Some people are horse people. I’m not a horse person. I don’t really like horses. And I’m going to be honest with you, I’m not overly fond of horse people either. At least that certainly used to be the case. But I’d like to start this post by saying how the experience of cantering across the Pantanal on horseback has completely changed my opinion, and that I too, am now a horse person. I would like to but I won’t. Because it would be a lie.
I was dubious from our arrival at the ranch. Nestled in the middle of rolling plains, and idyllically placed beside a wide but shallow lake, it was a beautiful location. The birds skimming over the water, the tell tale plops of caiman and the croaks of several species of brightly coloured macaw all created the aura that this was the sort of place I would want to be. However, as we arrived at the stables, there was one problem. There was not a horse in sight. Which should have warned me about the sort of horses I was supposed to be riding. I mean it’s not a great advert is it. Imagine walking into a car show room, expecting to take one for test drive only to be told that the proprietors aren’t quite sure where it is. Or turning up for a boat trip to be warmly greeted and told that your boat was the one just visible on the horizon, and that if you started swimming there now, you’d probably be drowned by the time it got back.
It concerned me even more that there were hammocks hoisted in the shade, specially for this circumstance. And so we hammocked. But there’s only so much hammocking I can do before I get restless, and so Ethan and I went for a little walk, to see if we could get any good photographs of the wildlife. As we attempted to creep up on a baby caiman, I got my first view of the horses. One was being ridden by a Gaucho, the other was doing it’s utmost to evade capture, galloping at a quite terrifying speed. For a moment, I was enthralled by the spectacle before me, as the rider successfully lassoed the escapee. The skill required was immense. Then it dawned on me, they were rounding up our horses.
I have never been particularly skilled at riding things. I have only ridden a motorbike for 5 seconds and resulted in breaking somebody’s garden fence (see the Laos blog), and I was once shouted at by a terrifying French guy for crashing a quad bike. Considering that these are inanimate objects, without freewill, I was fairly apprehensive at the thought of attempting to control something that with the capability of hating me. I mean, I find it hard to control me and I like me. Well, I tolerate me. Actually, I’m resigned to me’s existence. You know what I mean!
The horses were saddled and other horsey things were put on them. We were given a helmet and a pat on the back and then expected to get on. That’s the thing about horse people: so besotted with horses as they are, they forget that to some people, horses are just inedible cows, or obsolete cars. In the same way that I have no idea how to drive a steam engine, I have absolutely no idea how to drive a horse.
I rammed the ignition key in and twisted it to start. Bad idea.
Don’t worry, I didn’t do that. This was one of those modern keyless horses.
Though there were a variety of grey, white and dappled horses, mine was a reddish brown, and I have to admit, as I am happy to do, that like most horses, he was beautiful. And very big. I am not the tallest of people and I’m not so happy to admit that I sometimes have to press on through several failed attempts at boarding my bicycle back in the UK. And despite the ease at which cowboys seem to do it, hoisting yourself up on a stirrup, and bringing your leg over to straddle the horse is incredibly difficult. I managed it but at what cost? Humans weren’t designed to lay eggs, what sort of person finds it comfortable to straddle a horse? Not this human anyway.
The next issue became apparent very soon after. Namely, that I had absolutely no idea what to do if under strange circumstances I found myself on top of a horse. The others had started a convoy and I hoped that my horse would sort of be a sheep and follow. But as it turned out, my horse was not a sheep. See, this blog is scientific as well as roaringly funny and unread. Concluding that my horse was, in fact, a horse, I did something that I have seen people do in films and gave the horse a gentle kick. The horse swayed and took a step back. This was going well.
“Errr, hello?”, was the pitiful cry that I resorted to.
Thankfully a gaucho had noticed my horses vain attempt at pretending to be a chess piece and cantered back to me.
“Kick it!”, he ordered. I felt mean. Kicking isn’t in my comfort zone. Unless it’s a football. Or children.
Exasperated, he whipped the horses flank. He missed, I’m fairly sure he was aiming at me. Nevertheless, my horse jerked into action which was fantastic news. It was less fantastic to discover that I was cantering in a completely different direction to the others. Again, I obeyed the films and pulled hard with my reigns. The poor creature whinnied and turned it’s head around to look at me. It was now that my opinion towards this horse changed. I had thought that it was confused and pained but no, this horse hated me, and like a vengeful foe had vowed to make my last day on earth a miserable one.
The gaucho had caught up and wrenched the reigns from my hand.
“Like this,” he said, and gently guided both of our horses side by side to join the others.
I felt a bit sheepish. But this human is not a sheep either. I took hold of the reigns after watching for a bit determined that I would not lose a battle of the will to a creature as dumb as a horse.
The terrain here was a bit different. By road we had driven through what was essentially savannah scrubland, whilst by boat, we had explored the rivers. By horse we were able to explore an otherwise inaccessible area: the marshland. They were not lakes, nor were they rivers, but floodplains. Though this was the dry season, there was still flooding, giving me a little insight into just how wet it must be in December time.
It was here that I discovered my next problem. Despite the fact that this horse had grown up in this landscape, and literally walks this route every day, it became embarrassingly apparent that my horse was scared of the water. While others would happily descend into the marsh without so much as batting an eyelid (as well as not being sheep, they were not bats or cricketers either), my horse refused to move. Although it’s hindquarters would pivot, it’s front legs were rooted to the spot. The result was that I went in every direction except forward. Having realised that this horse was my mortal enemy, I gave it a kick that it would actually feel this time, but this only made it whinny and give me a shake. I was now completely immobile and slightly scared. Thankfully the solution presented itself, unfortunately in the form of another problem.
In their impatience, other horses decided to overtake mine and I shot forward with a splash, soaking my trousers, and leaving me clinging to the horse with my knees.
I heard the gaucho laughing behind me,
“Your horse wants to win!”
Great. Not only was my horse the rebellious one, it was also completely immature.
“It must be a boy,” I said to Ethan who was now beside me.
The result of this horsonality disorder was that my ride was was like a perpetual buckaroo. One minute I found myself halting at random, and at other times I found myself unwillingly cantering, whilst there were several occasions that my steed clashed with another horse. The occasional nip or push or barge combined meant that there was nothing occasional about it. I spent most of the journey with my eyes to heaven praying for mercy, so my recollections of what I saw are slightly more hazy, but I’ll give it a go!
We were in a sort of scrubland. It was by no means a forest, but there were trees everywhere, sparsely scattered as far as the eye could see. For the most part, however, they were half submerged, just appearing out of the water. At the beginning of our journey, the water was not too deep, shin-height for the horses, however, after about a kilometre the water levels rose significantly, rising up to the top of the horses legs. Despite the depth of the water, lily pads floated on the surface, and the swamp was green with vegetation peeking above the surface. Though I had mocked the horse’s initial aversion to water, I was slightly more empathetic at this point. This water could not be described as shallow, and it was very mirky. Neither I, not the horse, had any idea what what was in our path.
There were several occasions when one of the horses very mildly tripped on something in the water. Despite the frequency of their travel here, there was no way that anybody could have completely mapped out what the terrain was like. There would be logs and rocks inevitably, which combined with submerged animal burrows or mounds created a really hazardous journey. In a way it must have felt like being blindfolded, and only the horses’ remarkable dexterity and care enabled them to safely navigate the swamp. But as I marvelled at the birds, I realised that in comparison to the rest of the Pantanal that we had explored, we had seen relatively few animals. Did wildlife not live here? Or was it, too, under the water?
This was a slightly perturbing thought. Though they seemed to be at risk of being eaten by everything, was this going to be the last laugh of the caiman? Completely submerged and invisible, fortified by the element of surprise, they didn’t seem so pathetic. But even more sinister, I realised, we were in prime anaconda territory.
Now I am not a horse person, but I am a snake person. I may scream and wet myself at the sight of a spider, but I will happily trample through the undergrowth in search of snakes and have occasionally plucked up the courage to pick up small grass snakes that I have found. I like their smooth skin and the feeling of muscular strength as they slither through your hands. I find them fascinating creatures and knowing that I was coming to the Pantanal, I had perused the internet for anacondas. I must admit, it changed my mind somewhat. Watching a writhing caiman have the air squeezed out of it, effortlessly but slowly, was enough to make me shiver. Seeing that this anaconda was actually injured, it’s muscles visible through deep gashes, writhing as it further asphyxiated it’s prey, actually repulsed me a little. Don’t get me wrong, I was even more keen to see an anaconda than before, but the thought of one lurking beneath my feet was not quite so appealing.
When I got the chance, I asked one of the Gaucho’s if there was any anacondas in the area.
The reply suspected what I had thought.
“Big snake? Probably all around us, but difficult to see.”
As the water levels rose, I made sure to fully lift my toes out of the water.
My back ached, my hips were cramping and I was actually a little bit motion sick on the horse! Also, quite bizarrely, I had decided to experience horse riding without any shoes. I’m not fully sure of the reason: maybe I had been warned that my shoes were likely to get wet, maybe I’m just more stupid than I let on. What I hadn’t banked on was the fact that I was riding an ignoble and iniquitous beast. I don’t know whether I was distracted by the water lapping my toes or by the thought of having my lungs crushed by a massive snake, but I didn’t see his dastardly plan.
A small patch of scrub lay ahead, barely noticeable. The other horses were painstakingly avoiding them and although they looked harmless, I figured that we too ought to follow suit. My horse had other ideas. Seeing first place up for grabs, it decided that victory must be won at all costs and ploughed through the bushes valiantly. I’m not sure if the horse was aware that the bush was absolutely covered in thorns, but I certainly wasn’t. Which meant I was totally unprepared for the searing pain that coursed through up my leg moments later as my bare feet were brutally dragged through as if they had been raked by a sea urchin. You know that face where all your teeth are bared in a grimace, and rather than make sound you just loudly suck air in through your teeth in a desperate attempt not to say anything you shouldn’t: yeah I did that. I was fortunate that none of the cuts were very deep, but they stung like a football to the face on a February morning. And as the blood began to seep from my toes, mercifully it seeped and didn’t gush, I realised how uncomfortable the rest of the journey was going to be. Craving the cool bliss of the water, in reality it only stung, and I was fairly certain that I didn’t want to bathe my foot in what was essentially liquid compost. I wanted the cool, I didn’t want the cholera. Which meant the alternative was to stick my feet out straight ahead of me, my hips bent at ninety degrees. Considering that my hips were already cramping at the perpetual straddle shape they had adopted for the past hour, I was slightly surprised that I was able to raise my legs at all. If somebody had watched the remaining ten minutes of our ride, you would have seen a convoy of people on horseback, and right at the back, on top of the horse that smirked and cackled, you would have seen a small man sitting like a teddy bear, darkly muttering something about riding the horse into the nearest Tesco.
We had seen relatively little wildlife by the pantanal’s standards, but there was one treat left in store for us and for Ethan in particular. Ethan’s favourite animals are parrots, in particular macaws. But if you would have asked him the animal that he would most like to see, he would have said the Hyacinth Macaw. A deep, marine blue, with bright yellow around their eyes and beaks, they are absolutely stunning. They are the largest parrot in the world, and combined with their beauty and their intelligence, they had once been highly sought after for the pet trade. We had been fortunate enough to see some at the lodge already, and I could understand why. They were magnificent, but also full of character, quite humanlike in their interactions with one another. Unfortunately, the result of this is a real risk of extinction. The Pantanal is one of just a few remaining strongholds for the Hyacinth Macaw.
As we returned to the ranch, approaching two huge trees, the tell-tale honk and croak of macaws began reverberating through us. Ahead of us was Ethan’s nirvana, a Hyacinth breeding colony. I was absolutely certain that, after we had disposed of our horses (or so I hoped), I would be forced to return.
I was right. Given ten minutes grace by our driver before we were to return, Ethan and I made our way back to the Macaw colony. Caiman slunk into the water from their basking areas, and herons watched our approach. To the right of us, a cow had been recently killed and butchered, and it’s skin now being dried and stretched in the sun by a few ranch workers. A marauding hoard of vultures sat nearby, desperate for a scrap of meat. Before long, the harsh honking of macaws filled the air once more, and the sight of approximately forty bright blue Hyacinths filled our vision.
Ethan was in his element. I could have written, produced and performed an opera about my hatred of Rafael Nadal in the time he spent totally engrossed in the magnificent performance in front of him and he would not have noticed. As the macaws strutted around the tree branches, with a self-important disposition, he snapped every pose. It was like witnessing the paparazzi at work, apart from there was just one of them. But he captured everything: the scandals, the heartbreak, the tears and the laughter, it was like watching a soap opera. Apart from this was a soap opera I actually wanted to watch.
Ten minutes turned into forty. I hate being late, but just this once, I was happy to make an exception.
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