We sat in the adjacent room, sewing quietly and listening to Amnye's passionate protestations. 'Zuncha ma, liar,' he said, over and over. Sirmo had lied to him by leaving. Annay interrupted his stream of invective with her own hysterical tirade, until Tsedo told her to shut up. She came out to sit with us by the clay stove, muttering to herself. Shermo Donker and Annay Urgin tutted along. From the huge mound of matted sheepskin piled between them came a faint odour of damp and cheese. They were making a tsokwa for Dado, who needed a wife. I asked them if Amnye had been as angry when Tsedup had run away all those years ago. They said no. No doubt, it was different for boys. Then Annay Urgin stopped sewing, as if recalling a moment from that time. She told me that Amnye had cried when, after five years of no communication because the mail hadn't got through from India, he had received Tsedup's first letter. I realised how devastating the waiting must have been for him. Although I was ignorant of the subtle complexities of matrimonial negotiation, I thought it strange that such a sensitive man wished to punish his daughter. For I had heard his ultimatum.

'She is not welcome back here,' he bellowed. 'Not until this problem is settled and they are given their own home.'

The goblin shuffled out of the door, somewhat abashed, followed by Amnye and Tsedo. I knew that when he returned to Sirmo and related her father's words, she would be unhappy. This dispute had signalled a real rift from her own family. She had been banished until the negotiations were complete, and how long that would take nobody knew. She would be missed. Tsedup and I would probably not see her until we returned to Amdo, and we had no idea how long that would be. As Garsay mounted his horse to ride back to the other tribe, Annay waved the cloth he had brought. 'Look, we have swapped our girl for this!' she cried, as he disappeared down the dusty track.

Fifteen. Where the Heart Is

The social pressures of life in Amdo were considerable. Since it was now common knowledge that we would be leaving soon, we received daily invitations to visit people. Even Tsedup was exhausted with the spirit of Tibetan hospitality. That morning we were woken early by Rinchen. The Artful Dodger danced around our hut excitedly and told us to get up. Our neighbour, Gabo, had arrived to escort us to his brother Sangta's home in the next westerly valley. We dressed quickly, then jumped on the back of the bike and followed him on his horse. In their valley we passed a small temple, painted white and orange in traditional Tibetan style. Two elderly nomad women were circumambulating in the morning sunshine.

We arrived at Sangta's home, to find that the family had slaughtered a yak and several people were huddled around it, busily dissecting it. Sangta's wife hurried us inside their small clay house, steering me away from the sight of the dead animal. She didn't realise I was used to it. Inside, it was stifling. The heat from the iron stove-pipe and the sun on the plastic-sheeted windows, combined to offer little in the name of oxygen but we settled ourselves for the day. I watched Sangta talking. In contrast to his brother, who was the stout, cheerful wrestler, he had long, sleek hair, a generous moustache and the largest Roman nose I had seen on a Tibetan. He sat pondering his guests like a stalking polecat with his sly eyes. Sangta was a real nomad, a wanderer. Rarely at home, he preferred to spend his time travelling from place to place on horseback. Tsedup told me that there was not one area of Amdo that he hadn't seen. His children eyed me suspiciously from the corner of the room; the elder attempted a smile while the younger stared unblinking from beneath a shock of dreadlocks dangling from the crown of her head.

We ate momos as the crows squawked and flapped on the tin roof above our heads, and I listened as the men talked for hours. Then just before the sun tipped down below the mountain ridges, we left. Gabo asked me if I'd like to ride his horse home and, seized by the challenge, I said yes. I mounted the black steed, rather self-consciously, since everyone in the valley was watching. It was important to appear professional at such times, but as I gripped the sides of the enormous beast with my knees and it began to move off I felt nervous. This was it: my first ride alone. I deceived the crowd of onlookers with a huge smile and willed the horse to respond as I tugged cautiously on the reins. He was obedient and I began to feel confident. Ahead, Tsedup and Gabo revved the bike and roared away down the track. They would watch me from the road beneath the mountains, they said.

I set off across the low hills bordering the grassland. From the saddle I could see the receding blues and greys of the undulating Silver Horn range on the other side of the Yellow river and the barren dustbowl of the abandoned grassland. A train of golden sand billowed from the bike on the track far beneath me. It was silent apart from the swish of the horse's hoofs through the parched grass and a skylark's song. I rode through a herd of grazing yaks, who parted ranks grudgingly, and I felt an overwhelming sense of exhilaration and freedom, that I was alone, that I was on this horse, that I was in Tibet. I knew that this image would be preserved for ever in my imagination, like a camera shutter closing.

For the next few days there was to be an interesting break from the social rounds. It was Nyon Nyi, the twenty-fourth day of the tenth month in the Tibetan calendar: an auspicious time and an occasion for fasting and prayer. It consisted of two days dedicated to contemplation, prayer and self-purification. Tsedup told me that during the fast one was supposed to think of all those who were less fortunate than oneself, who were starving, or whose lives were difficult and miserable. This applied to both people and animals. He explained that on the first day, Gonsuch, we would be allowed to eat lunch, but thereafter we could not touch food for the rest of the day apart from a drink of tea in the evening. On the second day, Nachchet, it would be forbidden to eat, drink or talk, as one assumed the embodiment of an animal. Also, during Nyon Nyi there were rules to be obeyed. There could be no sex, chastising of children or animals, motorbike riding, or anything other than was practically necessary in terms of work around the home and with the animals. I had decided to stay and fast with Shermo Donker, Dickir Che, Gorbo, Annay Urgin and little Tselo. Although they had participated when they were children, Tsedup and his brother Tsedo did not feel up to the challenge and went to town, leaving us to it.

That morning I rose before dawn to pee. Outside, the scene reminded me of a biblical setting. The small clay houses nestled at the foot of the mountain under the stars, winking in the ethereal sky. I felt as if I had arrived at Bethlehem. It was probably the fact that I knew Christmas was approaching back home, combined with the knowledge that I was about to have a religious experience of a different kind over here. I was sleeping in the house as the men were in town and I snuggled down again next to Shermo Donker, feeling pleasantly confused. At seven thirty she woke us and we washed our faces. We did three prostrations on the sleeping platform and then she told us to go back to sleep as she had some jobs to do. I lay down and dozed, in and out of sleep.

When we woke, I prepared breakfast for the two Chinese carpenters who were staying with us. They had come to make a cupboard for the house and scoffed their rice broth through rotting, gold-capped teeth. I guessed that we would all have to tolerate each other. It was a bit of bad timing that they were here for Nyon Nyi, but on the other hand, they didn't understand us anyway, so conversation was limited even before we had started the mute part of our fast. They smiled at us nervously and we grinned back. Those of us who were fasting were only allowed to drink tea for breakfast. I didn't realise that you couldn't get up from where you were sitting while drinking it. You were supposed to finish by purifying yourself with a drink of water, then spitting it out. Only then were you permitted to move. I would remember that for the next meal. Also I didn't realise you couldn't brush your hair, which I already had. In the future, I thought it prudent to ask if it was permitted to do something before I did it. Could I brush my teeth? Could I wash clothes? Could I put on lip balm? I could. But then, seizing the opportunity to exploit my ignorance, the children started humouring themselves by telling me it wasn't permitted to go to the loo and other naughty fibs.