We were climbing towards Mount Laten, soaked in sweat, when a woman on a rooftop invited us in to drink. Up a log with notches for steps, into rooms heated the black way: no chimney, smoke everywhere, tears in the eyes, coal on the teeth. From an old Chinese thermos with the paint worn off she poured tea without sugar, then brought momo filled with tsampa.
On the most visible wall: the Buddha, the Dalai Lama, the Panchen Lama, and her son in military uniform. He serves as an officer in the north of China; she had not seen him for seven years. Kirill left her a lip balm as thanks. She placed it next to the photographs of the lamas and her son. I think that relic will stay there forever.
We wanted to send her a photo, so she shouted from the terrace for her friend, who could write an address. Ten minutes later the friend arrived, having brushed off the corn dust, piled every scarf and ornament she owned onto her head and brought a pair of old-fashioned shoes, kept probably just for such an occasion. The shoes were not needed. Her rare skill, writing the address of the village, was.
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