September 29, 2006, near Zhuzhu Dzong village, Ngari Prefecture, Tibet

“Chig,” muttered Tashi, jaw clenched, teeth clamped to his smoldering cigarette. “Dra par chig, Jake-la. (Just one minute, just one photograph.)”

He careened our hurtling jeep partly off the road, skidding to a stop with something resembling a smile: maybe a grin, maybe a sneer, classic Tashi. I'd known him for six years, and come to know his curious ways, a gruff demeanor concealing his true genial, fun-loving self. (My first experience was careening down a rutted road toward Tibet's Kama Valley when the hood, tied closed with twine, flew open, spiderwebbing the windshield and blocking all visibility. Tashi skidded to a stop effortlessly, retied the hood and, with a deep laugh and a relaxed slap on my back, said simply: Good, no problem, we go now. And off we went.)

“One picture, then I leave,” he said, the confused mouth-shape now reminiscent of a smile. “You can stay, but I leave.”