Leaving GS to observe the Tsakang sheep, I descend the trail again, to gather fuel. On my way I meet a wild-haired stranger, bound for the hermitage, it seems, since this trail leads nowhere else. Chanting, he comes up the mountain to the ridge point where I have paused to let him pass, and there slings down his basket, steps behind a boulder, squats, returns, and says aggressively, “Timi kaha gani?” (You where go?) “Shey Gompa,” I say, and he repeats it: we both point at Somdo, to make sure. This wayfarer is clad in blackened sheepskins, with the usual assortment of beads and amulets, silver
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