I'm on a horse, clip clopping through a dusty border town.
The horse's name is something in spanish I can no longer remember. Names don't matter, not between a cowgirl and her steed. We communicate through the reins, my hands and my thighs. I sit straight and feel the warmth of his belly on my calves and the roughness of the reins in my palms. I feel somewhat at home, strangely, since I am no expert in the realm of horse. But I've never fallen off. That's pretty good, I tell myself in quietly prideful undertones.
They give me a faux-leather cowgirl hat, which I gratefully take in place of a floppy fall-off-able felt number I adopted a few weeks ago. This one has a string and smells of sweat. yeah. horse-riding sweat. I have the string done up under my chin in case it falls off in the dusty wind or when I wildy head off into the sunset. Just in case.
My hips get used to the sway of the horse as my guide, also with a name unrecalled, tells me his story. He has been riding since he could walk. And taking tourists horseriding since he was twelve. He loves his town, loves his horse, earns about 2 dollars a day and just dumped his girlfriend on the weekend. It is better this way, he explains, more freedom. He looks meaningfully at me cos he knows I will know what he means. He is 18 years old, bless him. He asks if I have a boyfriend. I tell him about my fictitous Australian lover who works too hard and can't get away to travel with me. And how its better this way. He knows what I mean.
We continue riding and turn out of the town towards some rocky mountains to the south. I am just thinking how tranquilo this all is, clip clop, and how nice it is to be out of the city, clip clop, and how perhaps I am really a cowgirl at heart clip clop and how I really should have booked the overnight horseriding adventure under the stars, clip clop; when my guide looks at me and says "You want to gallop?"
So yeah, I've been on a horse before. I even took lessons, way back in school. And somewhere, in that deep dark half-functional memory of mine, I recall this word. I think it means fast. And I think I remember liking it. But I can't be sure. And for some reason, there are a few glaring CAUTION signs flashing up in my brain.
Which I dutifully ignore.
I am here, in the spirit of adventure, with a highly qualified guide, a fantastic horse, a saddle that looks mostly secure, shoes that don't quite fit into the stirrips and a faux-leather cowgirl safety hat. Gallop? Hell yeah!
"ummm. OK..."
He tells me that if I am scared to hold onto the front of the saddle. I don't think he knows how important that tiny little bit of information will be to me. I am sure, now, that I would have fallen off my horse and died from a crack to the head (despite my cowgirl hat) if I hadn't known I was allowed to hang on to that saddle for dear life.
His horse starts to run, and mine, the elder by 4 years, is not keen to let the little upstart win. He bolts as fast as he can, nose forward as I cling to the saddle with my left hand, the reins with my right and the saddle with my thighs. After the initial bump to one side, bump to the other side, slam back down onto the saddle and then back up into the air (repeat a few times) my body remembers the feeling of the gallop. so fast, so smooth, so good! I only amost fall off about 5 times. But I love it!
Oh, but my body, though enamoured of the rush, is not quite physically prepared. Of course, normally, lying around, eating some food, lying around some more, getting on a few cramped overnight buses followed by jumping on a horse for 3 hours would be just considered normal training.
Not sure what went wrong. But now I can't move. And I have a blister on my left hand.
And maybe one on my ass.
