Think "The Sound of Music," with yaks The very least you might expect in the remote highlands of western China is a measure of privacy, writes Patti Waldmeir "I've got some banking to do, would you mind waiting here for me?" asked the deferential young security policeman assigned to follow me everywhere on my recent holiday in western China. It seemed only fair: he had waited for me while I did my own banking earlier in the day, and had even offered advice on what traditional Chinese medicine could combat my altitude sickness in his native Xiahe, a mountain town that is also home to the Labrang monastery, one of the most important centres of Tibetan Buddhism outside Tibet. He seemed a nice young chap and he was only doing his job: making sure that I didn't accidentally interview anyone Tibetan while on my holiday. Since I don't speak Tibetan, and most Tibetans I met apparently spoke neither Mandarin nor English, the chance of any meaningful communication taking place between us seemed slim - even on topics such as whether the hotel had hot water (it did not) and what time was the next bus out of there. Luckily for me, my policeman friend was there to help me buy a bus ticket; I knew his bosses would want to know where I was headed next anyway, and figured it would be easier for us all if he actually saw my bus ticket. That way he could be sure to have another helpful policeman meet me when in the next town: no wasting time waiting for my tail to arrive. In fact, my holiday had nothing to do with the topic that got me my own personal security detail - Tibetans. I wasn't even in Tibet. I was in western China's Gansu province, where I had gone to live for a few days with nomad yak herders. It never occurred to me to worry about their ethnicity. I was more focused on the fact that, living with them, I would be sleeping on the ground in a yak-hair tent, collecting yak dung at dawn for fuel. I spent a while figuring out how many pairs of long johns to pack and whether I might be allergic to the tent. I indulged unnecessary concerns about: a) spending three days on horseback getting there, b) sleeping at 4,000 metres without getting altitude sickness and c) charging my iPhone without a plug. Interviewing Tibetans who only speak Tibetan was never on my radar. In fairness to my security detail, I chose a poor moment for this little jaunt - a fortnight before the leadership meeting of the Chinese Communist party, traditionally a time when security folks throughout China are at their jumpiest. Fortunately, my personal policemen drew the line at forming a posse on horseback. They gallantly helped me - a white-haired lady old enough to be their grandmother - carry my luggage. They dispensed thoughtful advice on the need to dress warmly when sleeping in a tent in winter. And they politely wondered why on earth I wanted to do it in the first place. But when it came to putting foot to stirrup, I was on my own. Sleeping with yaks is apparently not on the list of things prohibited for foreign journalists living in China. Who knew? So I set off on an unshod horse with a temperament to match the inhospitable weather. After many frigid hours in the saddle I ended up in the lap of Tibetan luxury: a tent heated by yak-dung stove, a kettle on the hob and a bowl of fragrant yak-milk yoghurt to greet me. In a country of 1.4bn people, we'd ridden an entire day and seen only one other human - for miles in any direction nothing but high pastureland and snow-capped peaks. The Sound of Music, with yaks. My Tibetan hosts and I had no common language, so no risk of any accidental interviewing there. There was no time anyway: the lady of the house rose at dawn to scoop up the poop deposited the night before by her 50-strong herd, and spread it out to dry for use as fuel. I traipsed around behind her, feebly struggling to carry one heavy yak pat while she carried a basketful, and failing to milk even one yak while she filled a bucket with yak nectar. And when I wasn't following her, a yak or a child was following me - especially when I left the tent to avail myself of the miles and miles of uninterrupted grassland that serve as the local loo. One particular old yak dogged my every step when I left the tent for call-of-nature purposes, as did the family's toddler: neither responded to imprecations in English, Chinese, or sign language to desist. Yaks, kids, policemen, all this togetherness gets a bit much after a while. What a relief to be back in Shanghai, where Big Brother may still be watching, but at least he lets me visit the bank, bus station and loo without an escort.