I look over at the wild animal eating the grass of the field, a white horse with brown spots splattered around his body.

“What's his name?” I ask.

The caretaker replies with “Oreo.”

Did his labeller think those fur-colored variations resembled the childhood cookie everyone loved? The caretaker leaves me with this question and goes down the mountain to his home. Left alone to my own devices, I stare at the horse.

He’s too beautiful to be named Oreo—too beautiful to be given any name.

I walk around the perimeter of the farm, trying to ground myself in the area I am supposed to call home for the next few months. There is vegetation spilling at every opening of the earth—a whole society of life beyond what I can interpret. On the outskirts, there are ginger roots that are invasive to the area. Inside one of the tents, a machete lies on the table with a note that reads, "Please cut the ginger."

It's getting dark now as the setting sun hides behind the trees. Insects whine all around, creating a frequency of their own, and the silence becomes something I can hear. The light dims with the battery on the solar panel waning. I look at the stove and the food I bought for myself, searching for a point of reference that binds the familiar recipes. I am slowly realizing how alien this place is as I stare blankly at the wall.