I want to enjoy these last few rides on Barranca alone, taking in the fairytale spectacle of the cherry-colored woods, a cardinal flitting through the burst-open bittersweet. Suddenly, up ahead, the most magnificent buck springs across the trail, disappearing into the forest.
Barranca seems to walk gingerly, as if knowing that the leaf-covered paths could hide treacherous roots and potholes. He is taking his time, picking his way as we head down to the Alford Road. Cutting across the pavement into the woods, we try to find a new route over to the brook, but Barranca trips on a hidden strand of barbed wire and panics. “Whoa,” I say, hopping off to hold the wire down with my boot, easing his hoof back over it.
I wonder if he has memories of the barbed wire accident that cut him up before I bought him. Such traumas lodge in the cellular memory, but luckily that memory doesn’t overwhelm him. He is such a steady horse. I believe he trusts me as much as I do him.
Going through a narrow opening into the lower fields, I see that the goldenrod has aged from a greenish-blond to grayish fuzz. There is an abundance of berries—little white ones pop on their frail grey stems all along the field, and red berries dangle like miniature Tic-Tacs. A crab apple tree is laden with fruit that almost resembles tiny plums. I take a nibble, and it is sour, not for human consummation. Some of the maples are still fully clothed in vibrant gold while others have been stripped bare.
Light glazes the wings of a raven flying off across the field as we canter on the curving imprint of a tractor track. Big piles of firewood are seasoning by the hedgerow. I know cold weather is coming and that this is but a brief respite. We are in that perfect moment of appreciated warmth before autumn turns harsh and punishing. The milkweed is opening, and I snatch a pod and let the parachute wishes cascade behind me—such balmy air, such glorious colors.
As we enter the woods behind Peck’s Pick Farm, a sifting of pale yellow leaves twirls around us. We seem suspended in time.
Why does Barranca feel like the perfect partner? Why does he seem to understand me, almost without direction? If there is such a thing as an “old soul” in an animal, he surely has one. How lucky I am to have found this horse.
At home, I bring out two big pails of warm water and wash him down with a sea sponge, shampooing his mane and tail, using Cowboy Magic conditioner to untangle his locks. My two little mischief makers look over the fence as if wondering—“Why is he getting so much attention while the two of us have to stay behind the rails?”
Because, I think, you are naughty boys who have been breaking out of your pasture—you are having an Equine Time Out!
As I wash Barranca’s legs, I see that some of the milkweed fluff has stuck under his foreleg—a sign of good luck for my best boy. How I will miss him, but I don’t want him to suffer that long haul twice a year. I turn him out into the upper field to graze, watching the dark shine of his skin as it dries in the afternoon sun.
INDIA
Halfway around the World
Varanasi Carriage Ride
On our first evening in Varanasi, we walk through the teeming market streets down to the crowded ghats where temples, shrines, and palaces loom like fantastic sandcastles from ancient times. The Ganges moves slowly under a darkening sky as seven Brahmin priests in peach-colored satin perform the evening ceremony, swinging powerful incense to the sound of tabla drums. Then, the long walk back, stepping over garbage and cow pies, spotting one big bull lounging on the floor of a local shop as if it was his normal, nocturnal resting place.
The people of Varanasi seem to have a certain glow about them. Perhaps this stems from daily lives steeped in spiritual practice and devotions. But how can any religion keep track of over a million gods? Does that simply mean that almost everything earthly is permeated by the spiritual realm?
We wake at five in the morning to get back to the Ganges for a sunrise boat tour, and in the morning light, we are more aware of the ash-grey pollution of the river. Cremations are blazing away on the riverbanks, and off to the right, the bloated body of a dead goat makes Ayler gag. He turns his attention to his little ghee candle and sets it afloat in a marigold laden boat.
When I think about my mother’s cremation in Wisconsin, I realize how different death is in our culture. Soon after her passing, my mother’s body was zipped into a black plastic bag and whisked away to be held in cold storage. As is typical in America, no one attended to her body. No one was there for her cremation. A few days later, her remains, ground to a fine grey powder, were placed in a tidy box.
Mom wanted her ashes spread on the desert in Arizona. I would have to transport them. My sister brought a bag of “Mom” to the Lake Club, plunking them down on the dinner table. Our brother David was appalled—“You two and those ashes! Now you see why your brothers have a problem with their sisters!”
We were clearly four different individuals, but the older you get the more you becomes yourself, as if the sauce of personality is reduced, intensified. But we were still a family, like it or not. We were still the children of Margaret and George, no matter what we felt they had or hadn’t given to us. Now it was our turn to stop the blaming, and turn to ourselves, and try to make the best of it. One has to accept one’s own flaws in order to find forgiveness. Now it was our turn. Next, it would be theirs—our children, grandchildren, down through the progressing years that were passing more quickly than we believed possible.
In India, multiple lifetimes are ever-on-going. Waiting for the sun to make its appearance through the smog, the devout are taking their purification baths, washing away sins and bad karma, modestly changing out of wet clothes by pulling dry ones over their heads.
We work our way back through the claustrophobic sensory overload, trying to avoid the bindi sellers and postcard hawkers who are far more tenacious and annoying than any beggar. Traveling in India, I am reminded of what people did not tell me about childbirth, avoiding any accounts of discomfort or pain, only focusing on the joys of motherhood. Similarly, I feel that friends who have told me of their travels in India only mentioned the amazing colors, the fabulous markets, the great deals, and rarely the extreme pollution or the distressing poverty, the chaos of the roads where it is truly survival of the fastest.
After lunch, my traveling companion, Lizbeth Marano, and I explore the hotel gardens and come upon a skinny, little man leading a white, Rajasthani stallion with big black balls. The horse has the typical Marwari ears that curve inward. He seems to be quite docile, following this man about without lead rope or halter.
Neemsha is the horse-trainer for the Palace Hotel next door to our rather mediocre abode. The abutting garden looks like a very grand, serene place, just beyond the guarded gates. We are not allowed to pass into this highly exclusive property, once home to the King of Benaras. We want to see the palace stables, and the guard suggests that we check with the concierge at our hotel. Neemsha is currently busy hooking up the stallion to an antique black carriage. Wouldn’t it be fun to get a ride?
We learn that Neemsha is one in a long line of horse trainers—his father and grandfather before him had been the horsemen of the palace. This little man with bad teeth and shining eyes plays polo and races and trains. “I can do anything with horses,” he tells us.
At the hotel desk, I ask the concierge if we can get a tour of the palace stable nextdoor. “I am writing a book about riding,” I tell her, and that does the trick. Within minutes, Neemsha returns in a long, clean white shirt and crimson turban, instantly transformed, ready to give us a tour right from the front of our hotel. Lizbeth and I both climb into the back of the carriage, and off we go through the now open gate. As we cover the grounds on a soft dirt path that circles the gardens, our driver points out various trees and plants along the way—fragrant jasmine and formal roses. Peacocks roam, and palm trees sway.
Neemsha then suggests that I climb up front into the driver’s seat and take the reins, calling out “Chella!” (let’s go) to his stallion. The horse begins to pace and then break
s into a canter. Still, he is not difficult to hold. We pull up beneath the porte cochere of the Palace Hotel where we are invited to enter. As we cross the marble entryway, there seem to be more servants in traditional attire than hotel guests.
You can arrange to have a private dinner for two on the massive expanse of lawn and watch your own private fireworks display. But with over four-hundred festivals a year in Varanasi, it hardly seems necessary to add to the diwali excitement where the cacophony of explosions is enough to set off anyone’s startle response. The Varanasians appear to have a bubbling sense of joy, harmony, and balance, coupled with amazing immune systems, able to survive and flourish amidst the unsanitary conditions.
Driven back to our lesser hotel in this regal antique carriage, the white stallion imperiously takes a big dump at the front door as we jump out and tip our smiling driver.
The Stadium
Pushkar Camel and Cattle Fair
Camels and fabulous horses are spread out amongst this primitive tent city, covering acres and acres of rolling pasture. We meander through a herd of water buffalo with their low-moaning calls, until we come to the horses, many of them tethered by all four feet so they can’t kick out. Most of the horses look well cared for, with the exception of the occasional emaciated mare. There are a lot of young Marwaris for sale, often standing by their mothers’ side. Camel-cart taxis pass us everywhere, and feral gypsy children try to get money from us, cursing us when we do not produce a coin—unnerving.
We finally come upon the big arena where a few men are trying out horses on thick, cloth pads set very far back, making their horses go into high-speed running walks, at least as fast as a flat-out gallop. The riders sit perfectly still. This four-beat revaal gait is incredibly smooth, even at this speed.
One magnificent pinto stallion is the most remarkable creature, very high strung, not used to all this commotion, but his handler is managing him somehow. Undoubtedly there are plenty of mares in heat in the surrounding area, and it must be making him crazy.
We buy several colorful cotton halters with dangling strips and pom-pom top-knots, haggling over the price of each item. But carrying a plastic bag marks me for other people hawking stuff. These young men persist, trying to bargain with me over something I clearly don’t want. I am forced to be rude—“NO, I wouldn’t want that even if you gave it to me!”
Pinto
Excited about our trail ride on the following morning, we walk back to Camp Bliss and relax before dinner. The dining tent is lovely, made out of a warm amber-colored Indian print material. The food is all vegetarian, delicious, but there is no alcohol allowed in the holy city of Pushkar. I could use a glass of wine.
Tiny lights are strung all over the gooseberry trees, which makes the place especially magical at night. Two comfortable canvas lounge chairs are placed outside of each sleeping tent. You can sit and listen to the evening drumming and watch the nightly entertainment of dancers, fire eaters, and jugglers who perform around the bonfire. We go to bed early, all set to rise for our ride, so long in the planning.
The equestrian tent camp, ten minutes away, is a rather miserable setup compared to the relative luxuries we have been enjoying at Camp Bliss. The horses are tethered out in individual spots, and I am curious to know which horse I will get. They all seem relatively small and thin. I just hope there is a good saddle left for me as all the other riders arrived the afternoon before and they have already gotten their horses and tack and taken a preparatory ride. We sit around a grubby, bare table with a few other women—mostly Germans—one of whom asks in a heavy accent, “Do you like to gallop?”
“Well, sometimes,” I respond.
“Goot,” she says, “then you are accepted.”
There is one pleasant, young woman who is going to ride the owner’s horse that morning, because the mount she’d originally been given was not appropriate for her. I wonder if my scrawny little mare, Angelie, will be comfortable, for she is as narrow as a skiff, and the saddle I receive is much too small. The metal rim embedded in the low cantle hits me at my coccyx, and while this does not seem to be a problem at first, it soon becomes painful. I try to remedy the problem by lengthening my stirrups, which could be a mistake.
Red ribbons are tied to most of the mares’ tails, indicating they are kickers. I am told that Angelie is a “lead horse” and very fast despite her size. The leader of the morning ride is a handsome twenty-nine-year-old named Manu.
We go out into the desert where the landscape is strangely similar to Arizona, but very hot and humid. The trail we take is deep with soft, golden-brown earth. At least if anyone falls, they will be received by fortunate footing. But all of the horses seem to ride together in a clump, and while Manu keeps waving me back, indicating that I should stay away from his mare, I soon find that my horse has a very tough mouth and is extremely difficult to restrain. Undoubtedly, she has had so many riders pulling on her, trying to stop her from racing, that she has become unresponsive. Even while walking, the iron-rimmed cantle is jamming into me as Angelie bounces up and down, prancing sideways, wanting to go. I don’t want to be a complainer, but the stirrup leathers are pinching the insides of my knees and it’s beginning to seriously hurt. But this discomfort is nothing compared to what I feel once Manu suddenly gives the signal to GO! Then, the whole tight pack lights out at a dead-bolt run.
Desert Dust
Trying to hold my horse back from ramming into his, Angelie goes into a very choppy gait that makes me bounce in the saddle so that the stirrup leathers, snapping open and shut, are cutting into me like razors. We take several turns at full speed, and she almost slips. If she falls—I think—I will get trampled by the horses flying so close behind. I cannot believe the pace we are going with little preparation for this.
I worry about Lizbeth, who is somewhere toward the back of the pack. She must be riding in a cloud of dust, unable to breathe. Once we stop for a moment, before another burst of speed, some of the other riders request that we change order so that they can ride farther up front, out of the dust. I’ll change places with you, I think, if you’ll trade horse and saddle!
I wonder if I can ride like this for days. It feels as if there is nothing between my legs. When I mention the stirrup leathers, Manu seems unconcerned. We soon take off on another high speed tear. I try to relax, but the stirrup leathers are really eating into me. When we stop, I turn toward the back of the group and ride up to Lizbeth, saying in a whisper, “I think we should cancel.”
“I’m so glad to hear you say that,” she exclaims. “I was definitely going to drop out, and I was wondering what I would do, as I figured you’d just plow ahead.”
“I’ve never been so uncomfortable on a horse in my life,” I respond. “I feel like we might get seriously injured. It’s just not worth it.”
“Plus, it’s not good for the horses,” Lizbeth adds, “Flat out racing, everyone out of control.” Lizbeth is a terrific rider who has been in dressage training for fifteen years. She recently imported a fabulous young Andalusian from Seville, Spain. Her final words on the subject of this ride—“I am so out of here!”
We both agree that we should call our travel agent, and try to do something else.
On returning to the disgusting tent-camp bathroom, I look at the inside of my legs and see that I am covered in raw, bruised marks. If I were to continue, I would probably end up bleeding.
I think about my tendency to always “plow ahead.” I guess that had always been my way, to keep on going, to overachieve, to try and be the fastest and the best, partly my temperament and partly the way I was brought up. “I don’t care what you do,” my father once told me, “as long as you are number one.” That was a heavy requirement to put on a small child.
We were expected to be self-reliant, independent, resilient in the face of torment, getting back in the saddle after being knocked off. Our father would lead across whitewater, down muddy embankments, even down the middle of railroad tracks, as if our uneasines
s was titillating for him.
Once Popi even went so far as to spray bug repellent in the face of Cia’s horse while she was holding baby Abigail. The horse reared and Abigail fell. I’m sure he felt remorse, but why was he being so careless?
My father often put me in uncomfortable situations— riding into a bull pasture with a bull whip in hand while I rode my pony. That created anxiety in me, an anxiety that is still beginning to surface, as I try to control situations so that I won’t be late or panicked, having a somewhat compulsive need for daily ritual, becoming more reliant on habit.
My friends think of me as a fearless rider, but that is no longer true. As a child, one goes along with the program, rarely questioning, but now as an adult, I can weigh the risks and say, “No, I do not want to do this.”
Dancing Stallion
We are both relieved to catch a jeep ride back to Camp Bliss where we call our travel agent and alert him to our change of plans. He is very understanding and comes up with an alternate itinerary in a matter of hours.
After lunch, we take a camel-cart taxi back to the main arena where we meet up with a young man named “Shom.” He offers to let us ride his two camels back to Camp Bliss in the dusky afternoon light for a small fee of 250 rupees each. From the height of the camels, we get a good view of a dancing stallion that is up on his hind legs, bouncing to the rhythm of the drums, surrounded by a dense crowd of onlookers.
As we work our way back toward our tent camp, we witness a mare being bred. One man holds her tail out of the way while the huge member of the stallion extends. A few plunges and it’s over. “Finito,” I say, and one of the local men laughs, understanding my meaning.
We pass through the darkening tent city where desert people are huddled about their fires—smoke rising. I almost feel like I am back in biblical times. Most of the horses are now clothed with makeshift, sackcloth blankets to protect them from the cold—same impulse, different budget. The horses are now busy with their fodder, peacefully eating while shy yet sparkly children wave.
Riding Barranca Page 15
