There are six boys playing outside the window.  It is about 5:30 PM and they are throwing stones, like boy’s everywhere, except here they are throwing them at the yaks.

           I have been alone and Dawa, just now, has climbed up the stone fence.  I wonder where he has been, no doubt warming his innards with his buddies.

           Yesterday, when we were about to cross a suspension bridge two men were stopping people collecting money - they said, to rebuild the bridge. They did not look very official and it looked more to me like a shake down and I wasn’t thrilled with the thought of paying a toll for something that looked like it could take my life at any moment.  Dawa advised me to go first and to hurry as fast as I could across the bridge and not to look back no matter what.**

           Crossing without incident, I waited.  Soon Dawa ambled across with his wide grin.  Dawa had shrewdly told them that we would pay on our return.  Ha!  We are coming out a different direction.

           Today has turned out great. The queasy stomach has passed as well as my headache.

           I am sitting surrounded by the Sherpa family listening to their chatter and again feeling unfortunate that I must sit there and listen without understanding.

           Dawa is in the kitchen by the fire.  Here I have not been invited to join them.

           It is getting dark and all the kids are inside.

           A woman comes into the corral with an adz.  She is barely visible.  She starts digging and, after clearing about twenty square feet, she lies prostrate in the gathering gloom, gathering, with her hands the small potatoes.