** all names have been changed to protect confidentiality (except my own!)**
Marcos.“People don’t think about us. We are supposed to be invisible.”
I looked hard at Marcos, wanting to be sure I understood his rapid Portugese.
“It’s a big responsibility,” he repeated. “If the horse sees something, it is our duty to calm it down. If it spooks, whose fault will it be?”
I stopped to think for a moment before answering a question which I thought unanswerable anyway. How could someone be responsible for an animal’s instinctive reaction? But blaming the horse was another way of making the leaders such as Marcos invisible. The question of culpability was interesting, alluding to the gradual infiltration of the liability-obsessed society of Brazil’s otherwise carefree culture.
Still, when he spoke of invisibility he could have been speaking about the hundred or so riders who turn up weekly for therapeutic riding sessions at ANDE-Brasil, the country’s National Association of Therapeutic Riding headquarters and therapeutic riding facility. The rehabilitation they provide is directed to developing skills that the riders can use outside of therapy, so that they will be able to participate more in the able-bodied society rather than remaining segregated in their own, adapted world. Through varying the horse’s speed, Marcos helped the rider loosen tight hip muscles that are used in walking. By riding in different environments, hypersensitivity to surroundings is diminished. By interacting with new helpers, social skills are practiced and the lung exercise from physical activity strengthens the speech systems and the ability to express themselves. I would say his role was pretty important, though he never asked for credit for it.
“I am responsible for the horse and, since the horse is responsible for the rider, for the rider too. And so I take my job very seriously. Some people say, ‘but it is just a laborer’s job, you don’t need any education to do it and the pay isn’t great,’ but to me it is important to do my job for the riders and to do it well.”
Susana.“I couldn’t understand what was happening. The day before, this man’s horse that I was trying out before purchase was jumping so quietly and smoothly and today it was prancing around in the practice arena like a mad kangaroo. I finished the course but I knew something was wrong. As soon as I left the arena, I took the jumping boots off the horse’s lower legs. They had barbed wire planted on the insides, between the boot and the horse’s leg, so that it would pick its legs up higher over the poles in order to avoid hitting the jump and digging the barbs into its leg. I took the boots off and walked away. I never got on a competition horse again. I sold my entire farm and my horses and bought this place, just for therapy and for fun, and haven’t looked back once.”
Susana had always been in the down-to-earth subset of equestrians that had a partnership with the horse rather than a mastery of it. She told her story in a matter-of-fact tone over a bitter maté on her porch overlooking the riding arena, her ducks making a racket in the background. The sun was setting over the mountains in the distance and her pony meandered past, her roving lawnmower.
She was more knowledgeable about therapeutic riding than anyone I had met in the first three months of my trip. After her decision to dedicate her life to therapeutic riding, she had been to national, Pan-American and International Conferences, training courses around the world and read all the literature in Spanish and English she could find. She had friends around the Spanish speaking world with whom she chatted online about therapy and her latest clients, keeping names and details confidential but seeking advice from other practitioners – isolated in her rural quinta but not insulated.
She told me – after complimenting my ability to understand therapy terms bilingually - the biggest challenge to the Latin American therapy group is the lack of translated written material. Most of the literature comes from Western Europe and America, so they have to be able to read English or pay for a German to Spanish translator. Their own papers gained little recognition internationally unless they could afford translation services or presented at an International Congress. Professional Development often means traveling internationally for courses and workshops in the United States and Europe and is an out-of-pocket expense.
Susana was also industrious. When she was turned away by the private riding schools and polo club, she went to the police. The mounted police, that is, who helped her out with space, mules for riding, and personnel to help. She contacted schools in the community to come out once a week with their precious free time to ride for no charge and greeted the riders just as enthusiastically when they met in town.
“Best thing I ever did,” she said about buying the property. Though the comment was triggered by the placidly setting sun and the calm and happy animals, she could just as easily have meant giving up the fame and money of competition, ending her marriage, or leaving Buenos Aires for the small town in the West.
Her riders would undoubtedly agree, as corroborated by the ear-to-ear smiles on the class’s face that morning while helping each other groom their horse and socialize on her porch while waiting their turn to ride. Airing on the side of risk in favor of therapeutic benefit rather than conservative caution, she lets the riders lead one another on the horse to learn trust and has them prepare and retire the horse themselves to learn responsibility.
As one rider recited a five-minute long poem from memory for her, it seemed his way to thank her. And Susana realized that.
George.The first time I saw George the rain poured from the eaves of the Riding for the Disabled of Singapore covered arena. The head instructor, Bee, put on a headset-microphone which radioed instructions to an earpiece attached to George’s helmet.
“Does he have a hearing disability?” I asked.
“No, but without this I will have a speech-disability.” I felt like we were at a rock concert, shouting into each other’s ear. The rain was deafening on the roof with no sign of letting up. It was the end of monsoon season.
George’s crutches lay resting against the warm-up barrel, the big blue rain barrel identical to the ones already overflowing under the downspouts, bolted to a wooden stand that 88 year old stable worker Ringo fashioned himself so that riders could stretch the adductor muscles before mounting. Instead George carried two long dressage whips which replaced the legs to communicate with the tall ex-racehorse, Elle.
I saw George and had a chat with his father twice a week for the ten weeks I volunteered during Singapore’s therapeutic riding semester. As with any young athlete, riding allowed him the rounded interests which provided a break from school and all the stresses of being a teenager, a concept to which I could relate.
Looking at George’s resume, you’d notice his goal-oriented personality. Highly achieving in school, with many interests, many friends, and competing at the international level in several sports. You’d never guess he may never walk but, talking to George, it doesn’t much matter. He is a competitive and highly achieving athlete. His disability just a part of who he is, as much his identity as his family’s Singaporean heritage.
Paula.“No, no, no. She didn’t trot. Paula doesn’t trot.”
Frederica’s husband was able to look on the bright side of things. When it benefited him or was his own work, that is.
Aurelio countered. “Well, she did. I said, ‘Paula, do you want to walk?’ and she just giggled. So we kept going.” Aurelio was Paula's private driver and caregiver. She had her own minivan to get her from appointment to appointment and home, provided by her family, one of the city's wealthiest.
Aurelio was not “horsey” but was outgoing, friendly, and eager to help. His relationship with Paula was one of mutual respect and admiration. He was younger than Paula, with sparkling eyes and quick with a joke that often made him laugh more than his company. He was leading Paula's own horse in the Día de la Revolución parade through the town center. I was at Paula's side in my traditional Mexican sash which my host and I had made the previous night during our “risaterapia” – laughter therapy.
Paula, Aurelio and I had fallen behind the group in front of us and were holding the parade route up. The horse must have realized this and, following his instinct, sought to catch up with his herd. The horse also took care of Paula and adjusted to a slow and comfortable jog. As Aurelio said, Paula just giggled in her big Western saddle. She had never trotted before.
But at the parade, Paula did not have Down’s Syndrome. She was not the shy and scared rider that Frederica first met when she began her own practice some 5 years ago. Today, in the parade, Paula was a princess. Dressed in her Revolutionary finest she waved at the crowd, greeted the children, and never stopped smiling.
Come Monday, when Paula appeared for her daily lesson, she was trotting around the dusty field despite her trepidation. It was the critical moment – keeping that confidence from the parade to last into the daily riding lesson just as Frederica had to battle with all her riders to keep the skills learned on horseback to translate to their daily routine. It was for this that Frederica not only instructed the riders but their helpers or parents. Aurelio had to learn to expect Paula to be independent and not put on her shoes, scoop her ice cream, or pour a drink for her. That is, to use all the skills she had on her horse when she was on the ground as well.
So, when he insisted she could, and had, trotted during the parade, it was one of the small victories upon which Frederica depends for success in her riding therapy goals for her students. He had not submitted to the assumption that Paula is helpless, nor that she should be sheltered. Aurelio had arrived at that confidence in Paula to challenge her: to see only her ability.
Sophie.Sophie is slow. She moves slowly, speaks slowly, thinks slowly. Slowness is a habit arising from her developmental delays resulting from her Mosaic Turner’s Syndrome, a genetic disorder in which females lack an X chromosome. Through practice she can move and think faster. She was able to respond to simple addition questions quicker after repetition and one could tell which physical patterns were performed often, like picking a horse’s hoof, and which were newer like organizing the debit and ID cards in her wallet.
Sophie teaches patience. She has the answers, it just takes her three times as long as her peers, also with some form of learning disability, to tell you. I can’t help but think, having felt like molasses while searching for words when I was speaking my second or third language a year ago, everyone could do with a little patience training. Cases like Sophie reminded me of how therapeutic riding is therapy for everyone, especially those with the privilege of ability.
She also has trouble understanding verbal instruction. Like speaking with those with autism, my words had to be clear, concise, and slow. The same request I had of my rapid-fire Spanish speaking hosts or the Brazilians with a thick accent and heavy use of colloquialisms.
But we had a desire to understand each other. So I spoke slowly. I used British phrases like “pick the stable” rather than the American “muck the stall.” She asked me to repeat myself when I spoke too fast or if the emphasis was on a different syllable from how she knew the word.
She was learning to be quick and clear in her commands with the horse. If she wasn’t, the horse would be either taking off or not moving. For the first time since leaving her parents’ house, she was responsible for herself through the horse; whining or throwing a tantrum, or slowing down, would not change that.
The program is about developing ability. Just as I had to learn to listen, think, and speak faster in Latin American Spanish in order to maneuver their society, Sophie had to rehearse her actions in order to function in the fast-paced modern British society which will not wait for her. At least learn some tricks, as I had in Spanish, to fake it if society as a whole would not change just for her.
Sarah.I woke up, chilly in my makeshift sleeping bag in my one-person tent and went to roll over and curl up, piling clothing around me as insulation from the English night. I couldn’t move. I felt like a statue and panicked. My legs were frozen into their position, joints and muscles alike atrophied from sudden overuse.
I laughed out loud, wondering if the neighboring tent-dwellers and RV-campers could hear me. How silly I am, I thought. Many of the riders I’ve met in the past 11 months feel this every day of their life only instead of feeling spooky, this feeling of dead weight below the waist is normal for them.
It had taken 11 months, 15 countries, countless conversations and a 31-km walk carrying 20 kilograms on my back to even begin to contemplate what these riders actually feel. But contrasting this temporary paralysis with the hike across the New Forest that brought the sensation to bear I know I am only farther from understanding their worlds.
I had decided to walk from my final contact in Lymington, Hampshire on the southern coast of England, across the newest British National Park to Salisbury, from where I would travel by train to Gloucester to volunteer at the International Paradressage Championships. It would give me a chance to think and symbolize moving on. It did end up being a microcosm of my year-long Bristol journey. I met interesting folks along the way and, in learning about them I learned about myself.
It was not easy. I loaded myself down with expectation, anticipation, and self-importance but, burdened with the weight, dropped a lot of things along the way. Before leaving my house in Lymington I unloaded all but the essentials – my sense of adventure, curiosity, and secret desire to be an Explorer and set off to see what was out there. I had a map but I still got lost. I checked my compass often but not too much to miss the scenery.
There were things that weren’t marked on the map. A part of my course was fenced off for preservation. So I climbed over the 8’ fence, pack and all, rather than going some 10 extra kilometers out of my way. The road I had to cross, which looked on the map like the typical quiet country lanes of Southern England, turned out to be the 120+ km/hour main motorway, complete with guard rails and 5’ deep median ditch which had to be crossed. Some parts were easier than I had expected and some parts nearly killed me. But I was prepared mentally and physically and I finished what I set out to do.
Ten hours after I set out, I arrived at my campsite. I looked at the whole route which I had been marking on my map as I went along. When I could finally drop my bag in the final location (until the next day, at least) I very nearly broke into tears for satisfaction, accomplishment, pride, and exhaustion. I felt I had found something – I just didn’t yet know what it was. I still don’t quite know. Like atomic mass, the total is greater than the sum of the parts and though I can tally up the little bits I’ve learned along the way – what terminology is best practice in therapy, how to lead a horse using only my body language, creative ways to find funding for nonprofit endeavors, and how to clean a stall the British Horse Society approved way – it doesn’t add up to nearly as much as the sum of the 49 weeks’ experience.
So lying there in my tent, enduring a burst of pain in my pelvis to stretch my legs out and rotate my screaming hips, I felt like Louise when she said to Thelma, “I’ve never felt so…awake.” Aware of how little I really know and how deep the river is despite apparent placidity, I felt awake and alive. But whereas the times in the past when I’ve felt this it was because I felt good or healthy, this came from a dull, persistent pain like I’d rarely felt before and thought, everything has changed.
The first entry in my journal reads “Who will I be in a year? What will I learn/realize; how will I change? At the same time I don’t really expect any change in particular in me – I just know that I will.” With great effort I rolled over and fell asleep again thinking of the line from a Mexican pop song which became my motto for the trip: “Nada de esto fue un error” – None of this was a mistake.
