Wass your name

Every time we stop at a village a giggle of kids come running out at us. In a hamlet outside of Shegar two tiny little girls throw their arms around my neck and I let them hug me and play with my hair. They're filthy with dirt from the desert and their noses are dripping with snot in the wind, but their skin is warm from being out in the sun all day and it feels good just to be getting a cuddle, so I don't care.

"Wass your name, wass your name," they say, imitating the Westerners that pass through here in the summers.

"It's Annie," I say, and then I ask them for their names, too, but they don't answer me.

"Wass your name, wass your name," they just keep saying, and then Wangden and Sonan hand them chunks of yak meat and candy and I climb back up in to the jeep because we have to keep going.