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Amne Machin sits like a massive knife of rock rising out of one of the highest altiplano’s on earth, the
Qinghai-Tibet Plateau. A pathway that is centuries old and marked with the memories of pilgrims, traders, and
the desperate rings of the great moun- tain’s outer borders.
North of the grand 6000 + metre peaks, within the shadows, I’m tucked into a ramshackle little hut along this pathway in a village that is strewn together col- lection of huts, mo- torbikes and a gener- al store.
Within this little
shack, I sit on a mat-
tress beside a stove
that heaves heat
outward in a relent-
less breath. e fuel
within the stove is
yak dung, and the air
is thick with the acrid narcotic wa s of a juniper branch that was just burned, to “clear the spirits” for the new day. Outside, a wind that never ceases rat- tles at the door and buzzes with intent. Located in Qinghai province, known as Amdo to Tibetans, the region is remote
even by nomadic standards and when winters do come to these lands, “even the wolves leave” according to locals. It is one of the coldest regions within the Himalayan realm.
My hostesses are two generations of nomadic women
who have only recently ‘moved up’ in the world (though this might have a lit- tle twist of irony too) into a hut from their tented pasts. A couple of small beds act as storage devic- es, chairs, and even serve as ta- bles besides also providing slivers of sleeping space to the inhabit- ants. I sit upon one now as the younger of the
two (who is the 49 year old daughter) blurs around the space tidying and preparing food and tea. She is a small powerful woman with long pleated braids tied by coral and silver who laughs much and has a force about her as she whips around the small space.
Kersang the Wise poses in her home near Amne Machin.