Horses Lend Us the Wings We Lack

I killed a horse. It was a few days after my birthday. I expected my friends to throw me a surprise party, after all it was my 44th birthday, and we were staying at an exotic location in Dali, a beautiful city in the Yunnan province of China. And they sure did, it was the biggest surprise ever: not a single person wished me on that day. That’s not why I killed the horse. It’s a long story. But you don’t have time. So I’ll keep it short.

I took a 30-minute speed train to Puzhehei, a scenic area with clusters of limestone peaks, karst caves and natural lakes. “You’ll love it there,” my best friend said over the phone. She knew I loved exploring diverse cultures, and Puzhehei was home to five ethnic tribes, so she planned us a mini holiday. I arrived at the hotel earlier than her, so I grabbed my camera, and went out for a walk.

I spotted a few cottages by the lake that were surrounded by cut bamboo. Smoke came out of the wood burning fireplace, kids ran around with water buckets, and the grandpa smoked his waterpipe. I sped up, set up the shot, but just before I pressed the shutter on my camera, I got knocked down. I turned around to look, it was a beautiful young brown horse, it swung its tail, and snorted. I noticed the dirty blonde hair on its mane, but I got scared. The grandpa came over, “nǐ zěnme zhème ruò?” (why are you so weak?) he held the horse, and shook his head. I got up, apologized, and walked back to the hotel.

“Birthday boy!” my friend jumped up, and gave me a hug. “It was a few days ago,” I smiled. “The whole week is yours,” she held my hand, “let’s go check out this place.”

We walked around for a bit, tasted the local Pu’er tea, and bargained for a wooden bangle. All of a sudden, we heard a loud commotion across the street, so we peeked. A bunch of people were running for their life, a horse was chasing them, “this is fun,” my best friend clapped her hand. We went closer, this looks familiar, I spotted the dirty blonde hair. I picked up my camera, and composed the shot, but to my surprise, the horse stopped right in front of me. It snorted, swung its tail, and then dumped a huge pile of shit.

“I know him,” I said, “or her, I don’t know how this works.”

“Go stand next to him,” my friend took my camera, “perfect shot,” she clicked the shutter button. While she took a few more shots of me and the horse, we saw some tribal folks on their horses, riding towards us.

“That’s the grandpa,” I said. My friend raised her eyebrows. “I met them earlier,” I said.

The grandpa came down his horse, nodded at me with a smile, and grabbed the young brown horse. He looked at me, and said something in Chinese. I turned to my best friend. “He’s saying, it’s a sign,” she said. “Sign for what?” I shrugged my shoulders.

My friend and the grandpa spoke briefly, and then we started walking in the opposite direction. “Umm, where are we going?” I said. “Just wait,” she said. And we continued walking. After 15 minutes, we reached the same village where I had met the young horse for the first time. The family pulled out a few wooden chairs, and we sat around a bon fire.

“What’s going on?” I whispered in her ear. “They have invited you, well us, for dinner,” she said. “But why?” I looked at her. “They believe you solved their problem.”

The grandpa brought a few bottles of plum wine, some dried fruits, and beef jerky. “There are prepping food, so for now, we munch on these,” my friend translated. I nodded with a smile, chewed a small piece of beef jerky, and chased it with a shot of plum wine. “I love this life,” I said to grandpa, “Xièxiè nǐ, yéyé” (thank you, grandpa.)

He tapped my shoulders, “Nǐ de zhōngwén hěn chà” (your Chinese is very bad,) he laughed. And then we all laughed.

The family served all kinds of delicious local delicacies, especially the meat, which I loved. It was pinkish, somewhat sweet, a little gamey, and a cross between beef and venison. I need to learn how they cook this, I thought of asking the grandma for the recipe, but the grandpa poured more plum wine in my glass. We spent a few hours with them, listening to traditional music, taking multiple selfies and group photos, and when we ran out of the plum wine, my friend grabbed my hand, “I think we should go back to our hotel, ” she said.

We thanked the family for their hospitality, got their phone number, so we could invite them for lunch the next day, but then I remembered something.

“Where’s my buddy?” I slurred, as I looked at the grandpa. My best friend translated. The grandpa flipped his hands and shoulders like wings, and pointed towards the sky.

“I mean the horse, is she sleeping?”

He said something to my friend in Chinese, and her face turned red.

“What’s going on?” I stepped closer, and held the grandpa’s shoulder.

“I think I’m gonna puke,” my friend took a step back.

“What the hell is going on?” I grabbed her hand.

“That meat you loved so much,” she said, “that was the fucking horse.”