necklace of small turquoise stones that supported a large silver gau. Suddenly his face lit with a smile. “Nyma!” he exclaimed as the nun dismounted and darted to him. “Blessed Buddha, it is true!” They embraced tightly before Nyma gestured toward Shan. The man straightened, suddenly very sober, and silently inspected Shan.
Shan removed his own hat and returned the man’s steady gaze.
“You are the virtuous Chinese,” the man observed skeptically. He abruptly raised his hand and gripped Shan’s chin in his calloused thumb and forefinger, turning his head from left to right as though measuring Shan for something.
“Just a Chinese who was asked to help,” Shan replied impassively. He was accustomed to being greeted with taunts by unfamiliar Tibetans.
The man frowned in apparent disappointment. “I was expecting someone taller.”
Shan found a grin tugging at his face.
“His back used to be straighter,” Lokesh offered in the same dry tone used by the stranger, “before they forced him to build lao gai roads.”
The man acknowledged Lokesh with a solemn nod, then called out, cupping his hands toward one of the salt teams, to announce their arrival. “I am called Lhandro,” he said, smiling now, and gestured toward the small knot of men approaching the white tent. “We from the Yapchi Valley offer you welcome.”
“Yapchi?” Shan asked in surprise, and found himself glancing toward the saddlebag that contained the chenyi stone. “But it’s more than a hundred miles to the north.”
Lhandro just kept smiling, letting Nyma introduce her companions as another man emerged from the tent, holding a dongma of fresh tea. Shan studied the tents as the Tibetans exchanged greetings. They were all of the traditional yurt style, but only the heavy black felt ones were for dropka, those who lived year-round on the plains. The white tents were of canvas, of the kind used by those who lived in settlements but occasionally camped in the mountains or high plains. Lhandro and his companions were not herders. They must be rongpa, Shan realized, farmers who tended crops in the Yapchi Valley.
As bowls of frothy tea were distributed Lhandro pointed toward the white, crusted plain. “Our people have been coming here for centuries. The government gave us little boxes of Chinese salt, with pictures of pandas on them, and said we were slaves to feudalism for coming here.” He shrugged. “But Chinese salt makes you weak. We said we like the taste of Lamtso salt.” He squatted with Nyma and began speaking in low, confiding tones. Lhandro was not giving her good news, Shan saw. Nyma stared at the farmer in dismay, uttered something that had the cadence of a prayer, and hung her head in her hands. The nun seemed to remember something and it was her turn to speak in a grim tone to Lhandro. The rongpa’s face sagged and he glanced back in alarm at Shan. She had, he knew, explained about Drakte’s death, and the purba’s strange warning before he died. At last, as Nyma began speaking with the others from her village, Lhandro stepped back to the fire, his face clouded with worry. The nun spoke loud enough now for Shan to hear snippets of her conversation. She was speaking of their encounter with the white bus. One of the men hurried away, apparently spreading a warning among the other tents. Howlers might come. Several of the salt breakers stopped and darted into their tents. The dropka sometimes kept things on their altars the howlers did not approve of. A woman ran to the man who sat like a guard with his staff, and he stepped inside his tent momentarily, then reappeared, standing, staff at his side like a sentry.
An adolescent girl wearing her hair in two braids, her eyes nearly as bright as her red doja-smeared cheeks, approached the ring of stones with a small drawstring bag. She had a conspicuous limp, and her left leg seemed to twist below the knee. For a moment she and Nyma exchanged huge smiles, then silently,
Shan removed his own hat and returned the man’s steady gaze.
“You are the virtuous Chinese,” the man observed skeptically. He abruptly raised his hand and gripped Shan’s chin in his calloused thumb and forefinger, turning his head from left to right as though measuring Shan for something.
“Just a Chinese who was asked to help,” Shan replied impassively. He was accustomed to being greeted with taunts by unfamiliar Tibetans.
The man frowned in apparent disappointment. “I was expecting someone taller.”
Shan found a grin tugging at his face.
“His back used to be straighter,” Lokesh offered in the same dry tone used by the stranger, “before they forced him to build lao gai roads.”
The man acknowledged Lokesh with a solemn nod, then called out, cupping his hands toward one of the salt teams, to announce their arrival. “I am called Lhandro,” he said, smiling now, and gestured toward the small knot of men approaching the white tent. “We from the Yapchi Valley offer you welcome.”
“Yapchi?” Shan asked in surprise, and found himself glancing toward the saddlebag that contained the chenyi stone. “But it’s more than a hundred miles to the north.”
Lhandro just kept smiling, letting Nyma introduce her companions as another man emerged from the tent, holding a dongma of fresh tea. Shan studied the tents as the Tibetans exchanged greetings. They were all of the traditional yurt style, but only the heavy black felt ones were for dropka, those who lived year-round on the plains. The white tents were of canvas, of the kind used by those who lived in settlements but occasionally camped in the mountains or high plains. Lhandro and his companions were not herders. They must be rongpa, Shan realized, farmers who tended crops in the Yapchi Valley.
As bowls of frothy tea were distributed Lhandro pointed toward the white, crusted plain. “Our people have been coming here for centuries. The government gave us little boxes of Chinese salt, with pictures of pandas on them, and said we were slaves to feudalism for coming here.” He shrugged. “But Chinese salt makes you weak. We said we like the taste of Lamtso salt.” He squatted with Nyma and began speaking in low, confiding tones. Lhandro was not giving her good news, Shan saw. Nyma stared at the farmer in dismay, uttered something that had the cadence of a prayer, and hung her head in her hands. The nun seemed to remember something and it was her turn to speak in a grim tone to Lhandro. The rongpa’s face sagged and he glanced back in alarm at Shan. She had, he knew, explained about Drakte’s death, and the purba’s strange warning before he died. At last, as Nyma began speaking with the others from her village, Lhandro stepped back to the fire, his face clouded with worry. The nun spoke loud enough now for Shan to hear snippets of her conversation. She was speaking of their encounter with the white bus. One of the men hurried away, apparently spreading a warning among the other tents. Howlers might come. Several of the salt breakers stopped and darted into their tents. The dropka sometimes kept things on their altars the howlers did not approve of. A woman ran to the man who sat like a guard with his staff, and he stepped inside his tent momentarily, then reappeared, standing, staff at his side like a sentry.
An adolescent girl wearing her hair in two braids, her eyes nearly as bright as her red doja-smeared cheeks, approached the ring of stones with a small drawstring bag. She had a conspicuous limp, and her left leg seemed to twist below the knee. For a moment she and Nyma exchanged huge smiles, then silently,
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