Dim. The room is dim and sweltering even in the cool of first light’s barren breeze. The twin twins sit like coffins as we lay buried beneath a thick sheet of heat. The lot of us pile into the tuk-tuk and set a course for the second construction project. Onward, we gain land with the sweeping wall of a waking sun. Faster. God, am I relieved to have brought my grandfather’s windbreaker, Old Reliable. It’s an old jacket I find to be, you guessed it, the most reliable article of clothing I possess. This jacket has faced the gnarliest of life experiences: from desert excursions to skyscraping exercises and, perhaps the most daring of all, loving embraces; not to mention, it has lived a lustrous life before my own.
We approach the somewhat soon-to-be structure of a stable house. S—— opens a planked wooden door to a room with no ceiling and floors of sand. Out comes four donkeys and one horse. “Go! Hai!” S—— commands. They exit and off into the land they gallop. Peanuts to the view. Not one bead of sweat on his forehead comes from stress of their return. The daily tasks prove their ease - thumbing karakdih seeds into moist sand and salvaging plastic from arid rubble. “Please, go retrieve the donkeys.” Okay, I think. I head out into the wasteland and come upon the four of them, banded together. A nice thought crosses my mind about companionship and freedom. I go a round-a-bout way, pick up a palm, and approach the pace with haste. Herding them back to the ceilingless, adobe room was easier than expected. I go left, donkeys go right. I go right, donkeys go left. Though, it did feel as if I were the one at the mercy of their direction. (*Note: I began writing a sentence here while listening to Khruangbin that was a meaningless mess. It has since been erased and I have decided to no longer entertain the metaphors in the moment of flocking the donkeys.)
S—— brings the horse with us to the farm. He ties him to the tuk-tuk and clicks his tongue, insisting on a change of gear. Already, I fear for this foal. He is being trained by a man who loves wildlife like a coltish child loves their dolls. The apex of this love’s thoughts halting at play. This horse is a toy, a pawn - a respected commodity and a slave to this man. My heart aches with each acceleration. The horse keeps pace to keep from dragging. I know he’s got the power in him to go faster than most machines, but he’s afraid. That kind of speed is a raw source of power, best tapped through freedom to roam, not the opposite. The horse drifts ahead of the tuk-tuk, the tether around his muzzle facilitating an unwilling overtake. Lack of slack attracts his front hooves to the wheel of the bike at full speed. It knicks him, he falters, and a soft trickle of blood creates a paste like molasses in the dust.
We reach the farm not a second too soon, I exhale as the foal is set free to roam and feast on the feeble foliage. We plant seeds and sift through sand to unearth plastic and cast it away for repurpose. Afterward, the tuk-tuk dies out. The return will be completed by car. More speed, more power, more pull for the foal.
I sneak out in the night to feed him sugar while everyone sleeps.