The Horseman

I can’t remember very well the date, It was not too long ago. Yesterday, maybe the day before? I woke up, and as usual headed for the hotel to use the toilet. I was walking through the café at the entrance of the hotel with my messy hair, morning breath and zombie eyes when someone at a table waves at me. Now, it must be said that people here are very nice and polite. Everyone you cross on the street will say good morning. But waving you over? That’s a little too much, even for this place. I look behind me to see if there is anyone behind me. No one’s there. He really is sitting at a table with another man and waving at me. And as far as I know, I am awake. OK. I go over a little and He says –Hello! Come over, have a coffee!- Too early for my brain to process. Too much wee in my bladder. –Good morning!- I say –Let me go to the bathroom and then I’ll sit with you.

I go down to the bathroom, wee, brush my teeth, hair, take my time. When I come back he’s sitting on his own, but talking on the phone. I assume he’s busy, so I just wave at him and go on my way. He waves me towards him again, so I head over. Somehow he manages to maintain a phone conversation while greeting me and ordering me a coffee. Multitasking at nine in the morning? Good for him! I can hardly keep myself from behaving like a moth near a light bulb before my first cuppa.

When he finally hangs up the phone, he asks me what I was doing yesterday taking photos of the village. That’s upfront! I explain that I am one of the artists who have set up a small village behind the church and that I had taken an hour off the previous morning to walk around town and take photos, as I had not given myself a moment for this before and didn’t want to leave without any images of the place. He seems to accept my answer. Then he tells me that he dropped by the village a little earlier, but we were all sleeping. –Oh you artists! Awake till the wee hours and sleeping through the morning!- Really? Its 9 AM. Who drops in at a stranger’s house before 9 without some sort of appointment anyways? I explain that we are making work which requires darkness, so we’ve been working late these days. That’s not true for all of us, of course, but I’m not about to start antagonising someone who already seems to think we are a bunch of lazy, smelly hippies hanging out behind a church and calling it art. The truth is that unless you have to keep to some sort of (normally work-related) schedule, very few people our age are up before 8 just for the fun of it.

Anyways, he asks me what Im doing and I explain the project to him. I am even nice enough to ask him whether or not I can write about this conversation. He says no. He does not like his private life to be publicised through facebook, twitter and whatever new social media they’ve invented after that. Fair enough I ask him what he’s doing there. He says he goes to get a coffee at the hotel most mornings, he’s partially retired now. He shows me a photo of his work: A couple of Fjord horses. He’s training them. –I have been working with horses for more than 50 years- he says. -I used to work for this farm-He points at the logo on his shirt- but not anymore.- He asks me if I am Austrian too. I say no, Im Chilean. –Chilean! Oh! I used to own the best Paso Peruano! I had to bring him over straight from Perú. Do you know the Paso Peruanos- I nod, unable to get a yes in through his excitement.-Such a nice walk! How do you call it? Trot! No, its not really a trot, not a walk either. It has a name, I can’t remember, do you know? The tic-tic-tic-tic- He says simulating the quick, short trot of the pasos. –Such nice horses! Their character! So grand! So dignified! The people at Lipica did not understand him. They used to look at him and say: What is he doing, that funny horse? What’s with that silly walk? Why do you waste your time and money with such a horse? Big with tiny legs! So strange! But I understood him. He was such a noble horse!- When I asked him what happened to the horse, he responded matter-of-factly. -He broke a leg. Oh well, that happens to these horses- Im a bit shocked at his answer. I mean, it’s not a racing horse, and even if it were a bad injury, surely he could have had an operation and still lived a happy life! I get quite uneasy with these things. I know they are a business for rearers, they fulfil a role, but you’re not going to shoot them when they live out their ‘usefulness’. They are animals! We don’t go around shooting old people just because they can’t work anymore! Why is it acceptable to go around shooting horses then?

I keep quiet. There’s no point in starting an argument when the truth is I know nothing about it. For all I know, there was no way to fix the poor Paso Peruano’s ankle and he would have lived in pain for the rest of his life. I suddenly realise I have been talking with this man for around half an hour and still don’t know his name. –By the way, Im Francisca- I say –Nice to meet you. –Oh, so sorry! My name is Milan-, he says. So Milan and I (now fully acquainted) carry on talking. Its funny how sometimes you are incredibly familiar with people without knowing each others’ names, and others you may know someone for years and after three minutes you have to make up a fake trip to the loo just to get away. I don’t get what the big deal is with introductions. I’m terrible with names and faces, but if I connect with you, we can talk for hours. Otherwise I’ll be quickly making a run for the nearest toilet. That’s a good measuring yard for me. Not whether or not I remember your name!

Sorry, back to Milan. I ask him what he does with horses. Is he a trainer? Milan really is a trainer, but he has been working in different areas of horse rearing. He also used to do horse jumping as a hobby, until three years ago when he had a bad fall. The bar was too high. The horse was spooked, he fell, and the horse trampled on his head. His eye popped out and he lost part of his hearing. He won’t admit it, but he was really (and understandably) spooked by this. Hi has kept his distance from horses ever since. By the look of his fjord horses, which look like ponies, I wonder if he’s ever done any Equine therapy. I don’t have to ask him. The conversation leads us to the subject. He has done Equine therapy. He studied in Sweden and holds a licence to practice here in Slovenia. It was already a tough job, but after the accident it just got to be too much. For what he tells me, I can infer that he as been quite torn over the last few years. He loves working with horses, but after the fall he as taken to rearing them rather than working with them. Also, the Equine therapy work is quite tiring.

He tells me that whilst in studying in Sweden he had to work with a girl who suffered from cerebral palsy. She could not move, not speak, barely made a sound. It took three people to mount her securely on the horse. About 3 minutes after the ride started, the girl started laughing. Milan describes it as the most dry, loud and macabre laugh he’s ever heard. –It was awful, and terrifying,- he says. –Well, you know that she was paralysed, right? Not even the muscles that govern her vocal chords work as they are supposed to. Its an amazing feat that you even managed to get a laugh out of her!- I interject. –Oh! Of course I understand-, he says. But it’s still shocking. I will never forget that sound.- I ask if he bought the Fjord horses to re-start the equine therapy work. He tells me that that’s exactly what he means to do. He is still uneasy, but has already talked to the school’s director and means to move forward in spite of his fears.

Milan is quite a tough character. I don’t judge him. I know it sounds like I do, but the truth is that his environment is light years away from mine. I know nothing about country life or horses. I know nothing about how men of a certain age in Slovenia are allowed and aided in dealing with trauma or disability. All I know is what I can tell from meeting Milan, and that is that he is generous, loves his horses and has a good heart. In my book that’s all that counts. I get up to leave because Heidi is waiting for me to start the morning Yoga. He tells me I have permission to write about whatever I like.