Checking in:
During a recent trip to Panama City, I ventured across the country to a hostel in Isla Grande. Ingrid, an old German woman with a perplexing accent of Spanish, English and German infused with years of smoking unfiltered cigarettes, welcomed me to her hostel. While we exchanged money for my stay, she shared several dog-eared polaroids of her 14-year-old daughter sitting on top of a horse. My eyes were filled with boredom and fatigue after traversing the country in a crowded, dirty bus but I feigned interest in her faded photographs.
Through the gray cloud of her cigarette exhaust, Ingrid asked me if I had experience riding. My pupils dilated with excitement as I dug up the memories of when I was 12 years old riding a tired pony around a tiny backyard at my best friend’s birthday party. I informed Ingrid that I do ride horses and, as a matter of fact, I’m actually an advanced rider. I let her know that yes, I would be interested in horseback riding during my stay. Immediately, Ingrid excitedly called a friend and made arrangements for me to ride the next day at 8:00 am.
Wake up call
The next morning, I was startled awake by the sound of a broken down 1975 Ford Bronco resisting Ingrid’s persistent request to cold start the engine. It was 7:50 in the morning, and this was her passive aggressive notification, letting me know that it was time to go. Like Ingrid, the Bronco sounded as if it was struggling to breathe. I quickly pulled on black yoga pants and a high-tech shirt while stuffing a too large piece of not quite ripe plantain in my mouth before I walked out to the decaying car.
I yanked on the passenger door handle several times before I was finally able to break the seal of rust that adhered the door to the frame. The hinge moaned in protest, making a sound similar to what I imagined Ingrid made getting out of bed every day. A waft of cigarette smoke plumed from Ingrid’s dry, cracked lips directly into my mouth and up my nostrils. I turned to face the window and discreetly covered my mouth and nostrils with the plantain peel in hopes it would be a suitable filtration substitute for the smelly smoke.
The long and winding road
The Bronco bounced along the unpaved gravel road making squeals of resistance each and every time it traversed a small divot in the road, which was every few seconds. Ingrid turned the wheel into what I thought was an abandoned pasture but turned out to be the driveway of the farm. When Ingrid turned off the ignition, the Bronco sagged in relief and hoses hissed like mad snakes under the hood.
Isabella, the owner of the farm and all of its contents, walked out of the shadows like a supermodel walking the runway during New York Fashion week. She was a stunningly beautiful woman in a ruggedly casual way. She was fit, trim and petite. All of the things I was not.
Isabella spoke only a few words in English and immediately transitioned to her native language. I stopped listening after Hola, since that is all I remembered after four years of high school Spanish.
The Farm
The farm was filled with happy animals. Chickens pranced on scraps of corrugated metal that once was their shelter, but now was a stage for their dancing.
Signs of procrastination were scattered across the farm. Rotted wood planks, rusted wire, dented oil drums and abandoned Crocs were haphazardly stacked in piles as a constant reminder of well-intended projects that never finished.
Saddle up
Isabella pointed to a handsome brown horse with white spots and a mane that looked and felt like wheat. I named my horse Spotty and subtly patted his neck to see if he had any adverse reaction to me. He didn’t bristle, which I took as a good sign he wouldn’t buck me off at first chance.
Ready to climb aboard, I noticed the stirrups was at the level of my bosom. I would have to figure out how to raise my leg high enough to gracefully slide my foot up into the metal triangle with inflexible hip flexors and then pull my body up on top of this beast. I twisted my left leg so that my sneaker was level with my chin and the tip of my toes touched the stirrup. It was now or never, so I squeezed my eyes tight for extra strength, grabbed the saddle horn as a lever and pulled myself up, all the while praying the saddle would stay put and not slide down Spotty’s underbelly with me hanging on.
All aboard
I hoisted myself up with just enough momentum to swing my right leg up on top of Spotty’s rump. I was now lying prone with my head at the nape of his neck, one leg twisted in the stirrup and the other leg resting on his tailbone. I used the saddle horn to slide my body forward like an inchworm until my right leg fell on the right side of the horse.
Covered in sweat, dirt and horsehair, I brushed off the evidence of my efforts and sat upright, ready to ride.
Isabella walked around Spotty like a pilot checking over a plane before departure. She tugged at a few leather straps to make sure I was locked in. Since I claimed to be a proficient rider, Isabella provided no instructions, no words of caution or directions. If she did, I wouldn’t have understood anything anyway, but I would have appreciated the sentiment.
And we’re off
With a click-click sound, our horse’s ears perked up, and we started to move. Spotty and I walked down the paved road with the rhythmic clopping of a well-timed metronome. Dogs ran alongside us and barked encouragement until they reached the confines of their fences.
The road less traveled
Isabella led us off the road into the thicket of the Panamanian countryside. She looked back at me and seemed to smile with relief to see I was still atop Spotty.
Quickly mastering the pace of Spotty’s walk, I moved my tongue against the inside of my clenched teeth and made a clicking sound, which caused Spotty’s ears to twist. His conical shaped ears were in a neutral position, relaxed, observant and happy until I squeezed his belly and gave him a gentle tap with my heels. Spotty began prancing like a show horse while I bounced on his back like a marionette who lost its strings. I decided to press my luck and give him another round of squeeze, kick and cluck. Spotty’s ears turned towards me and he transitioned from the uncomfortable trot to a full out gallop. His ears move into third gear, laying flat against his head in aero-mode.
My hands gripped on the saddle horn until I lost blood flow to my fingers. Adrenaline of fear and excitement blurred my vision. None of his four feet were on the ground for seconds at a time as Spotty ran.
Muy rapido!
“Where are we going, Spotty?” I screamed.
Wherever it was, we were going too fast. My arms and legs felt like they were unconnected from their sockets as they swung wildly with only the ligaments holding them in place. We passed Isabella faster than a cheetah chasing a healthy impala. She looked my way and gave me a thumbs up as if to say, I am impressed. You are indeed an advanced rider.
I heard her shout “Muy rapido!”, and I didn’t need a translator to know that she was saying Spotty is very fast. I saw a fence ahead and tried to slow Spotty down since my advanced riding skills did not include show jumping. My left hand lost feeling from holding the saddle horn too tight. My right hand held the reins, which were serving me absolutely no purpose since Spotty was in charge of how fast and where we are going. I pulled the reins up to my head, resembling an archer taking aim at a target in an attempt to slow him down.
It worked. Spotty slowed down just a few feet from the fence. I collapsed on the nape of his neck because my spine was incapable of holding my body upright.
Over the river
Isabella caught up and smiled and gracefully directed her horse toward a river. Her horse stepped into the slow-moving brown water. Spotty obediently followed. I felt the unfamiliar sensation of Spotty moving his legs without feeling the impact of the ground. We were swimming. Spotty was treading water and floating as the current dictated. My feet and thighs were submerged.
While we swam down the river, I unwittingly played a game of limbo. I don’t like limbo, but I really don’t like getting thwacked in the face with tree branches. I leaned my body so far back in the saddle that my head rested on Spotty’s rump. As I looked up from this uncomfortable resting position, I saw sunlight, which gave me solace that I was not in hell.
The current pushed us toward a muddy bank, and Spotty intuitively knew this was our exit ramp. His hooves sank ankle deep into the soft mud, which made a sound reminiscent of summer camp when I removed stubborn leaches from my leg.
Spotty climbed up the slippery slope to an open field. Ahead was a path leading up to a large ridge in the landscape.
And through the woods
Spotty, once again, twisted his ears into aero-mode and we were off to the races. Satan-pony sprinted toward the summit of a small mountain faster than a formula-one car racing for the checkered flag. Spotty and I won the race and arrived at the peak of the mountain several moments before Isabella. This time allowed me a few moments to reposition my bra that had slipped up over my boobs and looked more like a dirty neck scarf than a breast container.
I smiled with relief as Isabella joined me atop the hill. I handed her my phone and used my hands to mime the request to take my picture.
Before heading back to the farm, Isabella raised both her arms, leaned back in her saddle and looked up to the sky as if to invite the love of Mother’s nature into her soul. Feeling the pressure to perform, I did the same. Only I seemed to invite the devil of dizziness and nearly fell off my perch.
Running home
Sensing this was our turnaround point, I knew Spotty knew his way home, which was straight down the mountain. We descended to the farm faster than the Jamaican Bobsled team racing for gold. I did not have an opportunity to appreciate the beauty of the Panamanian countryside because my eyes were filled with tears of fear. My feet were out of the stirrups and bounced uncontrollably against Spotty’s belly, which encouraged him to go faster. I was out of control and my advanced riding skills I bragged about earlier were of no use. Spotty took a sudden sharp turn into the farm and came to an abrupt stop at the chicken’s cage. I flopped forward and looked like the garland of roses draped around the neck of the Kentucky Derby winner.
Whiskers
I slid off the saddle like hot caramel dripping off ice cream and fell to the ground. My arm was twisted in the reins like a soft pretzel and I had to pull on the reins to pull myself up. Spotty’s soft whiskers tickled my whiskers, and we both smiled. Spotty snorted and licked my face. I’m not sure if this was because of the stalactites of salt that dripped from my body or if it was a sign of affection for a job well done. Either way, I knew at that time we would be friends forever.
