With Derge on our mind—and almost in our sight—our convoy has an early start. Determined to reach the town before the sun’s at her highest point, the high-pitched yells of the muleteers echo over the shreds of grayish blue that cover the field. Their urging cries leave no room for lingering. Everybody’s on the road by the first light of dawn.
My stomach grumbles, and a yawn escapes from my mouth. Breakfast wasn’t on the men’s mind this morning. My fingers probe the silky lining of my pocket. No tsampa balls left. I run my tongue across my teeth. I love my food and my cup of tea—especially in the morning.
All those times my grandmother caught me and my sisters with our hands in the tsampa bag, or sneaking a fresh fried khapse in the sleeves of our robe—a smile breaks on my parched lips.
