Rice pile, ice pile

Another mountain pass, icy river, icy road.

J has never seen a glacier before. And my Tibetan driver, SN, says there are a few families living by the glacier, far from anywhere. By now, he understands fully what I want to do here: to record the current lifes of Tibetans.

Set against snow-spattered mountain backdrop, a handful of log houses make up the tiny village by the name of Midui, meaning Rice Pile. Instead of rice, piles of yak-dung are stacked neatly in front of each house. There are no firewoods here. Dried yak-dung is their only source of fuel.

As soon as our Jeep pulls in the village, a group of young men in their twenties rush out to get a business as moto-cab drivers. J and I want to take a walk, but in the end, we give in.

A couple more houses, a few more yaks roam the open field.

When the motorcycle cannot go any further, we continue on foot. Our driver volunteers to guide us. Following a not-so steep foot path through the woods, we come to the view of what claims to be the most beautiful glacier in Tibet, a definite over-statement.

We stopped in front of a small glacier lake. The front of the glacier is still a long walk away. It is good enough for a view.

On our way back, we let the motorcycle taxi drop us off earlier so we can take a nice walk by the glacier stream. The previous summer, in Alaska, I camped on Mears glacier's rugged moraine, marveled each time when a hug piece of glacier sheared off, toppled, crashed into the ocean, and formed a tidal wave big enough to swallow my kayak. I am lucky, having the opportunities to experience so much. I don't know if I seeked nature or nature seeked me, but I've found my true love.

Back at the village, SN is having milk tea inside one of the nicer houses. Here, because of the harsh weather, people keep a place for their yaks in the house. The herder agrees to talk, but he is way too nervous, giggles all the time.

For these villagers, the source of income is scarce. A little from tourists, most from digging herb in the summer, the herb that resembles a silk worm, a kind of parasitic fungus called Cordyceps sinensis, or caterpillar fungus. One piece can sell for 20 yuan (around $3), a significant amount for the herders. During the month of June, one won't find any labor in the village. Any able person is digging on the slope. In this fragile ecosystem, the long-term effect could be devastating. I can't totally blame the Tibetan herders for doing this. They have to make a living somehow. What's lacking here is a policy to bring them other sources of income. And if people in big cities are still paying high price for the precious herb, the digging will not stop.

The poorest family in the village is a widow with three young children. They survive on 500 yuan (around $60) a year given by the government and some help from the neighbours. The three dirty-faced boys lack sparks in their eyes. What do they want? How do they see the world? Perhaps, the sense of hunger dulls everything else.

I walk out and get on the Jeep. Looking back, a group of villagers are heading toward the glacier. From the top of a few houses, cooking smoke rises from the chimney and dances its way up into the deep blue sky.

To them, are we just another group of tourist come and go?