The seven of us: four short Tibetan horses and three riders whose tired feet almost dragged along the dusty path. We had hired the horses and a local guide to get over the ridge before dark, and paid him a few painkiller tablets. “I have never been over that pass,” he muttered. “But I’m going, to help you get there. Why do you need it? There is an easier road.”
Before I could answer, more questions came. Which country are you from? Is it as cold there as here? Do you have yaks? Snow? Mountains like these? How much does a horse cost? Are Belarus and America the same thing? Do you believe in bodhisattvas? My answers plunged him into deep thought. I looked at him, in his rainbow clothes of skins and rough cloth, a long black braid with red threads, huge old sunglasses tied on with a crimson string, and thought he might dissolve in the air like a mirage, horse and all.
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