Riding Barranca

by Laura Chester

  The camel saddle and camel pace is decidedly comfortable, moving me back and forth on my padded perch, a rocking gait that suits me after this morning’s trauma. But getting down off a camel feels rather weird as you descend in a three-part motion, as if sitting on a collapsing crane. Back on solid earth, we make plans for Shom to come meet us the following morning so that we can ride through the encampment at sunrise.

  Waking early, along with the local roosters, it is nice to be up before everybody else. At the agreed upon time, Shom is there at the gate with his two camels, and up we go, rocking backward and forward in ascension. Shom gives me the two strings that attach to “Johnson’s” nose bridle—a strange piercing that works as a nose-bit. It’s rather fun steering my camel with these scanty, makeshift reins, while Shom leads Lizbeth up ahead. I am glad to be enjoying this nice rocking gait—it is very soothing even when Shom gets our mounts to do their own unique, exaggerated form of trotting. We enter the fair grounds and head toward the dunes where most of the camels are traded.

  Herds of loose camels are ushered along the hillsides. In the dim light, we ride up to the top of one of the dunes and look down over the huge expanse. Dismounting, we decide to have a cup of morning chai just as the sun appears, blushing over the entire scene.

  One young camel lets out a terrible screaming wail, and Shom explains that it is receiving a nose piercing. It sounds excruciating. We then hear whining pipe music and drums down below—a huddle of men sit in a circle around a couple of baskets. Live cobras rise to the music.

  So many of the camels have glamorous saddle sheets or trinket-laden covers, hennaed heads and shaved markings, anklets and pom-poms—the gaudier the better. I tell Shom that I want to buy “Baby Camel Johnson” some decorative necklaces as a way of honoring our guide. He raised this camel since it was just a few months old. No wonder he seems so tame. Shom tells me that I could buy my own camel—it would only cost about $500. I could come back each year and try it out. I imagine that if my father were here, he would be quick to buy a camel just to have something to talk about. “What are they?” Camels. “What are they like?” Steady, plodding, loyal.

  Shom selects ten colorful necklaces for a mere 150 rupees—(43 rupees to a dollar, so this gift amounts to about $3.50). He ties them onto the camels’ long necks, one after another, and the pretty cotton balls of purple, green, pink, and red make a nice effect. The sun is now up, and we want to head back to the arena to see the “camel dancing.”

  The performing camels lift their large, split, pancake hooves to the drumbeat. One camel lies down on its side so the trainer can stand on top of him, perhaps to show his dominance over the animal’s willing submission. In another unnatural stunt, the camel kneels on its forelegs and crawls forward slowly.

  Lizbeth and I begin to feel like we are getting too much sun. The dancing horse performance seems extreme, almost frenzied. It makes me think of the mazurka—squatting down and thrusting out the legs—which couldn’t be easy or healthy for a horse. We decide it is time to stretch our own legs. Dismounting, we say goodbye to Shom and “Baby Camel Johnson,” walking on back to the serenity of Camp Bliss.

  Later that day, on our drive to Jodhpur, we stop to have an afternoon cup of chai. While we sit outside in our plastic chairs, waiting for the tea to arrive, our driver explains, “This might take a minute—they had to run out and milk their cow.”

  Marwari

  Jodhpur and Rohet Garh

  Sheer stone walls rise forty feet on either side of the entrance to the Raas Hotel, framing the illuminated levels of its amazing courtyard. High above, the massive Mehrangarh Fort rests on top of an impenetrable mountain. We are happy to have our creature comforts: luxurious bathrooms and king-size beds, balconies facing the lit-up fort where dangling lights hang over the ramparts. A small parade goes by on the street below, perhaps part of the bigger wedding party celebration going on in Jodhpur that evening.

  There is a sad story behind this wedding. The young thirty-four-year-old prince, Shivraj Singh Ji, was in a serious polo accident five years ago and suffered a brain hemorrhage. He remained in a coma for three months, and while now partially recovered, his health is still severely compromised. He is soon to marry the twenty-two-year-old princess of Jaipur, and as in most royal Indian weddings, this will be an extravagant, colorful affair that will continue throughout the coming week.

  The next day, we catch a taxi out to Rohet Garh, home of the Rajasthani gentleman, Sidharth Singh, who turned his family’s fort into a lovely heritage hotel. As we drive from Jodhpur, the landscape appears unremarkable, flat, agricultural, but as we wind our way through the small village toward the entrance to the hotel, I am excited to see the stables straight ahead—the interior courtyard is padded with soft earth. There is a serene euphony of absence here, a relief to be far from the crowds and pollution and honking horns. We begin to feel very hopeful, sensing that at last we will have a good ride.

  The six surrounding stalls of the stable all hold exquisite mares—one has a two-month-old colt with her—and the well-kept horses all turn inward to socialize as any female dormitory would do. When we meet our horseback riding guide, MD, this young trainer has such positive energy that again we are reassured. He tells me that I will be riding a stallion but emphasizes that Arbud is a very gentle horse. We can see that MD takes care with his horses, checking their legs and hocks and unshod feet before we go out.

  The owner, Sidharth, greets us with the utmost hospitality, even though he is about to depart for Jaipur by train for the royal wedding. His Yellow Labrador is a bit of a surprise as it is the first fully bred dog I have seen in all of India. Our handsome host is eager for us to have a good ride. Sidharth and his staff have been working to bring the Marwari breed back into good repute, and from what we can tell, they are doing an excellent job. It is now 4:00 P.M. and we will go out into the fields for a couple hours. It is still warm but not too hot for the horses.

  The Marwari were originally used as warrior horses. They are fearless and faithful with terrific stamina and endurance. I wonder if it will be difficult to hold back my stallion, for as one driver told us—“What you need in India is a good horn, good brakes, and good luck.” But I would add—and a good horse!

  Thankfully, my gentle, grey Marwari stallion has a very delicate mouth. The Pushkar ride damaged my self-confidence, but now it is quickly restored. The saddle fits perfectly, and I am grateful to get another try on a Marwari.

  Lizbeth is given a rather spirited black mare who dances about, shying at motorbikes on the way out of town. MD is riding another black mare. Both of these young horses have only been in training for a matter of months. Soon, it becomes apparent that Lizbeth would do better on his horse so they exchange, and then she feels more at ease. Both mares seem more high-strung than my mount, but all of them are beautiful and have not been ruined by rough handling.

  Rajasthan had a very good monsoon season this year, which broke a terrible drought. Now, the semi-arid landscape seems moist. The fields of mustard and millet have all been harvested, and the earth is still soft in places. MD is concerned that we have to pick the right place to canter so that the horses won’t sink and strain their legs. It is good to be in the hands of a knowledgeable, responsible guide.

  I keep my distance from the mares and ride behind as we head out alongside the fields on a soft, dirt road. Tractors and cattle carts pass us. A woman in a bright red sari carries a huge bundle of sticks on her head. Herds of goats graze with a young goatherder in attendance. All is calm and restful.

  Lizbeth’s horse is named Lakshmi, the goddess of good luck and wealth. She suits Lizbeth perfectly. My friend looks very well-balanced on this lovely mare whose neck is arched, collected. I notice that my horse, Arbud, has a perfect four-beat walking gait, and I take him ahead of the mares for a while, lifting my reins slightly and leaning back a bit to let him move out. But going first makes the two mares antsy, wanting to race, so I return to the rear. MD explains t
hat the revaal gait—the running walk we witnessed in the arena at Pushkar (where the riders sat so far back, almost on the horses’ rumps, sticking their feet way out in front of them)—is actually quite harmful to the animals. It puts all the rider’s weight on the horse’s haunches, making the horse lift his head, hollowing out his back. A consistent use of this gait often ruins a horse.

  The Revaal

  Soon, we are cantering up and down the fields in the dwindling light. My horse has a perfectly relaxed canter. Over and over, I feel waves of relief and pleasure, my confidence restored. The sun is beginning to set, and as I look out across this flat landscape with its occasional acacia, I think of how it is reminiscent of Wisconsin farmland coupled with the exotic elements of Africa, all embraced by the sunset colors of Rajasthan.

  MD says the Marwari horse is so fast, “Like a tiger flying after a deer—stretching out like an arrow.”

  “I’ll race you,” I suggest, and he’s game. We spread out across the field and name the finishing point as a small bush two-thirds of the way down the stretch. Then, we are off. Clearly, MD is going to win, but the thrill of our speed is exhilarating.

  When the sun is down, rain begins to lightly fall, dampening our shirts. We walk the horses back to the stable in the mellow, dusky evening light.

  At the barn, my horse Arbud is housed next to another young stallion. I walk through a paddock of cattle to get to him, wanting to give both horses a few slices of apple. Arbud seems to enjoy his treat, not realizing, in his equine repose, how well he has treated me and how much gratitude I feel for the hospitality and care of Rohet Garh.

  Tent Stable

  Jaipur Polo Club

  On the way from the Jaipur Airport to the Alsisair Havali, we witness the excitement of the wedding festivities outside the Rambagh Palace. The grand event will take place here later this evening. Reportedly, Nepalese and Indian royalty will be in attendance, along with Hollywood and Bollywood stars, and the writer William Dalrymple, whose book, Nine Lives: In Search of the Sacred in Modern India, I am currently reading.

  We missed the royal procession that took place earlier that day, but apparently, as the golden vintage chariot moved along, accompanied by decorated elephants, horses, and musicians, lightbulbs flashing at the prince unnerved him so that he was barely able to raise his arm to give the royal salute. The photographers were pushed back to protect him. There is still a crowd of security men and journalists by the front gate—the glorious palace all lit up in the distance.

  Ayler appears around ten that night with a beautiful young woman he met in Goa. Kavita Chhabra is of Indian descent, but she was raised in England. She is fluent in Hindi and astonishes the hotel porters as she is still dressed for the beach in short-shorts and a scanty tank top. It is great to see Ayler after this week off on his own, and we quickly begin to catch up on our news.

  After an hour of morning yoga on the rooftop terrace, we head to the Gem Palace. The décor here has not been changed for generations—dark wood paneling and glass cabinets. There is a wonderful assortment of affordable jewelry, as well as some astounding pieces. The owner’s son, Samir, is a tall, twenty-eight-year-old, in training to take over the business when his father retires. Samir quickly makes friends with Ayler and Kavita, who agree to meet up with him later that night. The owner of the shop graciously invites us up to their rooftop terrace to share some lunch, and it is one of the best meals we have while in India. It makes a difference eating fresh, homemade, vegetarian food.

  The following morning we rush to get into the queue for the elephant ride up to the Amber Fort with its impressive golden-yellow walls running for miles across the hills. We stand in line for half-an-hour before we are able to clamber up into the crude metal palanquin set onto the back of our elephant. There are two of us in each basket. But our trek uphill, crushing side-to-side is quite uncomfortable. I continue to smash into Lizbeth the entire way.

  After our tour, we head to the Raj Palace Hotel, one of the older and more elegant places in Jaipur. Ayler and Kavita treat us to lunch, and then say that they have a surprise for us. It isn’t long before we get it out of them—Samir and his cousin, Sadat, have two horses over at the Jaipur Polo Club, and we are going to be able to ride them that afternoon— what luck.

  Our amiable driver takes us over to the club where the recently wed prince had his accident five years ago. Everywhere we go we have excellent drivers and guides, but the driving in India is certainly an art form. Most of the roads are difficult, to say the least. Cars are constantly passing trucks in both directions with motorbikes weaving in and out (often with a male driver and wife in back with a child wedged in between). Cows wander about on the roads and passing vehicles head straight at each other only to swerve back into their own proper lanes moments before colliding.

  The sky is already darkening as we walk across the massive playing field with Samir and Sadat. We are stopped by an official who says that we are not allowed to walk across the grass. “Rules must be obeyed,” he tells us. This is the first time in India that we have heard of any rules. Certainly there are few regulations when it comes to the highway, where artful chaos reigns.

  We heed the instructions and walk around the periphery, then find our way back to the encampment of tent stables where the horses are kept. Two horses are brought out, one a black Marwari mare called Chirmi, which means joyful in Hindi, and the other, a large grey polo pony, who was originally given the name Maximus, but it was such a difficult word for the grooms to say, they changed it to Mr. John.

  I take the Marwari and on mounting notice that the stirrups are very short, and there is no hole-punch available, so there is no way to lengthen the leathers. I make the best of it with my legs cranked up, and begin by walking the mare around the ring where many of the polo ponies are being exercised at a brisk canter. Lizbeth mounts the grey and looks comfortable enough. I try to remember the rules for riding in a ring—isn’t it left shoulder to left? Yes, but here in India, where they drive on the opposite side of the road, it is right to right. We quickly get the hang of it.

  Chirmi has a nice soft mouth, and she is full of energy. I wonder how her canter will feel, but let her walk out some of her edginess before I move her forward. With the other riders flying by all around me, we get into a nice smooth lope. I keep changing directions, but it’s more difficult to get her into a canter using her left lead. The grooms instruct me to put both heels on her side and make a click-click sound, and she should respond. Later, when the grooms hop on (one of them in flip-flops), they go flying about the ring.

  Under Tent

  Most of the other horses have been put away by the time we finish up. We all feel exuberant, having had another exciting ride on the last day of our trip. As we leave, the sun is setting on one side of the field, and the moon is rising on the other. Tomorrow, it will be a full moon, another cause for celebration, honoring all the female goddesses in the Hindu religion.

  We have had a wonderful trip, but later, heading back to Massachusetts, I think—some of the best experiences are not always planned and paid for—some of the best rides are waiting for us at home.

  MASSACHUSETTS

  Wintering Barranca

  First Snow

  Barranca is already growing a thick winter coat so I take him out slowly through the bare back woods—no more cherry-colored euonymus, no golden splendor, but the seasonal change has its own rewards. One can see deeper into the forest.

  Wearing my hard hat, my ears are cold, but it is still enjoyable, enlivening, as the fresh, cold air clears my lungs. I wrap my long coat around my thighs for warmth. It feels great having a solid horse between my legs. Big, thick flakes begin to fall. First snow descends most silent.

  As we ride the familiar paths, I see a blue rubber glove by the side of the trail and wonder what it’s doing there. Has it floated to this spot like one of those burst helium balloons? Or was a hunter wearing it to gut a stag?

  I ride down to my mother-in-l
aw’s house and wave at her through the window. She seems happy to see me on my mount in the falling snow. Soon, we will all be enjoying Christmas Eve together, including Arizona Muse’s one-year-old Nikko and hundred-and-one-year-old Emily Rose—much cause for celebration!

  Barranca seems glad to be free of the corral. The horses must find this season of hanging around rather dull. Often, they stand at the bottom of the paddock and look in the direction of the lower field. They seem to embody patience.

  Frisky

  Lunar Eclipse

  I buy a shooting-star hydrangea for my mother-in-law. While driving it up Rose Hill, the full moon appears through the woods—magnificent. How Em would enjoying seeing that, as she is a lover of all cosmic events, but she is snug in her chair and not going anywhere. When she sees the plant I have brought her, she says simply, “Star.”

  Today is the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. The sky is dark by early evening. The lunar eclipse will occur sometime between one and three in the morning. If I were a bit braver and if it wasn’t so cold, I would be tempted to take Barranca out for a ride, but it is frigid and windy.

  At 1:30 A.M., I put on my heavy coat and double hat and wander down to the corral, giving the horses some treats. I wonder if they are aware that something unusual is going on in the heavens. This kind of eclipse only happens once every four-hundred-and-fifty years. On the other side of the world, all the planets are lined up on either side of the sun forming a chalice. What are we about to receive?