Stick Out Your Tongue Read Online Free PDF

walking back to his family’s tent. The sheepdog Pemu ran up to him and rubbed its head against the zip of his trousers.
    Beyond the blue sky he could see Mount Kailash moving towards him. It was shrouded in white clouds, just like Goddess Tadkar Dosangma. He tried to stay upright, but his feet gave way and he collapsed on the ground. A ballpoint pen rolled out from the pocket of his jacket and landed between two blades of grass.

THE EIGHT-FANGED ROACH
    As the sun turned red, wisps of white cloud drifted towards the horizon. I could tell that the sunset would be beautiful. I checked the view through my camera. There was no snow on the mountains to the east, and the hills in the foreground made an awkward silhouette. I would have to climb the hill for a better shot. I was at the western edge of Tibet’s high Changthang Plateau, a region of lakes and hills. It was a good place for photography, but the land was criss-crossed with rivers and streams, and it was easy to get lost. As I crested the hill, the sun dropped below the horizon. In the fading light I scanned the grasslands and discovered that my road back had sunk into the darkness. The rolling plains that spread before me were pitch black, there were no campfires in sight. I knew that I’d have to sleep under the stars again. I sat down on a breezy slope and finished the biscuits I’d bought in Baingoin. Then
I dug into my pocket and pulled out two pieces of dried yak cheese that I’d pilfered from a market stall. I popped one into my mouth. At first the taste was so sour that I nearly spat it out, but as the lump softened it produced a milky aftertaste that was comforting and familiar.
    Before the night wind started to blow, I spread out my sleeping bag and snuggled inside with my shoes still on. I lay on my back, stared into the black sky and thought about life and death. For Tibetans, death isn’t a sad occasion, merely a different phase of life. But it was hard to understand the pilgrims who prostrated themselves for hours outside the temple gates, grating their heads on the ground. Why are men so afraid of retribution? I was hungry. My stomach was empty. A gust of air whirled through my abdomen and slipped out through my guts.
    I rolled onto my side to ease the pain in my stomach. It was getting cold. I looked up and checked the direction of the wind, and was relieved to find that it was blowing from east to west. There was a river to the west, and then the flat plains, so that even if any wild dogs over there had caught my scent in the wind, they wouldn’t have been able to reach me. I took a dagger from my bag, held it in my palm and lay down to sleep. But as soon as I closed my eyes, I was assailed by terrifying visions:
a wild yak stampeded towards me; a wild dog ran off with my rucksack; a wolf crept up behind me and silently clamped its jaws into my spindly neck; a pack of hungry ghosts surrounded me and gnawed at my ears, nose, hands and feet as though they were chewing radishes.
    Then my mind turned to women, and the warm smell inside their bras.
    I glanced back in the direction in which I’d come and saw a still, faint light. I reached for my camera, and through the zoom lens discovered that the light was a square air vent at the top of a tent. I hoped that the person inside might let me spend the night there. I climbed out of the sleeping bag and groped my way down the hill. Two hours later, I reached the camp. As I approached the tent, I made a small noise to check whether there were any dogs about. But no dogs leaped out, so I lifted the door curtain and peered inside. An old man was sitting very still by the fire. I greeted him in Tibetan. He turned his head towards me, but couldn’t see me clearly at first—he had probably been staring too long at the flames. It wasn’t until I sat down by the fire that he realised I was a Han Chinese. He smiled and in Chinese asked me where I was from. I told him that