A few days ago, Guillermo told me to lunge a dark dappled grey horse. I tacked it up, held its skittish head tightly, and walked it into the indoor pista. Guillermo got the horse going, clicking at it and crying a low “Hyeiy” until it began to canter.
“He’ll want to toss his head to the outside, but you’ve got to tug on the rope hard, like this. See how he’s turned his face inwards? Okay. Now sueltalo, let it go.”
The horse cantered on. After a few moments, he was facing the wrong way again. He was putting his head where his head was most comfortable, but least beautiful.
“It’s all about pulling, and letting go. One tug. Then let go. That way he learns.”
Guillermo left. I struggled to pull the horse’s head towards me without making him run in a tighter circle. Within ten minutes, the circle he was cantering was so small that his body was leaning towards the centre at a steep angle, and he nearly fell over.
I decided to change direction, and carry on. Half an hour went by, and the horse was getting tired. I wanted to let him slow down and rest a little but he wouldn’t listen to my whistling. I tried the English way: a slow, smooth chant of “Wo-ah.” No luck. He was spirited, and all the force of that spirit went into the rhythmic pounding of his hooves on the sand.
By the time Guillermo got back, his fur was shiny and dark with sweat all over. The Spanish use bridles that have metal teeth on the inside of the noseband. Guillermo took the hourse from me by its chin.
“He’s got blood on his nose,” I said.
“I know. The thing is, es muy bruto.”
Bruto. It means ‘he’s a brute’. But, bruto can also refer to people and manners. It means ‘rough’, ‘brutal’, ‘stupid’, and ‘rude’. At first I thought Guillermo was talking about the use of the metal noseband.
The purpose of the lungeing had been to tire out the so-called Brute so that Guillermo could ride him, and train him to behave properly. The horse still had plenty of fight left in him. He side-stepped his way around the stable yard, preferring to twist his neck and body in all directions, rather than do what he was told.
This evening, in the schooling ring, Guillermo shouted at me just like he shouted at that horse. Hard as I tried, I just couldn’t get my horse to canter on the left leg. You’re supposed to start by trotting in an anti-clockwise circle. Then, slow the horse down, and keep your bottom on the bouncing saddle, so you’re in a ‘sitting trot’. Pull both reins to the right, so your horse turns its head a little to the right. Usually a horse’s body follows its head, but you don’t let it. You’ve got to keep its body turning in a left-hand circle. All the while, you’ve been holding on tightly with your thighs to stay seated, but it’s time to ease off with your left leg, and apply pressure with your right foot. Okay. You’re ready to canter.
Normally, you’d give the horse a little kick to get it going. Not now – you can’t let go with your right foot, so you’ve just got to press into its belly even harder, and make clicking sounds with your mouth.
It’s in this liminal moment that my understanding ends, and the magic begins. I press. I click. I hope to God. I growl. My horse will not canter. I can’t press any harder so I release my right leg momentarily just to give him a little kick. In that split second, he sets of cantering. Yes!
“No! Alicia! What are you doing? Que haces?”
He had set off on the wrong leg.
“Stop. Trot. Canter. STOP. Again. Trot. Canter. NO.”
Round and round we went like that.
I’m not used to this, I’m not used to any of this. I’ve been bad at things before, but not this bad, and not about anything that I care about. But, there I was, with raw hands and aching legs, failing as the sun set on the picadero. People in England mince their words and give ‘constructive criticism’ in a soft voice, and then they reassure you about the positive aspects of your work after they’ve finished with the unpleasant bit. Not here.
Again.
“The LEFT.”
Again.
“He’s laughing at you!”
I never did get it. Eventually I handed the horse over to Guillermo, and he wrestled with it for some time before it finally stood stock still, with its nostrils wide and its eyes rolling. He asked it to canter one, two, three, four, five times before it set off on the left leg. He patted its neck. I saw flecks of blood in the foam around its mouth.
Guillermo called over to me, “Hey, Alice, don’t worry about it. You’re not thick. Es que es muy bruto.”
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