The stables were tucked into the rough blanket of Puerto Plata’s short, stony foothills and scrub-brush fields. I jumped out of the van as soon as it lurched to a stop and slid down the dry, pebbly incline to the corral. My eyes scanned the horses tethered to the fence, but did not see Nuevo, the tall bay horse I rode last summer.
The sound of hoofbeats from the barn peppered the air as limes dot a tree. I turned and Miguel led Nuevo out toward me. I ran forward, embracing the horse and the man whom I met the previous June. He tossed Nuevo’s lead rope over and boosted me into the saddle. The pungent warmth of horse hide, saddle leather, and sun-baked dirt washed over me as Nuevo circled the corral, his black mane furling in the breeze.
Not much at the stable had changed in a year in accord with the notion of “Dominican Time,” a cultural phenomenon dictating that “in ten minutes” becomes “in two hours” as easily as hola slides from the smiling mouths of natives. On the trail ride, Nuevo was still friendly, patient, and wise. Mike, the manager of the ranch, told the same amusing yet deprecating jokes better stated by a local.
“Dominican Burger King,” he deadpanned, jerking his chin at the huge black cow lumbering over a side pocket of pasture.
Miguel laughed along with us, his smile electrifying a deeply tanned face. He sat with ease on a dark bay, his long legs barely perched in the stirrups as we cantered over rising hills.
“How do you stay so still in the saddle?” I asked, admiration lacing my voice. He turned and met my gaze. A quiet heat flared and smoldered against the lowering sun.
The biggest change was me. The year before, I visited the Dominican Republic just after leaving a horrible marriage, and I was numb with pain. This year’s return trip marked the close of a required one year of separation, and although I had given up on finding love, I felt whole, strong, and ready to begin my long-awaited divorce proceedings back in the States. Maybe this was why the ride was more beautiful, the hills more shades of green, the breeze more tinged with the scent of sunned fruit than I previously remembered. Or maybe it was just the tall, graceful cowboy with eyes the color of coffee who stayed close to Nuevo both up and down the mountain.
After our ride, we climbed up to Café Esmeralda, the tiny ranch bar perched on top of the hill. Its double saloon-style doors opened to reveal a dark wooden bar out of an old Western. He flicked his wrist over two barstools and we sat as he ordered sweet, frosty Cokes tumbled with pungent Dominican Brugal rum. We swallowed our drinks down and smiled at each other. He removed his mud-brown Stetson and placed it on my head, humming lightly to radio music as he adjusted the ties. “Very nice,” he nodded, smiling under a faint curl of mustache.
Then, as the music playing over the radio changed, he stood and held out his arms. “The bachata,” he announced, demonstrating the simple one-two-three-foot up movement. I hopped down, grabbed his warm hands, and mimicked the quick, rhythmic steps. As we moved in synchronicity, he laughed and murmured approvingly. “Very good, my cowgirl.”
After our impromptu dance we left the bar, his arm slung around my shoulders. We walked back to the van. Mike was ready to return me to the resort, and I climbed in. “Dominican taxi,” he intoned, pointing at the well-worn scooter zipping up the dirt road as he pulled out. I collapsed against well-worn seats as Miguel waved, his arm a strong, dark crescent against the waning sun.
The next day, I watched as Miguel prepared the horses, fitting soft saddle pads on broad backs, laying down the leather-tooled saddles, looping sheepskin-lined girth bands below their bellies and then back up through bright silver rings fastened to the saddle seat. He moved with ease, the horses standing patiently as his hands glided over them. He looked up as I greeted Lucy, the scruffy brown and white stable dog, and scooped her into my dusty arms. She snaked her pink tongue over the sweat on my face and cuddled into me. Miguel nodded approvingly. “You are a good person,” he announced. “You have a good heart.”
Tacking up complete, he swung himself lithely into the saddle of a skittish colt called Black. I climbed onto Nuevo and we went galloping off. Halfway through the ride, we stopped at a worn farmhouse to rest, tying our horses loosely to a sturdy tree. Miguel reached strong brown arms into the branches and presented me with a small yet perfect lime. It was warm from the sun, and I inhaled the breathtaking freshness of his gift.
During the return ride, the glaring sun faded and the air promised storm. As we galloped, a damp clod of dirt careened up from Nuevo’s hooves and struck me full in the face. It felt like a slap, and I flinched and shifted, almost falling as my foot slipped from its stirrup. Nuevo spooked through a puddle, and we pulled our horses up. Miguel turned with eyes laughing at my mud-spattered jeans. He swung Black alongside and brushed the dirt off my face with gentle hands, his touch as light and lingering as the warm curtain of rain now softly falling.
On our third and last ride, we ascended the hillside under a warm, full breeze. The sun glazed the valley, and the tall mountain in the distance punctuated an otherwise unbroken horizon. After dismounting at the lime tree, Miguel reached up once again, pulled down a fresh, perfect fruit, and placed it in my palm. We walked in silence with our arms linked until he turned and looked down at me. “I would like you to stay with me,” he said wistfully, willing it into being. “You would have a good life. Happiness everyday.”
I contemplated his words, awash in a forgotten feeling. Although we both knew the improbability of his wish, its quiet and comfortable intent fit like well-worn riding boots. I smiled as we continued walking, and then chose simple words, spoken with truth but without promise. “I would like that.”
Back at Café Esmeralda, we drank cold beer as I pulled my eyes with longing over sleeping dogs, locals playing poker, horses tethered below in the coral, drowsing in siesta. Then I turned and studied Miguel, his strong brown arms perched on the worn wooden bar, a simple yet sleek silver bracelet adorning his wrist. His dark eyes watched me admire it. Without a word he took the bracelet off and slid it onto my lower arm. It stayed there throughout that last night and the next morning at the airport.
The plane taxied down the runway with a dull, plaintive roar as my eyes filled. I wrapped my fingers around the smooth band so different than the previous one I shed a lifetime ago during an empty and hopeless time. The silver felt warm with promise, and if I placed my fingers just so, a tiny pulse emanated from its center.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Nuevo
The hot June sun beat down on sparse, grassy hills and the dust-slick ribbon of trail. High above Cofresi Beach in Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic, the trail horses gently snuffed and lowered their heads against the glaring light. This was the end of a two-hour ride over the dusty, lime-green terrain girding the city, and as the sweaty string of roans, chestnuts, and bays descended the gentle slope back toward the stables, a pang of longing rose as gentle as the rolling hills: I wanted to gallop.
Yet I was afraid. During my childhood, as a horse-obsessed girl in dude ranch heaven, I pounded over the trails five times a day with a youthful, naïve fearlessness. Years later, during a country visit to family friends in upstate New York, I was thrown from the saddle by Breezy, a skittish chestnut who lived up to her name by inexplicably charging a fence. I landed on my right shoulder, and rose shaken but uninjured. During a suburban trail ride years later, the saddle slipped loose around the feisty Pistachio’s girth, and I plummeted to the rocky ground as the spooked chestnut galloped off.
Now personal circumstances were not helping my confidence. A week before this family vacation, I left a difficult situation with the man I’d married the previous summer, hoping I’d made the right choice. My marriage had been a short yet brutal descent into verbal abuse, veering closer and closer to physical violence. On the morning I finally left, my enraged husband hurled a heavy shoe at my retreating figure, striking the back of my knee. I limped for the rest of the day as I carried boxes of belongings away to a new life. The woman I now was – and the fearless young rider buried deep inside of her – had been thrown yet again, this time struggling back up more slowly, bruised by much more than an aching shoulder and sore hamstring.
Despite well-founded misgivings, as our group approached the last straight section of trail, I turned in the saddle and asked Mike, our Dominican cowboy, if we could trot. This gait is bumpy but easy, a controllable pace quicker than a walk but safer than a gallop.
“No, senorita,” he said, in heavily accented English, shaking his dark, hat-clad head. “This is a beginner ride.”
“OK,” I mumbled, feeling defeated yet relieved.
Mike removed his hat and wiped his sweaty forehead on pale sleeves. He contemplated me a moment before answering. “If you want, you take a private ride one afternoon later this week. We go out on the trail, ride how you want.”
Before I realized it, I agreed. Tomorrow afternoon, 4:00, at the stables. I would again ride Nuevo, an eager bay the color of wet nutmeg.
We soon returned to the corral and I dismounted with a vague mixture of anticipation and dread in my stomach. It had been years since I galloped on a horse, and longer since I did so without a tight grasp on the saddle horn. I decided I would hold on to get through it while enjoying the beautiful scenery.
For the rest of the day, safely back at the resort, I worried. What ifs bubbled up within me like a freshly poured seltzer. What if Nuevo grabbed the bit and ran wild? What if he lost his footing on pebbly ground and skittered sideways, crushing my legs? What if I fell and landed on my head?
Beneath all this, fueling my uncertainty, the shellshock of my recent separation and upcoming divorce burned through me. What if I made the wrong decision? What if I prematurely left my young marriage? What if I hadn’t tried hard enough? What if I failed?
The next afternoon I returned to the stables. Nuevo was tethered in the corral, his dark hide glazed with sweat. I approached his massive frame and offered a sticky lump of sugar. He refused it, slapping an inpatient hoof on the dirt while flicking his dusky tail.
Mike walked up, greeting me with a robust “Hola” while helping me climb into the saddle. From Nuevo’s broad back, I cast a nervous look down as we left the corral. Nuevo, cooped up in his stall for most of the day, rolled a bright, eager eye and tugged at the bit.
As we moved toward the rising hills, the trail gradually opened from a narrow swath through pale green grass to a pebbly path. “Ready?” Mike asked, more an invitation than a question.
We accelerated from a bumpy trot to a faster, fluid gallop, and my hand grabbed the saddle horn. I pressed my sweaty palm tightly around the rough leather. Mike stayed beside me, graceful and tall in his saddle as I hunkered down, our horses matching strides and fighting for the lead. Nuevo surged ahead, strong on the bit. “Rein him in a little,” Mike commanded, still sitting easy in the saddle despite our thundering gallop. I pulled hard on the reins and to my relief, Nuevo slowed.
We rode up into the hills, the trail a thin swatch against the tall grass and fruit trees. Small, battered farmhouses perched on the incline and rangy dogs barked along broken fences. Shy children peered from narrow doorways, their dark eyes curious. We waved, shouted “hola,” and trotted by, trail dust lazing in our wake.
Deeper along the trail, we veered off to hug the gently sloping hillside. Here the ground was smooth and green, and as we climbed higher, the town of Puerto Plata appeared below, tucked under the mountains. The endless ocean glittered, and the languid sun beat down upon distant buildings.
Suddenly, the grass slipped by and the air whistled past as we broke into a gallop. Nuevo was on the bit. I leaned forward in the saddle to aid his upward climb, and to my shock I realized I was not holding on. As the horses dug in, relishing their flight, something within shifted, whispering with a gentle yet insistent echo. Let go, it commanded, simple and unmistakable. Let go of the worry, the doubt, the uncertainty, and fear. Let go.
The nameless voice echoing through me was as simple as the dark bay horse on which I rode. He arched forward, running in sheer pleasure. He simply ran with the lash of breeze fresh against his face and the hot sun thundering down. Let go.
The miracle: I listened. Without hesitation, a long-confined fearlessness rose up, smothering the carefully constructed bars of my psyche, soaring. LET GO.
On the way back, past the tilted farmhouses shaded by mango trees, two riders sat in the saddle, giving their horses rein and smiling as they swallowed the ground with eager strides. The horse with the wise eye flicked his ears back, arched his neck, and galloped.
Yet I was afraid. During my childhood, as a horse-obsessed girl in dude ranch heaven, I pounded over the trails five times a day with a youthful, naïve fearlessness. Years later, during a country visit to family friends in upstate New York, I was thrown from the saddle by Breezy, a skittish chestnut who lived up to her name by inexplicably charging a fence. I landed on my right shoulder, and rose shaken but uninjured. During a suburban trail ride years later, the saddle slipped loose around the feisty Pistachio’s girth, and I plummeted to the rocky ground as the spooked chestnut galloped off.
Now personal circumstances were not helping my confidence. A week before this family vacation, I left a difficult situation with the man I’d married the previous summer, hoping I’d made the right choice. My marriage had been a short yet brutal descent into verbal abuse, veering closer and closer to physical violence. On the morning I finally left, my enraged husband hurled a heavy shoe at my retreating figure, striking the back of my knee. I limped for the rest of the day as I carried boxes of belongings away to a new life. The woman I now was – and the fearless young rider buried deep inside of her – had been thrown yet again, this time struggling back up more slowly, bruised by much more than an aching shoulder and sore hamstring.
Despite well-founded misgivings, as our group approached the last straight section of trail, I turned in the saddle and asked Mike, our Dominican cowboy, if we could trot. This gait is bumpy but easy, a controllable pace quicker than a walk but safer than a gallop.
“No, senorita,” he said, in heavily accented English, shaking his dark, hat-clad head. “This is a beginner ride.”
“OK,” I mumbled, feeling defeated yet relieved.
Mike removed his hat and wiped his sweaty forehead on pale sleeves. He contemplated me a moment before answering. “If you want, you take a private ride one afternoon later this week. We go out on the trail, ride how you want.”
Before I realized it, I agreed. Tomorrow afternoon, 4:00, at the stables. I would again ride Nuevo, an eager bay the color of wet nutmeg.
We soon returned to the corral and I dismounted with a vague mixture of anticipation and dread in my stomach. It had been years since I galloped on a horse, and longer since I did so without a tight grasp on the saddle horn. I decided I would hold on to get through it while enjoying the beautiful scenery.
For the rest of the day, safely back at the resort, I worried. What ifs bubbled up within me like a freshly poured seltzer. What if Nuevo grabbed the bit and ran wild? What if he lost his footing on pebbly ground and skittered sideways, crushing my legs? What if I fell and landed on my head?
Beneath all this, fueling my uncertainty, the shellshock of my recent separation and upcoming divorce burned through me. What if I made the wrong decision? What if I prematurely left my young marriage? What if I hadn’t tried hard enough? What if I failed?
The next afternoon I returned to the stables. Nuevo was tethered in the corral, his dark hide glazed with sweat. I approached his massive frame and offered a sticky lump of sugar. He refused it, slapping an inpatient hoof on the dirt while flicking his dusky tail.
Mike walked up, greeting me with a robust “Hola” while helping me climb into the saddle. From Nuevo’s broad back, I cast a nervous look down as we left the corral. Nuevo, cooped up in his stall for most of the day, rolled a bright, eager eye and tugged at the bit.
As we moved toward the rising hills, the trail gradually opened from a narrow swath through pale green grass to a pebbly path. “Ready?” Mike asked, more an invitation than a question.
We accelerated from a bumpy trot to a faster, fluid gallop, and my hand grabbed the saddle horn. I pressed my sweaty palm tightly around the rough leather. Mike stayed beside me, graceful and tall in his saddle as I hunkered down, our horses matching strides and fighting for the lead. Nuevo surged ahead, strong on the bit. “Rein him in a little,” Mike commanded, still sitting easy in the saddle despite our thundering gallop. I pulled hard on the reins and to my relief, Nuevo slowed.
We rode up into the hills, the trail a thin swatch against the tall grass and fruit trees. Small, battered farmhouses perched on the incline and rangy dogs barked along broken fences. Shy children peered from narrow doorways, their dark eyes curious. We waved, shouted “hola,” and trotted by, trail dust lazing in our wake.
Deeper along the trail, we veered off to hug the gently sloping hillside. Here the ground was smooth and green, and as we climbed higher, the town of Puerto Plata appeared below, tucked under the mountains. The endless ocean glittered, and the languid sun beat down upon distant buildings.
Suddenly, the grass slipped by and the air whistled past as we broke into a gallop. Nuevo was on the bit. I leaned forward in the saddle to aid his upward climb, and to my shock I realized I was not holding on. As the horses dug in, relishing their flight, something within shifted, whispering with a gentle yet insistent echo. Let go, it commanded, simple and unmistakable. Let go of the worry, the doubt, the uncertainty, and fear. Let go.
The nameless voice echoing through me was as simple as the dark bay horse on which I rode. He arched forward, running in sheer pleasure. He simply ran with the lash of breeze fresh against his face and the hot sun thundering down. Let go.
The miracle: I listened. Without hesitation, a long-confined fearlessness rose up, smothering the carefully constructed bars of my psyche, soaring. LET GO.
On the way back, past the tilted farmhouses shaded by mango trees, two riders sat in the saddle, giving their horses rein and smiling as they swallowed the ground with eager strides. The horse with the wise eye flicked his ears back, arched his neck, and galloped.
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