Yaks and Yearning

The evening air is crisp against my skin as I approach. Dismounting from my horse, I look up to see my hosts, a nomadic married couple who herd yaks for sustainability, coming to assist. I’m in the outskirts of Langmusi, a tiny village in northern Gansu province, China, where the stars are abundant and the people scarce. To my left, an epic expanse of green, richly fertile land dotted with 200 or so yaks, their thick, brown fur matted by the recent onslaught of rain. To my right, my home for the next day.

I walk to the tent, crafted from panels of heavy yak fur stitched together to form a resilient trapezoid; it provides warmth and protection, but more so, offers a sense of stability to a family whose definition of “home” changes every 60 days. Lifting open the flap, I am witness to another era, where the day is consumed by meeting basic needs, and the hours are filled by working the land for sustenance. With my Mandarin and his Chinese-influenced Tibeti, Kejia and I cobble together a conversation, and I begin to feel comfortable in this deliciously foreign environment.

All around me, my senses are pummeled by the presence of yaks. I can hear them outside the tent, grazing and stomping in the rich mud. Inside, Yongchen offers a snack of tsampa. With his hands, cracked from the cold and tinted dusty gray from the soil, Kejia slops together a fist of hearty grain and a serving of home-churned yak butter. Its potent, sour scent infuses my nostrils. Though not elegant, the tsampa is filling, a family staple. Yongchen is busy now, placing dried yak dung into the heaping fire below the iron pot. The situation hints of an enchantress stirring a mysterious brew. There is something fantastical– age-old and yet, somehow, uniquely new– to this process. As she carefully parcels out yak meat, Yongchen lines flattened dumpling skins with the thinnest line of water, crimping the edges shut. The extravagance of this meal is not lost on me; it is my snapshot into this world.