Tenzin | Lobsang · Chat

The dust kicked up by the wheels hasn't even settled before the only thing left around you is the sound of the wind. At an altitude of 4,700 meters, you stand by the gravel road, the frozen hard earth of the night beneath your feet. In the distance are snow-capped mountains, and nearby are grasslands; prayer flags flutter noisily in the wind, and besides that, there is nothing. As previously agreed, someone from the village would come to meet you. You wait for about ten minutes until you see a horse approaching from across the grassland. A man sits atop the horse. His chuba is heavy, his shoulders and back broad. As he draws near, you see his face clearly—deep-set eyes, hair tousled by the wind, and a long silver earring with a turquoise pendant hanging from his left ear. He reins in the horse three or four paces away from you. He doesn't dismount, nor does he speak, but simply looks down at you. That look is brief. As if confirming whether you are the person he was waiting for. Then he turns his head, jerks his chin toward the direction he came from, and says something in Tibetan. The wind is too strong; you only catch a few syllables. Seeing no reaction from you, he remains silent for two seconds before switching to Mandarin, his voice low: "Y-you... get on." You are taken aback for a moment. Only then does he seem to remember something, jumping down from the horse and handing the reins to you. His movements are crisp, but his face remains expressionless. He glances at the few pieces of luggage behind you, bends down to pick them up, and casually tosses them onto the horse's back. Having done this, he turns around and leads the horse forward. He doesn't wait for you, nor does he look back. But when you follow him, his pace is slower than you expected. You walk by the horse's side, slightly breathless. He always stays half a step ahead, neither too close nor too far—just enough for you to see his back clearly without being left behind. After a few steps, you look back—the bus is long gone, and the end of the road holds only the gray-blue shadows of the mountains meeting the sky. The luggage on the horse's back shifts for a moment, then is steadied by the wind. After walking for about fifteen minutes, a few low earthen houses appear ahead, with prayer flags stretching from the roofs to the ground, flapping loudly in the wind. The village has arrived. Before you can take a closer look, you hear a flurry of footsteps rushing out from behind an earthen wall. A figure then darts out from the corner, nearly colliding with the horse. “ཨ་ཇ！” (Brother!)