Page 27 - theloveofteamag 1

My presence here on my way around the sacred mountain site is unex- pected but taken in stride and treat- ed as nothing more than a welcome extra body to feed, listen to, study a little, and of course o er up a bed to. Here, all living things must cooper- ate or perish. As part of a journey to trace and document an ancient and little documented nomadic trade route, I’ve arrived here. It has been a touch over a month since this jour- ney began. e route itself is a tale of the ‘white gold of the mountains’, salt. To the local Tibetans it has long been simply known as the ‘Tsa’lam’ (literally ‘salt road’).
ese women before me with their calluses, smiles, and sun-scarred faces are part of the landscape, and by extension a living part of the his- tory of the region. e eldest of the women, has for the past hour been recounting her own memories of the route, and with it, a history that is both personal and vital. In this region - where oral narratives serve as textbooks, and close proximity to community and the relentless envi- ronments serve as teachers - words and their recounting have long been a form of documentation and of bonding. Words are listened to still and elders are revered, not for sim-
ply being ‘old’ but for having survived intact in one of the most daunting envi- ronments on the planet.
“Caravans came by to pay respects to the mountains and deities on their way to and from the salt lakes”, the eldest tells us. Her eyes still glow with ener- gy and vitality and her name - she tells me – is Kersang. She is uncertain of her exact age, because as she reminds me, in those times births were not always marked into a calendar as we know it. She does, a er some time, let me know that she thinks she is 67 years old.
Her daughter, Chu’pi, with hair braids running down her back is a blur of movement within the small quarters. Bowls are lined up on the stove and a froth of butter, stewed tea, salt and a lit- tle barley powder is sloshed in. Steam- ing, thick and frothy, the liquid itself is a testament to an unchanged ‘culinary’ tradition. Tea in this remote home is what it always has been: an introduc- tion, a welcome to speak, rest, be heard, and take in calories. To not be o ered tea in such a home would be the equiv- alent of telling someone that they are not welcome.
Taking back a bowl of tea, Kersang continues her talk of a world of splen- did isolation and grit...and the route