Pablo the Gaucho

Hola mis amigos, como estas? Estoy muy bien. 

The Pablo of the title is me, but you can call me 'the gaucho, the horse whisperer or pale rider'. Admittedly, I have only ever been on a horse on two previous occasions in my life, but as a master of two wheels, a supreme dog musher and elephant handler extraordinaire, I thought 'how hard could it be?' And besides, who can visit Argentina and not go riding? 

At my hostel in Salta, my eye was caught by a number of fliers advertising horse riding opportunities. When the guy at reception saw me looking he told me that there was only one to choose and plucked the 'Sayta' leaflet from my hand and said "this is the best. You go to this one." I slept on it and then asked him to call the company for me and book me in for the following day. 

                              

Despite my lack of riding experience and the ruggedness of the surrounding mountains and countryside, I wasn't worried. I simply didn't want to have an accident this late into my travels with the Inca Trail looming just over the horizon. A car picked me up and we set off on our hour long journey south east. I arrived in time to see seven riders returning from a morning outing. They were all smiling, if a little dusty. 11 more people were lazing in the beautiful gardens drinking red wine, these guys had chosen to simply soak up the atmosphere and stay for lunch. I joined them with a glass of surprisingly nice red wine and discovered everyone spoke English, despite coming from all around the world, including Hong Kong, Australia, Canada and all four corners of Britain. (The only guy I struggled to understand was from Northern Ireland, but I was not alone!) 

I thought I would be riding straight away, but instead the lot of us were then summoned to the main house where a sheltered dining area had places set for 30 people around a huge, long table. I then had the most amazing meal. Whilst staff were barbecuing whole joints of meat in clay ovens, the table was already groaning under the weight of baked pumpkins, salads, vegetables, pickles, chillis, beans, potatoes, salsas and bottle and bottles of red wine.

Everyone piled in and the meat just kept coming, steaks, joints of beef, pork, ribs. It was not so much a 'help yourself', as a continuous orbiting distribution by staff. As soon as another joint was suitably medium rare and sufficiently rested, it was sliced into large chunks and dished out. After about an hour of food and drink I kept saying 'no' as more food and wine was pushed on to me, and each time I was ignored. It reminded me of the Monty Python Mr Creosote sketch "just one more wafer thin mint...?"

Eventually, the people at the table began to unbuckle their belts, develop severe cases of 'meat sweats', belch thunderously and ask to be excused to go and lay down in the garden. I'd completely forgotten about horses and riding and could no longer remember where I was and what I was there for. That's when Nico, the manager said "so Paul, are you ready to ride?" I thought for a moment and then nodded and looked at everyone else still at the table to see who was coming with me. "Oh God no," said the one of the girls I'd been chatting to during the meal, "those who wanted to rode already and no-one is going out on a horse after all this food and wine." 

It looked like it was just going to be me and a guide then.

                                  

                              

I was introduced to Walter, my gaucho guide. He had first started riding at the age of two. He had a wide brimmed hat, leg protectors, a neckerchief, a machete and a wide belt with a knife tucked in the back. I had my zip off trousers, a check shirt and a crap baseball cap. We shook hands and he asked me how much riding experience I had. "I have ride two horses" I said in Spanish. Walter gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head as he looked me up and down. "You ride Toba," he said. Toba was young and grey and a male. He had four legs and a tail and an Argentine saddle. He did not greet me, look at me or respond when I said hello and slapped his neck. I tried again in Spanish and an ear twitched fractionally.

Walter, strapped a pair of gators to my shins and held the reins and the saddle for me to get on. I swallowed, belched red wine and meat, put my left foot into the stirrup and then performed the most spectacularly competent mount in history. I literally swung up, over and put my right foot in the stirrup on the other side in one smooth motion. I then took the reins from Walter and tried to hide my own surprise. I slapped Toba on the neck for good measure (not excessively hard, but I do recall being told not to 'tickle the damn thing' the last time I was on a horse in 1988 during a teaching practice on the Isle of Man.) Walter walked towards his horse and in a smooth motion, that was a blur to human eyes, was suddenly sat in the saddle and ready to go. He told me to use one hand on the rein. "Left, right, stop, but don't pull back a lot - it is painful for the horse." He then set off and I realised my lesson was over. I made clicking noises with my mouth to tell Toba to start, but we remained stationary. Walter didn't look back and was now 20 metres in front. I clicked again (this time with a Spanish accent) and a pronounced rock forward in my saddle. Toba, didn't even twitch an ear. Walter was getting further away. That's when I decided to firmly swing my heels into the horse's belly and crack down on the reins at the same time. I've seen that in the movies! Toba set off immediately...at a fast trot.

 

        

Now admit it. You are all reading this willing me to fall off aren't you? Half of you are afraid that the next line will start with "I didn't know horses could go that fast" or "I remember looking down and seeing my body leave the saddle, arms and legs all desperately windmilling and going in different directions!" Some of you are wincing already, holding your breath, wanting to cover your eyes, certain that the next line will be a painful one. And a couple of you, the ones who really relish the scrapes I get myself into, are already beginning to laugh with a sort of "what a git!" sense of pleasure.

Well, I'm sorry to disappoint, but it turns out that I speak fluent horse and ride like a rodeo cowboy. Within seconds, Toba and I had caught up with Walter and I was still in the saddle. Walter, said "bien" without looking around and carried on riding. I waved wildly at the bloated group of fellow diners I had spent the last two hours with (who were now sprawled on chairs, recliners and the lawns) and a couple managed to lift arms to wave back as we wished each other safe travels.

                                  

                                  

                                  

We rode for nearly four hours all told, though part of that was spent watching a local competition of professional gauchos. The scenery was absolutely stunning. Distant mountains, no clouds, endless fields, tree lined lanes, flocks of noisy green parrots, occasional little streams to cross and we passed no-one. I found the walking bits easy and effortless - afterall, I was simply sitting in my saddle whilst Toba was doing all the work. This allowed me to drink in the views and take lots of photos. However, I soon learned that my horse preferred trotting to walking and our pace increased. After 30 minutes behind Walter, Toba also decided it was time to lead the expedition and with a burst of speed which saw me holding on to the reins with my right hand and the saddle with my left, moved to the front. Now, I don't actually know how to trot. I spent a while bouncing up and down twice every second trying to remain upright. I started to experiment by standing in the stirrups, bracing my legs, making my self rise and fall and eventually I settled into some kind of rhythm which seemed to reduce the slap and bounce to my derriere and privates. I hoped I didn't look too stupid and kept trying to look back at Walter to see how he moved in the saddle, but I couldn't do it without losing balance and confidence. 

                                  

                                  

                                  

A couple of hours into our ride, and eager for an excuse to stop trotting, I noticed a very large gathering of vehicles, horses and people up ahead. I told Walter I wanted to investigate and he looked pleased. We then rode our horses over to have a closer look. It turned out to be a Gaucho tournament. Hundreds were watching as professional cowboys roped wild looking horses whilst on horseback, lead them over to restraining posts and then tried to ride them bare back. Walter told me the horses are trained to throw off their riders and the skill was staying mounted. Some of the gauchos didn't last a single second and were in the dirt before they had set off, but when a rider lasted 5 to 10 seconds of violent bucking, the crowd went wild. I wondered what Toba thought of it all, as he stood still and expressionless the whole time? He just ignored my every word and pathetic attempt to bond. After twenty stationary minutes in the heat of the sun, we rode on.

The only challenge we faced in the ride was from dogs. They were everywhere. Each ranch we passed had a number and stray or wandering dogs roamed the paths at every junction. Some would stay silent until we passed them and then launch into a ferocious attack of barking, whilst others simply went mad at the sight of our horses. Toba, didn't react once to the barking (maybe he has a hearing impediment?) but Walter's horse twisted and turned often to keep a line of sight on each dog and Walter uttered a few oaths in their direction as he made sure they did not pursue Toba and I. Only once did one get close to me and I gathered the length of the reins in my hand ready to lash it at the dog, but it retreated before I had to act.

Eventually, with the sun low on the horizon, we trotted back into the Sayta ranch. Remarkably, I managed to dismount, though my subsequent first steps were shaky ones and my legs seemed to be bowed and incapable of following the messages my brain was sending to them. Nico congratulated me on the ride and Walter shook my hand and then lead Toba and his horse to the stables. I had planned to take a selfie with my horse and thank it for a good ride, but he showed the same disinterest he had when I had first got on him and was more interested in the heading to the water trough. I had time to slap him on the neck and then he was gone. So much for rider and horse bonding! Anyway, it was fine by me, as Nico had uttered the magic words "cup of tea?" and I found myself shambling towards the verandah noticing how thirsty I was too.

I was really well looked after by all at Sayta. Such a professional group. Whilst I have joked here about Walter's like of guidance, I know he had me in his sights at all times, especially when the dogs were around and we crossed the streams. The lavish food was worth the cost alone and I was very satisfied that every horse was very well looked after by Eduardo and his team. 

I want to thank them for a great experience guys - it was truly splendid.

                                           

Post script - I was told by several people that I would ache following my ride. I fully expected to find my thighs bruised from the continuous trotting and my bottom tender. Moreover, everyone said that 'I would feel it tomorrow!' However, I am very pleased to report that nothing is bruised, nothing aches and nothing is sore. Nor am I walking like John Wayne - I must be a natural !

Gaucho / ˈɡaʊtʃəʊ/

noun (pl) - chos

1. a cowboy of the South American pampas, usually one of mixed Spanish and Indian descent

2. a cowboy from Argentina (gauchos)

3. see illustration below