Yak butter girl in the Himalayas

The girl comes unexpectedly in my world on top of the clouds. It's that time of the day here, in the Himalayas, when it's me and nothing below. Milky-white fog moves swiftly and devours the peaks and mountains. I'm writing my journal when she walks up the stairs. Greets me with 'Namaste' and sits down by the fire in the middle of the small room. There is also an older woman (probably her mother) and my host lady.
The mystery is soon revealed -- they are bringing yak butter. And it’s expensive! The girl is around 13 and is dressed traditionally. Her knife is tucked in her belt and for a moment she reminds me of an ancient warrior. 'The knife' is more like a scimitar of some sort and is rusty. It must be uncomfortable to sit with this weapon but she does not part with it for a second.
She looks at me as curiously as I look at her. I finally get over my embarrassment and take a few pictures of her. She is indescribably beautiful. Right away I give her some candy. After she has taken it I feel confused. It seems right to give candy to a thirteen-year-old Nepali girl in the mountains and yet it somehow feels strange. Bribing her or trying to make myself feel better? I know she doesn't want me to take her picture.
She doesn't smile when I snap the shots just like most people here. She looks as if she has no idea what to do and sits uncomfortably. After that I definitely have to show her the pictures. She seems so genuinely oblivious to and untouched by our western pretenses. No masks. No pleasing other people. Or trying to be someone else.
She tries to hide her curiosity, embarrassment and probably a bit of dislike towards me. It’s difficult for me to avoid her eyes which just stare at me. I stare too. I try not to but I can't help it. The girl with the beautiful face and hands of a forty-year-old woman who walks three hours in the rain to bring butter and doesn't go to school and will probably have the hard life of a peasant woman living in the mountains. To our western beliefs – a life wasted.
She leaves just like she appeared -- without a word and after a few cups of tea. Back to her yaks, walking in the pouring rain. And me? It is difficult to be by myself with myself in the Himalayas.