Do you ever get caught up in the
moment, decide to do something, and then almost immediately question
your logic, or, more likely, your sanity? We all have, right? This
is a bit overly melodramatic way of describing an outing we had
recently in the Andean hills outside of Otavalo, Ecuador. Otavalo is
a lovely town maybe two hours by car north of Quito and sits just
above the equator at about 8500 feet. It is known for its markets
and was a destination of our intrepid group, Jesse, Laura, Alex, Lily
and myself. In anticipation of our visit, we agreed that we would
indulge in a horse back riding outing at the hacienda where we were
staying. Seemed innocent enough. After all, Lily is an experienced
rider, and wouldn't it be nice to accompany her and share with her an
impassioned pursuit she has and make this a family-filled, fun-filled
activity. But, mind you, I am not an equestrian. I am about as
close to having the requisite skills for such an undertaking as I do
for performing brain surgery. Maybe less. The last time I was on a
horse was nineteen years ago in New Zealand. Let's just say it was a
bumpy ride which did not encourage me to pursue anything smacking of
equestrianism bar the occasional carousel ride. (Interestingly,
despite the passage of time, both Jesse and Alex remembered the names
of their horses from that time long ago – Fat Boy and Tank –
which should suggest to you that they were not exactly astride former
Derby entrants.)
With helmets now giving us the illusion
that we were well protected, we headed off with our guide. At first,
the experience was actually rather bucolic. We slowly roamed through
neighborhood streets, at first the cobblestoned variety with our
horses clip clopping past small residences. The locals waved, the
dogs barked. Cobblestones soon gave way to rocky roads and then
rutted dirt roads as we headed further up into the highlands. Gazing
at the humble, time worn communities and now dust-filled roadways,
you almost expected Butch Cassidy or Wyatt Earp to appear, smilingly
tipping their hats to us. The Andes were often shrouded in clouds;
the sun was intense. Occasionally, when the clouds thinned, we could
spot a volcano.
As we headed further uphill, the
scenery became more wooded, more mysterious. The air felt cooler.
My horse was named Ganador, which Jesse advised me meant “winner.”
But, given the clouds we seemed to be entering and the steep rise of
the mountains around us, I kept thinking Ganador sounded more like a
name you might find in Lord of the Rings. You know, something
Gandalf or Bilbo Baggins might have named their steeds. Anyway,
let's just say that Ganador and I had some issues. He had his own
notions of how and where he wanted to travel, and, perhaps sensing my
utter lack of equine understanding, concluded he needed to be in
control. He was right, of course, but that didn't prevent me from
erratic stabs at “showing him who's boss” if you know what I
mean. For example, Ganador would often turn 180 degrees from our
intended path, apparently deciding he had a better idea of how to
navigate our route. He'd wrench his head left or right and head in
some odd direction or in the direction of a near-by field no doubt
lured by the green “salad bar” that awaited him there. I would
grab the reins and pull left or right trying to lurch him in the
right direction. Sometimes we went in circles. Calls from the group
would yell out, “you're holding the reins too tight,” or “you're
not holding the reins tight enough.” While I would have been more
than happy to get a tutorial in reins management, spinning in circles
is not always the best time for that. Or, I'd hear helpful
admonitions like “lean back” or “heels down” which I'm
certain were the right things to say, but are hard to put into
practice when one's head is spinning.
The coup de grace, however, were the
body blows I endured when Ganador started feeling a little peppy.
Sometimes, he decided he didn't want anyone passing him. Sometimes,
when his road-side munchings would leave him behind, he would take
off in spirited fashion to catch up with his buddies. In both cases,
the toll one takes on one's lower torso makes waterboarding seem like
a Disney funfest. Hurtling downhill in the last segment of our ride,
one could hear the screeching voices and wails of the male members of
our group as each endless set of bumps made us desperately wish there
were several layers of tempurpedic mattresses beneath us. I was, in
one spastic movement, trying to keep my sunglasses from stabbing me
up my nose, trying to keep my helmet from dropping over my eyes, and
trying to keep the lens cap from flying off my camera. As Alex would
describe it at one point late in the ride, everything below his waist
was dead. I would put it slightly differently. The only sensations
emanating from any region below my belt were intense pain, numbness
or paralysis. Why the folks at the hacienda did not issue steel
jockstraps along with helmets is a mystery to me. I'm pretty sure I
was speaking in a soprano voice as we arrived once again at the
hacienda.
Despite the bumps and bruises and my
brief experience as a soprano, seeing the Andean highlands through
less than well traveled paths was worth every minute. It presented
to us a world vastly different than the one we had left behind, one
beautiful in its differences to ours. As Dorothy once alluded, we
knew we weren't in Kansas anymore.
Adios Ganador!
