I play the horse sitter. On the side of the track on top of a perfectly comfortable rock I sit, drinking a beer and eating spicy peanuts, all the while watching the horse of course. Haven't been through a town in more than a week, following this tiny worn track that often merges with the river onwards towards chamdo. The beer, a team of yak herders gave to me. They, like everyone here, appeared as if in a dream, popping up right in front on me out of nowhere. The peanuts purchased long ago. The horse? This medevial type fellow in a tunic and felt cap appears, out of thin air of course, and begins waving a sickle about in front of me, pointing at his horse, speaking in high speed tibetan then runs off, leaping into the bushes. I watch the tops of the bushes shaking as he hacks at them, looking for something. And as I write I hear the metallic jangle of jewelry and look up to see two girls walking by, keeping their distance from me, probably wondering what the heck I am doing out here amidst the quiet gorges of kham. Dusk is in the air; I find a space in the trees and lay down for the night, the air grows cool on my salty skin.