The Finnish Line

Somebody lives in this cave. There were signs of human settlement- neatly-piled rocks that warned of a territory; firewood at the front; smell of an animal farm. A shepherd's. "Namaste?" It echoed back strongly.
I continued my hike on a barren trail with craggy rocks & sand, descending deeper into the eroded canyon. Arid, colorful stratified rock formations towered over. According to Buddhist tale, red rocks were painted by demons’ blood. Carved into cliff faces were many cave dwellings, some with remnants of ancient civilization. Who were these cavemen?
Who am I? I’m Santa Gurung. Santa- peaceful in Nepali- is a translation from my real name Serene. I have had to take up this identity to arrive in the Forbidden Kingdom of Upper Mustang (UP). Foreigners weren’t allowed to enter UP until 1992, & UP remains a restricted area with heavy regulations. Taking advantage of my Chinese origin, I could pass off as a Mongolian-face ethnic group. Gurung is 1 such caste. It’s been 3 weeks since I sneaked into the Kingdom, 3 weeks since I lived this lie. I avoided main trek paths, minimized contact with hotels & trekkers to protect my identity- I’ve to sleep in the cave.
I heard bells, goats bleating. 200 came my way, many clumsy on steep canyon walls. They roamed free; occasionally the shepherd called out to them. "I sleep in cave?" I asked in Nepali. He gave a curious look, but it didn’t seem a question to my identity. "No water," he said. I pulled out my half-filled bottle, "Enough?" "Yes."
We walked, mostly in silence, but with a deeper trust with each other every minute. When the sun began to set, we had just arrived at the cave, as though the moment was timed. He had no watch. As each goat marched in, he told me its name- every single 1 of them. "They are my family," he said.
I could barely stand upright in this room, kitchen, sleeping space- a corner separated from the goats. 2 jugs water, 5 jugs chang- a Tibetan beer made of millet. He hiked to the next village every 3 days for supplies. Had he brought more chang than water, or had he consumed more water than chang? "Local beer. Warm." he smiled, comforting me that I wouldn’t be cold for the night, in 3800m.
With a khukuri, he chopped dried meat. What meat it was, I didn’t know. With goat droppings, he made fire & meat stew. We ate with chang.
Smoke filled the cave & it was warm. He laid goat fur on the ground, & I slept.
The sun had barely hit the canyon walls when he woke me up, "We have tea. I go with goats."