Romania: The Gypsy Baby Biter ( Part Two )

This story available with photographs at: http://www.thelifeofanaverageperson.com/

Arriving in Sighisoara, we were exhausted. The air conditioning on the train had broken. It was hot, and traveling with closely packed unwashed bodies, accompanied by the ever present stench of urine had taken its toll on all of us. Perhaps that is why I was unprepared for the young gypsy woman standing at the bridge that led to the city, holding a dirty sleeping baby, saying the expected words:

“Baby, hospital. Baby, hospital.”

“Next time.” I said, lugging the suitcase with my money in it over the bridge. I didn’t want to unpack it in front of her.

When she realized I wasn’t giving her anything, she cursed me, raising her hand angrily.

Sighisoara is famous as one of the best preserved medieval cities in Europe, that along with the notoriety of being the birth place of Vlad the Impaler, the inspiration for Count Dracula. The clock tower, the narrow cobblestone streets and the stag’s head Inn give the impression you have stepped back in time.

Gypsies were not welcome in the historic center where the tourists are, instead, they congregated in the park outside the ancient town. From a distance, the park looked beautiful, blooming flowers and benches ringed by lines of trees and green grass. Entering the park, however, the odor of urine was so overpowering that it was impossible to stay. I quickly hurried through it. On my way out, I saw a group of elementary aged Gypsy children, playing with coins and sticks. One of them pulled his pants down and urinated, spraying the sidewalk and grass. No one found this unusual.

It was very hot, so we sat under an umbrella at a café in the historic center, sipping sodas. A dog lay on his back in the middle of the street, all four paws comfortably in the air. The residents and tourists all paused to scratch his belly and slip him bits of sausage.

“This is Jimmy!” One of the locals informed us, smiling at the dog, “He’s drunk!”

“He always drinks!” Someone at another table added.

Everyone laughed fondly.

Jimmy was content, sporting what looked like a perpetual smile plastered on his muzzle. In the midst of the heat, he was allowed into one of the restaurants, to rest on the cool tiled floor. We continued to sit through the afternoon heat watching Jimmy on his rounds from place to place.

A gypsy girl of 12 or so sidled into the square, lugging a baby. Her blonde hair hung in dirty strings, her pink pants caked with dirt. She had what looked like an infected boil on the side of her neck. The baby was naked. His buttocks were scratched and his hair gummed in mats.

She approached several tourists. “Ca-lay-ga!”

“Away!” The waiter burst from the café with a broom. “Away!”

The girl took a half step back.

He lunged at her, his previously congenial face now a distorted mask of distaste. He lifted the broom threateningly, shooing her away much like one would a stray dog – if we even do that anymore as a society.

She decided he was serious and bolted.

He watched, hands on his hips. Satisfied she had gone, he disappeared back into the café. The contrast of treatment between Jimmy and the Gypsy girl was stark. Jimmy would never have been chased away with harsh words.

After a few minutes, she crept back into the square.

This time, she noticed us watching her and made a straight bee line our direction.
“Papa Ca-lay-ga.” She said in a wheedling voice, “Mama Ca-lay-ga.”

We gave her five lei.

She smiled and wandered over to the next tourist.

We asked our waiter what she was saying.

The waiter frowned with rank disapproval at our actions and reluctantly answered, “She says they have no work.” She marched back into the café, annoyed.

When more money was not forthcoming, the little gypsy girl returned.

“Mama ca-lay-ga. Papa ca-lay-ga. Baby, hospital.” She whined, pointing to the dirty baby sleeping in her arms.

Half admiring her persistence, we gave her another 10 lei.

She pointed to half empty bottle of Sprite.

We threw that into the bargain.

She happily trotted off, drinking the Sprite.

A few minutes later, a gypsy woman came from around the corner, carrying the same sleeping baby. She walked towards us with purpose.

“Baby, hospital.” She pleaded in a sing-song voice, “Baby, hospital.”
We shook our heads.

After ten minutes, she finally left.

The gypsy girl skipped by, carrying a box covered in white paper, eating what looked like pretzels.

Preparing to leave, we glanced up to find her mother had once again given her the baby and sent her back to us.

“Mama, Ca-lay-ga. Papa Ca-lay-ga.” She said, parking herself at our table.

The locals started scowling at us outright, shaking their heads.

“No.” We told her kindly, but gave her the rest of our Coke.

She grabbed it and promptly guzzled most of it down. Burping unapologetically in our faces, she continued her cajoling, “Baby, hospital.”

“No.” I said, “You have enough.”

She knew she was losing us. She watched us packing our things preparing to leave, still pointing to the sleeping naked baby and trying to convince us he was sick. With a sidelong glance, she subtly lowered her mouth as if to kiss the sick little thing and promptly sank her teeth into his arm.

The baby woke with a scream, tears flooding his bright green little eyes.

“No!” We said sternly, “Bad! Bad!”

“Baby, hospital!” She said, pleased to have proved her point, oblivious to the fact we could see the red teeth marks clearly on the infant’s arm.

I pretended to bite my arm and pointed to her. She was impressed I had figured it out, and acted shocked, like she would never do such a thing, shaking her head and saying ‘no’. She kept the act up for a minute and then realized it was a lost cause. She blithely skipped away, sharing the remainder of the Coke with the baby, who promptly quit crying and guzzled his share.

A short time later, we rounded the corner to find them being expelled from the historic section by a pompous man. He proudly chased them out like animals, stomping, yelling insults and raising his fists. He was supported by most of the local bystanders who wagged their heads in disgust.

The baby-biting gypsy girl skipped her way out, unfazed by the insults following her. She recognized us and gave a cheery wave, flashing a brilliant smile.

We followed them to the park and they spent time with us, posing for pictures, dancing to the music of an accordion and playing games. When we ran out of money, they pointed to our ear rings, phones, watches, backpacks and even the camera, though laughing a bit at the last one.

A passerby stopped to watch and then indicating the dancing gypsy children, said, “This is the real Romania.”

Several new children joined, a dark haired girl with the only gypsy baby we ever saw in a diaper, and a girl that we didn’t even think was a gypsy at first. Her hair and clothes were far too clean. We motioned that we did not want her picture but this caused the others to frown and they refused their picture to be taken without her. Later, we discovered she was the prostitute, standing on the street corners at night - she couldn't have been more than 14, if that.

A local barista informed me that foreign men pay for the sexual services of nine year old Gypsy girls. The families sell them because they claim to have no food. While the Romanian people deny this, I met very many hungry Gypsy children.
Heading to Brasov, we made our way to the train station.

A gypsy family sat at the outdoor bar restaurant, eating burgers. They wore vivid colors, the white skirts and gold colored coins. One of the fathers proudly carried his baby girl.

Two dirty children approached, a boy of about 10 or so, holding the hand of a little five year old girl. Their clothes were grimy.

The old woman sweeping the sidewalk with a twig broom watched them suspiciously. When they got too near, she chased them away, yelling. They obediently ran off, but only as far as the line of trees, waiting until she had finished and left before coming back.

They held out their hands, pointing to their mouths, trying to tell us they were hungry.

We pointed to the café and motioned that we would buy them food.

The boy brightened, dragging his little sister along with him, but insisted on going behind the train station. The thought crossed our minds that it might be a trap, so we followed cautiously, but he was just leading us to a much cheaper food stand that sold liters of non-labeled soda and burgers.

The two children grabbed their burgers and skipped off, though not before the boy stopped in front of me and made a point to say, “Thank you” in English.

The brightly dressed gypsies watched the entire exchange, and whistled at us and holding out their hands for money, but they were laughing. We watched as the two children sat under a tree, devouring the food in seconds. They posed for a few pictures, we gave them some money, and they left, content, clutching their bottle of soda.

We left Sighisoira, but our direct train to Brasov never arrived. The line numbers
on the departure board did not even remotely resemble the trains passing through, and rather than wait hours, we boarded a four car local train that would stop in every village. The wagons were full, men propped on sacks of either flour or cement, a woman sitting on a burlap bag of potatoes. Another man filled the aisles with long, fluorescent light bulbs.

Each car reeked of urine and sweat. I found a seat in the back, next to an open window, but it didn’t help much. The conductor finally came on board, accompanied by three large, burly men. I wondered why such a small train would need four men to manage it - by the end of the journey, I knew.

The next four hours was spent playing a twisted game of hide and seek with the gypsies.

The already weary conductor would ask for their tickets. A precious few paid on the spot, obviously hoping to reach their village before they were asked, but the majority only offered a few coins, far short of the fare, accompanied by a wheedling explanation.

The conductor would stifle a sigh and he, or one of the men, would escort them from the seat to the carriage door. At the next stop, they were forced off the train. The conductor and his men standing in the doorway to prevent them from hopping back on.
However, there were groups of gypsies waiting in the shade at each station, mostly women with up to a dozen children sharing a single sandwich and a liter bottle of soda. The train attendant on the ground did their best to watch them, but it was almost impossible to prevent them from sneaking on board while they were all busy evicting the others.

And so, it was an endless cycle, each stop presented a challenge. There were a couple of ancient gypsy crones that the conductor took pity on. He kept trying to get them up, off their seats and out of the door, but they steadfastly refused, and he eventually gave up. They hobbled out on their own, never paying a penny. By the time we arrived at our destination, two hours late, the conductor was exhausted. We were as well, from simply watching the poor man.

Brasov was relatively free of gypsies, or at least the town square. I thought perhaps it had something to do with the high numbers of police patrolling the sidewalks. This was later confirmed by Lucy, our taxi driver who ended up turning into our travel guide for a time. He said the gypsies had their own section, as in Bucharest, and were not allowed to pester tourists.

We left Transylvania the next evening, swatting the hoards of mosquitoes that we laughingly called Dracula's minions. While waiting for our train, we watched the gypsies wander nearby. An old woman, blind in one eye, her toes twisted so much I marveled she could even walk, hobbled to rest on the bench next to me. She didn’t beg. She didn’t have to. I pressed money into her hand. She bowed her head, thanking me, mumbling something through a mouth mostly devoid of teeth. With excruciating exactness, she pulled open her sweater and took out a scrap of cloth, wrapping the money securely in it and tying it back before shuffling painfully away.

A teenage boy was digging through the trash can. He found what looked like a tea bag and began to suck on it. His clothes were far too large; they hung off his gaunt frame like dirty curtains. I gave him a pretzel and cash, he was thrilled. He started sucking on the pretzel, at first I thought to savor it, but then I could see there was something wrong with his teeth. He could only gum it.

The last I saw, he hopped on the same local train we had taken before with the same exhausted conductor, still holding the money I gave him in one hand – more than enough to pay his fare – and clutching the pretzel in the other, trying his best to chew.

The majority of the locals were vehemently discouraging of anyone giving the Gypsies money, telling us the money went straight to the alcoholic father and that we were perpetuating a problem that they were doomed to live with long after we had returned home. Yes, these Gypsy parents were guilty of abusing their children, using them to beg and not feeding them. They were hardened to the plight of their own children, but the Romanian people were as well, chasing these kids off with brooms and treating street dogs with much more kindness. Whatever the sins of the adults, I saw many hungry, tired and abused little children. I watched them wolf down whatever I gave them to eat, and then I gave them change to appease their handlers, at least it would help them avoid a beating. And, for that, I offer no apology.

I left Romania marveling how the country appeared advanced, with its car dealerships and wireless networks, yet a large part of it is trapped in the Middle Ages. Horse-drawn carts mingling with cars on the road was not an uncommon sight. A large majority of the fields were still being harvested by hand, the farmers creating the rounded haystacks with their pitchforks. I wondered which direction the country was truly headed, if it was going to rise and rebuild or if it was going to fall back into the mists of time. For the sake of the boy sucking the tea bag and all the other Gypsy children I met, I hope it progresses. I hope he can find a way to better his life and show the others it is possible to do the same.

But, by far, my most vivid memory of this country will always be that baby-biting-gypsy girl. She still astounds me and I cannot but help admire her. In the course of a few hours, she had been chased by a broom, sworn at, spat upon and run out of the city as fast as her bare feet allowed. Yet, she had still waved as she ran past me, sending me a genuine smile, of one human to another. Her spirit was not crushed. In that brief moment, she demonstrated something powerful to me, the power of tenacity, of not being crushed by failure. Nothing would stop her from her goal, when she met obstacles, she merely tried another way. I cannot help but wonder, if we shared but a tiny fraction of her determination, what might we accomplish?

Romania: The Gypsy Baby Biter ( Part One )

This story available with photographs at: http://www.thelifeofanaverageperson.com/


The overwhelming smell of urine greeted me as I stepped off the train in Transylvania, Romania. The stations here were decaying: cracked tile, broken benches and trains disregarding schedules to arrive at their own whim. I took a deep breath, preparing myself for a disappointing experience.

I was wrong.

Amidst the poverty, I found a vibrant people, friendly and honest who loved to help; people proud of their heritage but angry with their government. Those that spoke even three words of English eagerly jumped at the chance to offer assistance, escorting us to our destinations and pushing aside offers of money.

And then, there were the Gypsies.

The Gypsies, or the Roma as they call themselves, have been portrayed as thieves and tricksters throughout history. It was obvious these beliefs still burned in the hearts of the Romanian people and perhaps rightly so. Each time I mentioned the word 'Gypsy', eyes would dart to the side and mouths would tighten. Some showed a combination of pity and disgust. Others were angry the government compensated the gypsies for each child, a practice that encouraged a large brood and provided little incentive for them to progress.

My first encounter with the Gypsies was in Cluj-Napoca and it still wrenches my heart: A young woman on the street, face swollen and clutching her stomach as she backed timidly away from a reeking dark-skinned man. He was shouting, shaking a threatening fist as he advanced. A handful of men watched, almost bored, from a dilapidated shoe repair shop that also sold newspapers, cigarettes and tea. I would never put up with such blatant abuse. Had a man treated me so, I would have promptly chopped his head off. However, it was obvious this woman did not have the right. Ashamed I could not help, I walked away.

After wandering in Cluj-Napoca for an hour, lost and dragging suitcases, we finally stopped at the nearest restaurant and asked for directions to our hotel.

“Too far for you!” The women standing outside shook their heads, clucking, "No walk! We call taxi!"

I hesitated at first. As a rule, I travel cheaply in order to experience more of the world. In addition, the Romanian travel forums warned both taxi drivers and waiters preyed on innocent tourists (situations I never encountered the entire trip). This was a double whammy. However, I was tired after the long train journey so, with a sigh, I agreed.

As we waited for the taxi, the man in charge of the restaurant eagerly pulled out a tourist map. Brushing his customers aside, he enthusiastically began to mark the “must see” sights. His clientele did not mind the wait; instead, they chimed in with opinions, pouring over the map and circling their personal favorites. Everyone was smiling, gesturing broadly and speaking loudly.

Our taxi arrived. The driver was a young, cheerful man named Radu.

“English! I can practice English now!” He smiled, thrilled, running his hand over his shaved head. After loading our luggage, he took off, threading wildly through the traffic at high speeds. A song by Wham began playing on the radio and he pointed to the receiver, “I learn English from listening and watching Tom and Jerry!”

We laughed. We were all Tom fans and agreed he deserved to eat that pesky mouse. I yawned, worn-out, telling him we had been walking since the train station.

“Why?” He asked, clearly confused.

“I love to travel.” I said, “I always try to walk, anything I can do to save money for future adventures. Every drop in the ocean counts.”

He broke into peals of laughter, almost rear-ending the car in front of us. Finally, he said, “In Romania, you are only saving ‘steam’!”

He was right. The entire trip cost less than $3.00.

As Radu drove, he pointed out a medical school, saying Cluj was a college town. I asked him about the Gypsies and education. He was one of the rare few that seemed more sympathetic than anything else. He stated the government encouraged the Gypsies to attend school. Spots in each college were reserved only for them, but few took advantage of it. I wondered if they even knew or understood what that meant.

After settling into our hotel, we hailed another cab back to the historic district. It was a Sunday, only a few restaurants were open. I picked an outside café. There were a variety of dishes on the menu, but as I was soon to discover, most would never be available. Invariably, anything containing cabbage was, and that night, I chose cabbage and noodles.

As I waited for my food, I watched the people on the street. There were a few obvious tourists, stopping to browse the menus and the locals hurrying from the buses, carrying bags. Then, there were the gypsies. They were easily recognizable. Their clothes were stained, their hair and skin dirty. They looked as if they hadn’t bathed in months. If you made eye contact, they came running.

A rail thin boy approached. He couldn’t have been more than 10. His eyes were the most unusual green, his skin tanned and his brown hair pulled back tight in a pony tail. His clothes were filthy. He held his hand out as he passed by, eyes riveted to mine and speaking words I did not understand.

He was followed by a little boy of two, wearing pink crocs and playing with a stick in the gutter. Across the street and a fair distance away, a woman slowly followed. I couldn’t imagine anyone letting a two year old navigate street traffic on their own. Horrified, I held out a few lei to the child. He was well trained. He ran forward and snatched it away.

I had little time to feel pleased, however. Almost immediately, the older boy returned, but he was belligerent, beating his hands on his chest, his brows drawn in a scowl. He began to yell, obviously demanding his share. Even at his tender age, he was intimidating. A little shocked, I quickly pressed some money into his hand, simply to make him go away. He flashed a grin and obliged.

This was enough to interest the mother, seeing her children’s success, she picked up her pace and crossed the street. Adopting a sad expression, she hovered over our table, but always on the alert, looking from side to side as if preparing to run.

“Baby, hospital. Baby, hospital.” She kept repeating. Words I would soon hear from every gypsy woman I encountered.

“No.” I said, shaking my head. I was done distributing money to this particular group and shook my head. After a while, she bobbed her head and joined her children to disappear around the end of the block.

Cluj was interesting; most of it rundown by American standards. Everything was cheap. I wandered through the historic district, eating Kurtoskalacs, the local pastry made of dough twisted on a cylinder, rolled in butter, dipped in cinnamon, and then roasted over coals like marshmallows. I happened upon a small almost Italian looking piazza, complete with statues, pigeons and performing artists, but with peeling paint and graffiti tainted walls.

There were abundant, unsecured wireless networks, so I sat on a bench to see if I could latch onto one. There, I noticed a gypsy couple. The woman was young, but downtrodden, appearing strangely old. The husband was much the same, jiggling the baby on his knee. Both looked very sad.

After awhile, the young woman stood, and as modestly as possible, maneuvered under her skirt to remove her underwear. My shock soon turned to pity as she proceeded to wash it at the public drinking fountain, though her washing was continually interrupted by the local children skipping up to take a drink. Satisfied they were clean, she donned them on again. They were obviously the only pair she had.

The baby was changed next. She had no diaper, but two pairs of pants. The soiled ones were washed in the fountain, and then, they walked away; the father carrying the baby while the mother followed, swinging the wet pants in the air to dry them faster.

Not all Gypsies are destitute, I was told. Some live in villages with televisions and gardens, but that seems to be a precious few. We encountered an interesting group at the local MacDonald’s. They were clean and brightly dressed. The women wore voluminous skirts, glittery tops with dangling gold colored coins and purple kerchiefs on their heads. The men stood at the head of the tables, passing out burgers and fries while watching the game on the flat screen TV.

We observed them for awhile. After eating, they moved outside to beg money from tourists while their green-eyed children rolled cherries like marbles down the wheelchair ramp.

This group was laughing, almost playful and we finally asked to take their pictures.

“Lei.” We said to one of the younger women, holding out a few Romanian bills.

The woman held out five fingers.

“Ok.” We agreed finally, pointing to the camera. “Five Lei.”

She nodded.

We gave her the money, but as soon as she had it in her hand, she giggled. Covering her face with her arm, she ran around the corner. We couldn’t help but laugh. Her companions descended upon us, all playing the same game. As soon as they had a few lei in their hands, they would block their faces and laugh. Eventually, we succeeded, but only because we were crafty, tricking them by holding the cameras away from our faces. They didn’t know we could still take pictures that way.

On the train to Sighisoara, we met a retired schoolteacher, Dania. It was hard to live in Romania, she told us. She used her entire pension simply to pay the monthly heating bills. The average family struggled, and could only afford maybe 1 or 2 children. When those children were grown, they had no future, no choice but to leave the country. Her children lived in Boston. When I asked what she thought of the gypsies, she told me that they had huge families, but most lived in poverty. The children ran wild, wandering and begging on their own to return only to the parents at night.

“They are stuck in the medieval days.” She said, shaking her head, “They marry their children off at age 12. They don’t read and write. They migrate to Italy, Spain and France, but the governments send them back to Romania. They sneak back and it starts all over again.”

“Do they have the opportunity to work?” I asked.

“Of course!” She said, “They can sweep the streets, things like that, but they complain about those jobs.”

It was their culture, she said, they simply did not want to advance.

Mayonnaise and Goldfish: The Life of an Arabian Horse Breeder

( for this same story with pictures, see: http://www.thelifeofanaverageperson.com/ )

Names like Lake Pleasant and Happy Valley seem decidedly at odds with the surrounding barren and hostile landscape. Quail dart across the desert road trailed by babies the size of my thumb. Some of the bigger dust devils manage to airlift a few tumbleweeds before swirling into non-existence in the intense heat.

At first glance, this stretch of the Carefree Highway in Arizona looks like all the rest: sand, saguaro cactus, mesquite trees, rocks and ... more sand. But, stopping to take a deeper look revealed a hidden treasure within the Sonoran Desert, one I hadn’t expect to find here, and that was the mysterious world of the Arabian horse.

A left turn off the Carefree highway revealed a white adobe house perched on the desert’s edge, the front yard filled with rocks, purple sage, and a variety of cacti. The matching wall surrounding the land behind it permitted only the top of a barn to be seen. A particularly large lizard perched on the sign simply stating, “Binx Arabians”.

“No, not Jar-Jar Binx.” The owner laughed, referencing Star Wars, “Binx stands for Binky’s Arabians.”

Rae “Binky” Weaver, a delicate woman in her fifties, is not someone you would imagine handling 800 lb horses on a daily basis. The nickname Binky stems from a long family tradition of fondly renaming its members to commemorate events or changing roles. These names stick. Binky has been living with hers since birth; a gift bestowed by her grandfather, “Pappy”, after a particularly colicky episode was quelled by a pacifier sold under the name of “Binky”.

“I fell in love with Arabians as a kid.” She explains, taking me through her house to the enclosed complex in the back, “We lived next to Kellogg’s farm in California.”

Binky recounted history I must have heard before, and while you might hear of General Patton rescuing the Polish Arabians in WWII and starting the “Calvary Breeding” program with Kellogg, the cereal maker, you rarely hear about the ripples these events have long after the news flash is gone. Every Sunday, a young girl and her grandfather Pappy made the trip to admire these animals, a ritual that shaped Binky’s entire life, instilling a passion for the breed that still makes her entire face glow.

Pappy bought her a horse, saddle, and all the trimmings including a ½ ton of hay. The price tag for the lot: $80.00.

“It was a horrible horse.” Binky smiled, shaking her head. With difficulty, she recalled the name, Copper, and even then wasn’t confident. But, she had no problem remembering every minute detail about its foal, “Boogaloo Baby” and his illustrious vaulting career in the Olympics. Her grandfather, dying of cancer, had somehow convinced the Kellogg farm to breed her old nag to one of its stallions, Zadir. “Pappy sat in his lawn chair every evening, waiting for that foal.” Binky’s voice softened, “He died two days after it was born.”

It was the beginning of her life with Arabians. The years moved Binky through many states, but there was rarely a time she wasn’t involved in the Arabian community. She introduced me to her mares. The first one was Melania IA, a black bay, who looks just like her grandsire, the well known Magic Dream. “This one is Melly, she descends from one of my own horses, years ago, named Bold Darling.”

Binky has only had Melly a week and the neighboring mare, DSB Justa Princess, is jealous of the newcomer. Princess leans into the adjoining pen drinking only from her rival’s water and inserts her head between me and Melly at every opportunity.

There are other mares, including two daughters of Marwan al Shaqab, and an adorable foal named Fancy, but it is Felicity L R, a granddaughter of Padron’s Psyche (who recently sold for $20 million at the ripe age of 24) that caught my attention.

Felicity stood proud, basking in the attention, a young beautiful brown chestnut, with bumps under her jaw indicating molars were arriving. She thrust her soft nose into my face, in what Binky explained was a horse greeting. Holding still, I followed Binky’s instructions and let her sniff my breath, relieved when she turned away. I took a step forward, preparing to move on, when she surprised me by leaning over my shoulder and plunging her nose down my shirt.
“Felicity is our pickpocket.” Binky laughed, “She steals eyeglasses and car keys.” Upon securing them, she gleefully gallops in her pen, enjoying the chase before exchanging them for a good back rub. She also plays with balls, but her favorite toy is an empty milk carton. Holding it with her lips, she’ll drag it across the fence, enjoying the whack-whack-whack as the plastic hits metal bars.

I try to move on, but Felicity huffs and whinnies, nodding her head up and down when I look at her. Unable to resist the big brown eyes, I found myself leaning through the fence and scratching her neck. She snuffled in my ear, and as I hit a particular spot, nibbled my shoulder with her lips.
“They say 'I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine.’ comes from communal horse grooming.” Binky told me, grabbing a broom to sweep the rocks and dust from Felicity’s hay rack. Felicity snorted and intercepted the broom, maneuvering until Binky was scratching her back with it instead.

I’m used to horses displaying interest in me only for carrots, an interest microscopically short lived when the treat is not produced forthwith, but these horses were different. They craved human interaction. They were just like big dogs.

“When Arabians are born, they are held first by humans and then given to the mother.” Binky explained, “They were bred for companionship, they lived in the desert in the tents, slept in them, had their babies in them, right next to their humans.”

I’ve always heard that Arabians were bred for the desert, but I’ve always been skeptical. Relationships aside, what horse would actually enjoy the heat and dust? These things had hair and lots of it. Yet, each of the mares, including the foal, was voluntarily standing in the sun, ignoring the shade of the shelters just a few feet away.

A casual glance into the water troughs revealed several large gold fish and I watched, horrified, as Felicity dipped her nose for a drink.

Binky found my ignorance amusing, “Those fish live in there for years. They keep the tank clean.” Most of her horses have the new version of the horse water fountain, but after chewing hers, Felicity is relegated to the tank and fish. I couldn’t help but think she planned it that way; they were very pretty and fun to watch.

The barn stood in the center of the property, amazingly cool, the heavy insulation providing ample protection from the hot desert sun. Around the perimeter, mushrooms pushed up through the sand, evidence of recent rain, and particularly bold rabbits snack on alfalfa under the horse’s feet.

“A few months ago, a rabbit came here and had a couple of babies, all pink and ugly, no hair.” Binky pointed to the neatly stacked alfalfa in the barn, “The mother just looked at me; she didn’t think it was a problem.” The big, burly men that deliver her hay carefully surrounded the young family with a few bales, creating an igloo fortress. The rabbits stayed almost a month, until they all hopped off. Binky shook her head, “Crazy rabbits.”

It is a complex combination of bloodlines, what horse is bred to who. These breeders generally know what the foal would look like before they even start the process. They speak their own language of gaskins, stifles and croups, describing horses with such language as: “the horse has a star strip, snip and lower lip with a right hind coronet”, translating into the horse has white on the forehead, down it to the lip and a white smidgeon on the back leg. The lingo was too much and my eyes glazed over.

The next morning was cool, Felicity was cantering in the arena. When she noticed our arrival, she altered her course to prance back and forth in front of the camera.
“She thinks she is at a show.” Binky shook her head at Felicity’s antics. “She poses after her bath, ready for pictures.”

After a few minutes, Felicity is given a shower and Binky asks me if I know what breeders rub on Arabian’s to make them shine for the show. “Mayonnaise.” She grins, “Huge barrels of the stuff. It does wonders.”

That afternoon, coming back from the grocery store, Binky notices Felicity down in her pen. The response is immediate. Before the groceries are even put away, she is out in the sun, next to the mare. Finally responding to Binky’s insistent orders, Felicity staggered to her feet. It was an obvious effort. Binky’s concern grows. As she readies a syringe of pain killer, she calls the vet, fearing colic.

“We lost a mare to colic just a few months ago.” Binky is clearly worried, “That, or she might be slipping the foal.”

Faster than the average 911 response, the vet is there. He listens to Felicity’s bowels, inspects the pen for her latest droppings. Taking no chances, he grabs a bucket and a hose from his truck. Felicity doesn’t care for plastic tubing being shoved down her nose, but the painkiller is already taking affect, and resistance was short lived as the vet gave her oil, electrolytes and more painkillers.

“If she’s in bad shape, those drugs will have no effect on her.” The vet tells Binky. But, before he could even make it back to his truck, Felicity wobbled toward her hay rack.
Everyone visibly relaxed.

“That horse is the biggest wuss.” The vet growls fondly, “Probably just a slight stomach ache.”
“She’s stoned.” Binky grins in relief.

Felicity bounces back strong and by the next morning, it was as if nothing had happened. “Except she is spoiled now…” Binky smiles, “Someone has been checking on her every hour, now she expects constant attention.”

It is a pleasant evening; bats are migrating through the area now, sipping the nectar of the saguaro cactus. In the distance, you can see the Four Peaks rising in the distance, 100 miles away. It is a peaceful place.

I walk over to Felicity one last time; she places her nostrils next to mine for almost a minute, this time, I fondly sniff her hay scented breath and then she gently lips my cheek twice as if she knows I was saying goodbye. I’ll miss this place and that unique horse scent that I sometimes wish could be bottled, a combination of leather and good old-fashioned horse.

The horses here are big business, even the local Mexican restaurant, El Encanto Dos, caters to these creatures, alongside the parking lot is a corral and hitching posts, sights rarely seen in today’s world. Nearby, the Scottsdale show attracts buyers and their private jets from around the world. Sheiks, princesses and celebrities snap cell phone pictures of these magnificent beasts, shoulder to shoulder with horse breeders and those who simply admire the breed.

The full-blooded sister’s of Binky’s mares, bred to the same sires as hers, have produced foals ranging from 200K-500K. But, for Binky, it is not prestige or the Holy Grail of payoffs that keeps her in this business; it is what was born on those Sunday visits to the Kellogg farm with Pappy, the love of Arabian horses.