Polly Evans - On A Hoof And A Prayer: Around Argentina At A Gallop

At the age of thirty-four, Polly Evans decides to fulfil a childhood dream to learn how to ride a horse. But rather than do so conveniently close to home, she goes to Argentina and saddles up among the gauchos. Overcoming battered limbs, a steed hell-bent on bolting, and an encounter with the teeth of one very savage dog, Polly canters through Andean vineyards and gallops beneath snow-capped Patagonian peaks. She also survives a hair-raising game of polo and a back-breaking day herding cattle.

Taking a break from riding, Polly delves into Argentinas tumultuous history: the Europeans first terrifying acquaintances with the native giants; the sanguinary demise of the early missionaries; and the gruesome drama of Evitas wandering corpse.

On a Hoof and a Prayer is the stampeding story of Pollys journey from timorous equestrian novice to wildly whooping cowgirl. Its a tale of ponies, painkillers and peregrinations not just around present-day Argentina, but also into the countrys glorious and turbulent past.

Contents

For Inaara, with love

My adventures in Argentina were suprisingly comfortable give or take odd incidents with the occasional ferocious dog or bolting horse. The fact that I only had to go to hospital once and returned home with no life-altering injuries is in large part thanks to the following.

Without the help and hospitality of Robin and Teleri Begg at Estancia Los Potreros (www.ride-americas.com) Id probably have tried to mount the horse backwards, so huge thanks to them and to everyone at their wonderful estancia for a tremendous start to my stay in Argentina. It was difficult to leave.

Equally enormous thanks to Jane Williams, Yvonne Corbett and everyone at Estancia Huechahue (www.huechahue.com). They gave me terrific hospitality and unforgettable riding. And to Caroline van den Bos for her excellent company, as ever, and great stoicism in the face of chafed flesh.

Thanks too to the folk at Movitrack (www.movitrack.com.ar) whose jeep trip from Salta was quite simply one of the best day trips I have ever been on. Jeremy Watson (www.jeremywatson.com) and Margaret Schellerup very kindly took me along on their wine tour in Mendoza. They also introduced me to Harry and Lois Foster of Bodega Enrique Foster (www.bodegafoster.com) who were bounteous with their fabulous wines (and several plates of empanadas to boot). Many thanks to them all.

A mention must also go to Tom and Agustina, Luciana and Marcelo, for their company in BA (and outstanding beer and pizza at Marcelos Buller Brewing Company in Recoleta, www.bullerpub.com).

I am indebted to the Sheraton Hotel for putting me up in Buenos Aires, to Howard Kirke at Aerolineas Argentinas, and to Sarah Hill for her advice on all things Argentina. Sue Ockwell at the Latin American Travel Association and Simon Casson (www.outlawtrails.com) generously provided me with contacts.

Massive thanks as always to Francesca Liversidge, Nicky Jeanes, Sam Jones and everyone at Transworld, and to Jane Gregory, Emma Dunford, Claire Morris, Jemma McDonagh and everyone at Gregory and Company for their wise counsel, clever ways with words, and warm friendship.

Lastly, of course, thanks to all those long-suffering horses dolo, Gaucho, Flopi, Cheeseface, Pepino, Alenia, Larita, Picaflor, Tony and the others who so tolerantly put up with a hard-bottomed novice bouncing up and down on their backs. I couldnt have done it without them.

AS A CHILD, I longed to ride a horse. My girlish dreams were peppered with fantasies of bright red gymkhana rosettes and deliciously exciting grooming sessions in which I would brush my pets sleek coat till it gleamed like polished ebony.

I devoured the adventures of Black Beauty. I was given an old hardcover copy of Jills Gymkhana with a sand-coloured binding that must have been bought at a jumble sale somewhere, and I read and re-read it with avid enthusiasm. After all, if Jill had managed to happen upon enough money to buy herself a pony, why shouldnt I? I gazed enraptured through National Velvet. But those Grand National fences seemed nothing to the hurdle I faced: that of convincing my parents of my need.

For years I pestered them. I wanted riding lessons. They thought the piano more suitable. I still wanted riding lessons. But ballet was so much more ladylike. I wanted a horse. Where would it live? I thought the back garden would do fine. Who would look after it? I would, of course. Who was going to pay for it? Well, they could couldnt they?

But realistically they could not and so the horse was never forthcoming. Christmases and birthdays came and went, and I never unwrapped so much as a My Little Pony. Not even my Cindy doll was given a horse. Cindy, instead, received a bathtub and a wedding dress clean, wholesome, morally upright playthings.

The time went by and the obsession died. Through my teenage years, I dont suppose Id have been seen dead round a horse. In my twenties, I developed an unhealthy preoccupation with swimming and biking and running. It wasnt until I was in my mid-thirties that the niggling little thought began to trot around inside my head once more: wouldnt it be fun to learn to ride?

But where should I go for lessons? I didnt much like the idea of plodding round a London park for forty pounds an hour. And why spend week after week joggling round a riding-school ring attempting to master the very British rising trot when there was a world out there with wide-open spaces to gallop through, places where nobody cared if my heels were down or my head was high? Why squeeze into an unflattering pair of jodhpurs when I could deck myself out in leather chaps and jingling spurs, and gallop with the cowboys through the ranches of Wyoming? Why strap on a hard, black hat when I could wear a fur-trimmed bonnet and ride wild with the nomads across the Mongolian steppe?

There were the Berber horsemen of Morocco. Surely they could do with a new companion with whom to charge across the desert; perhaps they needed a tea girl to serve their mint infusions as they rested beneath the stars. Or maybe I should grab a sabre and head to the spice-scented east to ride with the Rajputs through the ancient battle grounds of princely Rajasthan.

But the Rajputs horse days were gone, and the offspring of those famously wild warriors probably spent their days not in the saddle but selling second-hand Ambassador cars on the streets of Jaipur. In any case, I reflected, it might make sense to take lessons in a country where I at least spoke the language. Should I, then, join up with the Canadian Mounties? Or with the gardiens of the Camargue? Or, perhaps, I could head for the far-flung south, to Argentina, and take my first equine steps among the gauchos.

Horsemanship courses through Argentinas fiery Latin veins. The country as we know it owes its very existence to the horse, for without their steeds the Spanish could never have conquered the ferocious Indian tribes who had inhabited South America for many thousands of years. The Indians had never set eyes on these four-legged creatures before the Spaniards arrived, and they viewed them at first with utter, debilitating terror. They believed horse and rider formed a single, supernatural monstrosity and that the Spaniards gunfire constituted the roar of an animal enraged.

It didnt take long for them to conquer their fear. In 1536, the Spaniard Pedro de Mendoza founded the settlement of Buenos Aires, but he was soon overwhelmed by the indigenous population. Mendoza fled back to Spain, abandoning a handful of horses to run wild on the pampas. It was the perfect environment for them: there were endless grass plains, plenty of water, a temperate climate, and very few predators. The horses bred. By 1580, when Juan de Garay returned to re-take Buenos Aires, he found the province full of wild herds and, gradually, the Indians learned to ride them.