A horse

Half past the Capricorn I set forth south. Bishkek was icy cold, white painted the inmense Soviet remainings, rambled in the streets for two days. Soon I found myself in the countryside, that it's everything besides the capital, like Manas the riders were stoically crossing the white fields. Had only few days to reach Tajikistan, only few days to attend the Navruz, that ancient celebration that came from the Assyntians. From the south came, south I was going to. As someone that has travelled enough (at least for his own ego), I took a road that seemed easy and straight to Dushanbe, the city of mondays. A good soul saved me in the road, I prayed with the men that greeted me like their brother. The snow was knee-depth, the Lenin peak next to me, a monster of seven thousand meters over the waters. I shivered in the road, lonely snake cutting sharp in the mountains. I reach the border town, thanks to a truck that couldn't make it to the end. The soldier raise your hand, "you shall not pass", he said, the Kalashnikov hanging loose.

"Only for locals, sir", the man added. He refused to let in the confused tourist. Apologies were not enough to open the fence. To come back, to step were my footprints were still shaped in despair. No cars, just a straight, black and cold line and my steps crushing the ice beneath. I walked, the petrol stations pumps were totally covered, I was amazed to be in that lonely and magic place. The momentum was optimal, I had nothing else to care about, but to walk, to fall into the horizon. Looked back, nothing, only me in that place; how easy is to find the truth when in solitude. Once alone you will never be lost.

The wind, that capricious creature that can be tender and cruel with a single touch

Looked back again, a strange shape moving towards me. Left, right, my heart beating wondering where I was going to lay on that night. Soon the trotting became evident and turned around to see the rider, a face shaped by the wind and the cold.

We talked with the couple of words we had in common, a weak bridge between us. I pointed the only possible direction: straight, surprisingly enough he was going in the same direction. "Jump in", he said smiling. "How?" I asked, me and my backpack, 95 kilos in the back of the horse. "Are you sure?". "He is strong", he added pointing at its muscles.

Climbed and the horse didn't seem to notice it until he started to walk, slowly he was carrying his burden. Like Sisyphus and his stone. We said nothing and kept climbing uphill.