The Marwari are a breed and bloodline directly descended from Indian war horses, and they are revered and respected. In many rural villages, we learn, horses are believed to be highly spiritually evolved, and we shouldn’t be surprised at the number of people, especially mothers, who will come out to see us—it is an auspicious day when you see a horse. (I feel that way too). Some mothers who are having issues with the health of their children, feel solace and cure can come just from being in the presence of a horse. The Marwari, in addition to being lean to the point of skinny (an adaptation for the grueling desert) have unique, scimitar-shaped ears that curve toward one another, the tips even touch on some horses. They are also described to us as “spirited.” Unh hunh.
After changing into our riding togs (Ooohhh, how much do I loathe riding breeches? If I wanted to wear tights, I’d dance, damnit. Having only ever ridden Western, I have no real experience with formal riding clothes or helmets. I am the only rider with no helmet (except Alexander) and that concerns a few people. If I was honest, I would have admitted to being a little concerned myself…but I wasn’t being honest about that at the time) we go out back to meet our mounts. The horses are great, if generally unaffectionate. The late afternoon sun is still very hot in the sandy, enclosed area where the horses are pegged (tied to steel stakes in the ground). Brick walls with arches surround the uneven, impromptu paddock. They are all saddled and have red and gold fabric sashes running from their necks to their chests-this is a flashy version of an actual tool (Martingale) to keep them from head-tossing. We all disperse and pet them, not knowing yet which horse is whose. They are a bit more aloof than most horses I’ve met, not particularly interested in us at all since we’re not armed with food. Sunayna, our ride manager, calls our names and we step up on the mounting block to take the saddle in turn. Small canvas saddlebags are attached so we can carry a bottle of water and a few small items (sunscreen, lip balm, camera). Several people are up and getting the feel of the pacing horses. I know I have much less experience than most of these folks, but am excited, not afraid. Eventually my name is called and I meet Manisha.
She is the only black and white, paint-patterned horse, so unlike the majority of others who have brown horses, I can always spot her in the crowd. Manisha. I am smitten immediately. God she’s gorgeous and I rub my nose against hers briefly since others are waiting to mount. We are a team made in heaven. I am such a kid about this, dancing inside (without the tights though) because I love this horse. I get my stirrups adjusted and wiggle around a bit to get used to the high backed trekking saddle, and once we are all up we head out through the large archway, past yelling, giggling kids, and into the dusty roads of Kaku village. Wait a minute—what is up?! The horses are so riled and fidgety. Head tossing and prancing and pushing into each other. We try to spread out to go two-by-two, but none of the horses is satisfied being in the rear and they try to push ahead. We make it the short distance out past homes, and the energy really blows up. Horses are crowding each other, flaring their ears back and attempting bites, kicking one another. We try to trot and many go full on cantering after mere steps. They are so small that you can wrap your legs almost all the way around them, which I do to try and hang on as Manisha goes a little nutty trying to push to the front, running right up the ass of horses in front of her. She could care less and clearly she ignores the small red ribbons tied into the tails of the “kickers.” (There are more red-ribboned tails than not, including Manisha, and she gives as good as she gets, throwing a few kicks of her own) On this short “get acquainted” ride, she and I will be kicked, hard, three times. Once to her face/jaw, once to her chest, and at the very end of the ride, once to my foot/ankle. This will become a habit as Manisha, at the walk, trot, or canter, casually brushes the horse ahead’s tail with her nose. WOW they are unmanageable, or barely manageable. We have been matched by skill and experience to our horses, and while not everyone is having a hard time, even some of the most experienced riders are seriously challenged. While I don’t have a ton of riding experience under my belt, I’ve never had a horse even half as challenging as Manisha. The breed’s trot is so tiny and jumpy we all try various coping strategies, to sit it out or do crazy-fast posting, trying to find the rhythm. The Marwari have an extra gait, a very fast trot that actually smoothes out, that you sit out and thrust your legs forward before they will hit this stride. Manisha and I only get to this gait once, some never feel it.
These horses have not been ridden for two weeks so they will be “fresh” for our endurance ride, and they were trucked for seven hours to get to our remote starting point. In addition to being a bit too “fresh” we only learn afterward that when these horses were bought in market, most horse traders use a very cruel, harsh, spiked bit to show potential buyers how “responsive” they are—when actually they are in quite a bit of pain. Because of this they are very mouth tender, even with the gentle snaffle bits they have worn ever since, they do not respond well to rein pressure. Coincidentally, their competitive nature and “spiritedness” means they need a lot of rein. If one runs, they all bolt (or try to). The day’s ride of a few hours is invigorating and daunting—I think all of us are surprised at just how very hard we had to work. My biceps are exhausted from trying to hold her back, and my embarrassment at not doing it well makes me much more tense than either of us wants me to be. Each of us has “a lot of horse” for our experience level. I begin to think my skill level is zero. The second half of the ride is much better, but truly exhausting. There is a lot of exhilaration and nervousness in the group after we dismount. I pretty much decide that even though I’m clumsy and pathetic, that since she and I calmed a bit by the end of the ride that we are just getting to know one another and will be BFFs by tomorrow.
My very favorite among dozens of stuffed animals I had as a kid, was Roger, a black and white paint pony large enough to sit on and straddle. He had a rubber head and soulful painted eyes, with a plush body and a plastic saddle I lost early on. The saddle was replaced with black duct tape wrapping Roger’s middle like a corset. God I loved that horse. He looked an awful lot like Manisha.
We get back to the fort and gather for tea. We’ve all been bounced around a bit but are fine—a few kicks and startles—but fine. I will find that I am not as leg sore as I predicted since the stature of the Marwari is so small. We collapse into the plastic chairs and sip chai or instant coffee (I will become a chai fiend on this trip, and not the sickly sweet bastardization mauled by Starbucks). One-by-one or two-by-two we drift away to our rooms, huts, or tents to change, take a bucket bath, etc, then reconvene under the unflattering fluorescence on the patio, where the bar is open! Vodka, rum, whiskey, local beer (Kingfisher) and wine (I was afraid to try) is available, with a few mixer options. We quickly learn the unparalleled beauty of Limca, a lime soda that is more tart than flat out sweet, as a mixer for vodka or rum. Ahhhh Limca-how I miss it, and preferred it to the gaggingly-sweet cola, Thums Up.
As darkness fell, unseen villagers beyond the walls began drumming and chanting. It adds an amazing flavor to the night. MaryAnne and Odile wander into the village to join and dance with them. These two are amazing like that. Good friends and former neighbors, Odile speaks predominantly French and is from Belgium (though her English is great) and Mary Anne is salt of the earth Southern from Georgia with that easy, that lovely essence and sensibility. Odile is an expert horseperson, rides a lot, and owns horses. The two of them regularly leave the group to find unique adventures—in Delhi they wandered in to a Jain temple near closing and were invited to join the evening meal…here they wandered off to dance and sing with the village…later they would find astounding off-the-hook bargains at textile shops they rooted out…on the Holi holiday they struck out alone and were invited into a private home to dance and celebrate with a local family. I’m jealous of their experiences as they truly make this trip their own.
Sunayna proves one of the most remarkable women…during the days, her long hair is plaited into a single braid down the middle of her back, a few undisciplined hairs always blowing out wildly. It’s hard to imagine anything undisciplined around Sunayna. She runs a tight ship. She and the boys on the riding crew wear military uniforms, not because they are military, but, as she says, “Sometimes out in the field on back roads, if something goes wrong, the uniform helps get the respect of the people around and they listen to you.” Along with the efficiency she demands of the boys, and because things run so smoothly, the work is accompanied by lots of laughter and joking, much of it inspired by the joking of this Queen Bee. At night she lets down her hair and wears a pink kurta, and tells us fascinating stories about the culture with her genuinely funny sense of humor—she is our main source of history and cultural awareness as well as some strong politics. She explains some of the more foreign concepts of the caste system. Later, a conversation I only hear part of is all about the struggles across the border with Pakistan, and how frustrating Indians found the intrusion of Madeleine Albright and Colin Powell…from our perspective they helped stop a war…from India’s perspective, they got in the way. It was to be a “good” war, a tidy affair, over and done with quickly. Now, with the interference of the U.S. the situation was delayed and the lid slammed down on a kettle that is boiling even stronger as time goes by. The war that will eventually happen will be much, much worse. Fascinating. I wish I’d been there for the entire discussion.
Dinner is fantastic, and the group drifts away exhausted and excited that the voyage has genuinely begun. Some are still wrestling with jetlag, so sleep is elusive or spotty. I stay up long after most others, talking to Alexander and Doc and staring at the stars. “Doc” Vinoy Singh is an Ayurvedic healer, and laughing cherub of a man. He occasionally pulls doctor duty at camps and schools, but mostly seems to be there to play the funny man role, and keep up the spirits. In Shakespearean drama, the character of “The Fool” is often the wisest on the stage, able to impart wisdom with a spoonful of laughing sugar, which makes the medicine go down more easily. He makes me laugh a lot, and I respond warmly to his irreverence. I shuffle off to my tent and I decide not to risk sleeplessness and take Ambien and dream the heavy dreams of the exhausted…and dream of Bob and Porter and home…and dream of Manisha…
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