om mani,' a twist of religious tokens around her plump neck.

Behind her Shermo Donker, small and jumpy, giggled into her cupped hands and Sirmo, Tsedup's youngest sister, hid shyly in the back of the tent behind the crowd. She was tall and exquisite with full Cupid's-bow lips, a pale skin and soft, dreamy eyes that flashed when she smiled. She wore full traditional costume: her tsarer of emerald-green velvet, with six strings of coral beads around her neck. Across the top of her head and over her sleek black plaits, a string supported two enormous silver and coral earrings that dangled as low as her shoulders. I couldn't help but stare at her. She seemed so graceful among the bustling throng.

Soon the conversation turned to song as Choegetar, Tsedup's second cousin, took a banjo and began to pluck the strings. He sang an Amdo song of reunion, his voice rising in a clear vibrato, his eyelids flickering with concentration. It was dark in the tent, except for the slit of pale light and thin rain drifting through the gap in the roof. Everyone was dressed in traditional costume with about a kilo of coral necklaces apiece. Tsedup's father, Amnye, sat by the fire. He was a fine-looking man with dark skin and broad cheekbones, tight curly hair, a twinkle in his eye and a goatee beard. A wooden cosh protruded from inside his sheepskin tsarer and a cigarette from his mouth. He never smoked a whole one, kept half for later. Gorbo, Tsedup's sixteen-year-old brother, crouched by the dung pile, an enormous silver and coral earring dangling from his left earlobe. He sniggered as Tsedup strummed a western song, embarrassed by his brother's peculiar taste in music.

We had brought gifts for the family and handed them out one by one: a portable tent for his father to take hunting and the same for Gorbo; cloth for his mother; silver jewellery, perfumes and soaps for Shermo Donker and Sirmo; watches for Rhanjer and Gondo; boots for Tsedo and a kite for the children. They clucked admiringly. Amnye and Rhanjer turned each object over and over in their hands, studying them. As soon as the rain had abated we set up the tent for the children and they squealed around inside. 'Let's go and fly the bird!' they said. On the mountain it soared and arced in the sky as the sun beat down. They had never seen a kite before.

That evening, as the sunset spilled over the mountain, I watched Gorbo herding the yaks home. He guided them in on his father's white stallion, down through the valley from the higher slopes where they had spent the day grazing. My sister-in-law tied them up while the children chased the errant calves. I was introduced to my yak, Karee Ma, White Face, for the first time. Tsedup had asked his parents if I could have one of the herd as a birthday present a few years before. I approached her uneasily. She was the ugliest one of all, with a huge, white head and albino, pink-rimmed eyes. She resisted my wary touch. Still, we would bond in time.