Horse Crazy

by Susan Kiernan

  It's a relaxed attitude toward life that lasts comfortably through whatever political and economic difficulties the country may be going through at the time.

  Kiwis are pleasantly pro-American--even during the awkward months of having to tell the U.S. that its nuclear-armed ships were not welcome in New Zealand waters. In spite of the grumblings and storms leveled against it by its friend and ally, New Zealand remained firm that New Zealanders and only New Zealanders would decide what is good for New Zealand.

  The Kiwis can be a stubborn bunch at the best of times. They are as charming as the Irish with their endless stories and catch-sayings, catalogues or memorized trivia, and their absolute, uninhibited and unbounded pleasure at having you on. As generous as Americans but more genuinely interested and curious about their guests than we tend to be, New Zealanders enjoy a national self-awareness and smugness that seems to belie their physical isolation from the rest of the world. Or who knows? Maybe it's because of it.

  New Zealand is rather like a mini working class Britain. And a nostalgic one, with old cars lovingly restored and driven, the best fish 'n chips, and prolific, plentiful pots of tea.

  It's also proud to have what is undeniably the world's longest place-name, a ridge on the coast of Hawke's Bay, called Taumatawhakatangihang-akoauauotamateaturipukak apikimaungahoronukupokawhenuakitanatahu.

  In fact, it sounds very like some of the names Kiwis like to give to their horses, making it difficult for North-American-types to call them in from the pasture. And when uttered by a Kiwi, sounding very much (to the pakeha or non-Maori ear) like someone attempting to remove his left lung during a sneeze.

  As an American copywriter working and living in this antipodal paradise, I found a lot more commonalties than differences between our two countries and their communication habits. The commonalties made my working transition easier but the differences made it fun. Usually.

  With over ten years advertising writing experience behind me in the U.S., plus a University degree in the subject, I felt that whatever language differences I might face would be subtle.

  I mean, after all, we do all speak English, right? Everyone down there still uses gerunds, subjects, predicates, n'est pas? I felt perfectly capable of writing "concerned Mums serve Healthy-Nut Bread" instead of "Moms who care serve Healthy-Nut Bread." I can add a "u" to "color" and "flavor." No worries.

  Which is why I wasn't quite prepared the first time an account executive came into my office and said to me:

  "We'll get the budget approved. Just keep your pecker up."

  After I blanched in response, and then tried on a few facial colors (all in the crimson family), I stuttered out my assurances that I certainly would.

  (Making a lot more sense than the way we Yanks sometimes use the word, "pecker" refers to one's nose in New Zealand.)

  In another, no-less-embarrassing moment, I was proofing some copy one afternoon when one of the production staff peered over my shoulder.

  "So, how's it look, luv?"

  "Real good, Michael. Can I just have a period after this line?"

  "Perhaps you ought to take that up with your gynecologist."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You want a full stop."

  "Will it look like a little black dot?"

  "Yeah."

  "That might work."

  My language education down under by no means full-stopped with work. That was evident the first time I asked where the bathroom was at a friend's house (who thought she was excruciatingly amusing) and was handed a soap and towel.

  Down Under, the toilet is called the "loo" or simply the "toilet." It's also called a few other things, but "loo" and "toilet" will suffice for present purposes.

  It seems that we Americans are one of the few countries that remain rather delicate about what we call the toilet. In the States, and specifically in the South, one's toilet is either that process of splashing bracer on one's face and combing one's hair or it's where your business has gone if you've mishandled your affairs.

  Our euphemistic word "bathroom" sort of takes all showering, brushing, shaving and etc. activities in at one go. In fact, the same word, which in New Zealand and Australia is used to mean a place where one bathes, is not exclusively a noun in the U.S. It's flexible enough to be used as a predicate phrase too, as in:

  "Better take the baby, he's just gone to the bathroom on my Yves St. Laurent suit."

  The Kiwis never really got over this. Nor could they handle comfortably the idea of one "fixing" dinner. ("What's wrong with it, then, that you've got to fix it, eh?")

  Nonetheless, most of my Kiwi friends enjoyed the language differences enough that they were actually disappointed that, as a Southerner, I didn't emit an occasional "Wal, hush mah mouth" or even a "Laws a mercy" now and then.

  Aside from language differences, I also took a moderate share of abuse for my seemingly unfathomable obsession with American foods. (I brought a year's supply of Crystal Light with me and never stopped bemoaning the lack of buttermilk, Dr. Pepper, microwave popcorn and American bacon.) I did this even though the milk in New Zealand is brought to your door nectar-fresh every morning, the lamb is so delectable you'll swear off forever the teenaged-carcasses we're offered in this country and the fruit is as sweet and as exotic as they'd be in your best fantasy of life on a South Sea island.

  After I'd been in the country about six months, an American friend of mine wrote me from the States and suggested I get in touch with a young man he knew in New Zealand whom he thought I would enjoy. He mentioned that Trevor had his own horse and although that mildly interested me, the obsession was still too heavily covered with the years and the belief that that particular dream had passed me by. Trevor's having a horse was simply an interesting point of fact and that was all.

  I rang him and we spent some time together. Trevor was quite into horses as it turned out. He bet on them regularly, rode his own and helped train and exercise thoroughbred racehorses. The more time I spent with him and spent in New Zealand, the more I could feel the layers of long non-horsy years begin to peel away.

  Once, while spending an afternoon at what the Kiwis call "the trots", and which, thankfully, has nothing to do with what we Yanks call "the trots", I spotted a particularly beautiful roan. Knowing zip about horses' conformation, I nonetheless enjoyed picking out ones that I thought particularly winsome and then pointing them out to Trevor to see if he would agree. He always did, bless his heart.

  This roan was prancing about, head high, knees high, with a long bushy tail and bright eyes. I thought he was excellent and years of writing retail copy descriptions that included "ecru collars" and "mauve overblouses" prompted me to exclaim:

  "Look, Trevor, over there. The taupe one, isn't he great?"

  "The whut?" Trevor blinked at the field of horses and then at me.

  "There, the uh..." now losing confidence fast..."the, you know, that one. Taupe. Ish. Color. Him."

  "Whutza toope?" He looked bewilderingly out at the horses as if they'd all just landed via space shuttle.

  "Well, maybe it's not taupe. Forget it."

  "Towpe?"

  "Trevor, forget it, okay?"

  "But I just want to understand what you..."

  "I said something stupid. Okay? do you capice 'stupid?' I mean, is that a word you people use down here?"

  "Ahhh, yes! Now that word I do recognize. In fact, you'll think I'm psychic or something, but I was just thinking of that word."

  "Bugger off, Trevor."

  "American girls are so charming."

  Beginning your equine education is hard enough in your own language without tackling it in another one first. Although, granted, taupe horses probably don't exist in any culture.

  The translation problems that arise when you finally end up back in your own country will have you virtually at square one again as far as relearning the basic names for things.

  In New Zealand, for example, jodhpurs are pronounced as "jod-pers", not "jod-fers". It's
a small thing but it's usually the small things that ultimately start people pointing and staring at you.

  When you initially learn something in another culture, chances are you'll always think of it first in those terms and then translate it into your present situation, even if your present situation is your native country.

  At a country gymkhana in Whangarei one January summer day, I added to my antipodal equine education by learning the accepted horse colorations. Trevor reeled off what seemed a poetic but dizzying list of horse colors: roan, bay, dun, speckled, black, grey and more. Although promising not to point out in an amplified voice any more instructions to say, watch the mauve horse, I was forced to shake my head in confusion.

  "I think I'll just stick to black and white horses."

  "Might be the wiser thing," Trevor agreed. "Only we don't have white horses in New Zealand. Do you have them in the States?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "No white horses in New Zea..."

  "I heard you, but what's it mean? There's a white horse right there. And there's another."

  "We call them 'greys'."

  "What?"

  "We call them..."

  "I heard you. But they're not gray, they're white. Why do you call them grey and what do you call the grey horses, then?"

  "We call them grey, too."

  "What a descriptive people you are. Why not just call 'em all 'horse-colored?'"

  "I'll suggest it. Bloody clever, you Yanks."

  "Oh, bugger off."

  "See? Some words you have no trouble picking up at all."

  With my flowering education-on-the-ground (if not quite the flat just yet), and the increased contact with the odd horse through Trevor, as well as my work-related experience with Captain Phillips, I began to develop an earnest wish to ride.

  Part of my natural hesitancy to get into riding was the concern that I was too old to be able to do much more than just jog pathetically about, my stirrups slapping hopelessly at the horse's side. Dreams of the Grand National, the Olympics, or of any sort of real equestrian competition were laughingly out of the question. My new riding goal would undoubtedly be to remain upright on the horse and, possibly, moving forward.

  When I began to feel tugged toward horses again, it was with the knowledge that I would not be able to go as far as was possible with them. My age would limit me. This, in itself, was a new concept. But riding is physical and for the first time, I realized that at my age, I would have to content myself with a piece of it: the whole lovely bailiwick of my childhood dreams was now out of reach.

  It began, for me, then, in Waimauku, a farming suburb outside Auckland, New Zealand on Trevor's wily bay, Cuba. Cuba was lean, high-strung and very pretty. Gentle, even uninteresting on the ground, Cuba was Hell on Hooves from the saddle.

  I waited with barely-suppressed expectation while Trevor attempted to catch his beast in the pasture. (Cuba obviously wasn't keen on this part of the procedure, he kept just out of Trevor's reach, like a small mongrel terrier my family once owned when we were living in Germany. Fritzie, half miniature German Shepherd and half Wire-Haired Terrier, would wait with tongue lolling and eyes dancing until we were nearly upon him before whirling away with much, one would suppose, glee and mockery. I must say, it's awful hearing your Dad threaten to garrote a beloved--if aggravating-- pet.)

  When Cuba finally condescended to allow himself to be nabbed by Trevor (or when the lure of the carrot became too great), Trevor led him quietly enough back to the stable where he tacked him up with, I thought at the time, much cursing and stomping. Having no experience up to this point as to why or how a horse might annoy you while you were putting a saddle on him, I stayed out of everyone's way until they were finished. As a result, my education on equine grooming and tacking would remain sparse to nonexistent for awhile.

  Trevor then led Cuba to an enclosed paddock. He firmly locked the gate and then swung up on him. They both sat there for a moment, as if startled, or perhaps they were trying to recollect what came next. Soon enough, they began to move about a little. And then a lot. All of the action was accompanied by a good deal of cursing from Trevor. The two of them began to look like they were on roller skates, weaving and twisting in one spot in the ring. At one point, Cuba went into a small spin, using his hind legs as a sort of pivot. I thought I'd seen something much like it from rodeo clips on ESPN.

  Tiring of this, Cuba soon began to perform a rather attractive, if frenetic, prance-step that took him worryingly close to the car I'd borrowed from a friend for the day and had parked in kicking distance right outside the paddock. Panting and frowning, Trevor jumped off and handed the reins to me.

  "There you go. I've got him settled down," he said.

  With no little apprehension, I bent my knee to accept the leg up from Trevor. I was up, wearing sneakers and no helmet, and the two of us were off.

  It was not a pretty ride.

  We jiggled and danced in one spot for about five minutes, then Trevor opened the gate and Cuba shot through it with me clutching to his back like a cat. Trevor took my picture and I smiled woodenly for the camera. Cuba jerked around a little more and I reassured Trevor that I was having great fun, but that, perhaps, we should stop now, please.

  After it was over, I felt I was lucky to have stayed on. Trevor commented that most people didn't. Stay on, that is. (It was at this point that I began to re-evaluate my friendship with Trevor.)

  We decided to take lessons together. We took one. Each.

  They were given by an English equestrian living in New Zealand who had won some measure of fame in the UK for her riding in competition, as well as a quiet celebrity in New Zealand for her teaching.

  Although only in her late thirties, Corrine Draper didn't show competitively any more due to a set of smashed pelvic bones. She lived with an older man who was reputed to have even more fame and equestrian ability. He was also English. And although I was never sure of what their relationship was (father? husband? brother?), he also had a set of smashed pelvic bones as a result of being caught between two too-active horses in a too-small stall. He still taught but no longer competed either.

  It was a muddy Sunday deep in the sweetest part of Pukekohe, just south of Auckland, when we took our first (and, as it happened, our last) lesson with Corrine. It was the third week in October and wonderfully, lusciously springtime in New Zealand. A rollicking army of fluff-ball lambs frolicked along the perimeter of the riding ring, adequately distracting horse, rider and instructor.

  From atop the big white (grey) mare, I could see the velvety hills of Pukekohe rolling in dizzingly lavish spills of vibrant green. New Zealand is so green most of the year that the intensity is quite hypnotic. When the spring rains force an even more vigorous hue to the land, it seems impossible to do anything but marvel.

  The combination of such powerful, relentless beauty surrounding me, and the compelling antics of the woolly dickens cartwheeling on the other side of the ring proved too much for my concentration. I felt like I was airbrushed into an existing movie, with no idea of what was to happen next.

  What did happen next was that I was put on a lunge line for the first time. A lunge line is a rope or a rein, about thirty feet long, made usually of canvas, that attaches to the horse's halter (or cavesson). The instructor or trainer (in this case, Corrine.) stands in the center of the ring and prompts the horse, by way of a long lunging whip, to move in a circle around her.

  The idea, usually, is to help make the horse more flexible and to prepare him for having a rider on his back, but it's also done to train young horses, to work out a problem with trained horses, to burn off energy with hyper horses and to teach green riders.

  In the latter case, one perches on the lunged horse while the instructor dictates how fast and when one goes. Usually the drill is to remove your hands from the safety grip and learn how to balance yourself on a moving horse.

  It's a great way to really feel the horse beneath you and to start to see
what's needed in the way of staying on without using your hands for balance. It's scary too. The reins are not real hold-'em reins, but side reins which attach uselessly (as far as the rider's concerned) to the saddle. There's often a safety strap to hang onto if you get in trouble but, for the most part, you're expected to keep your hands either outstretched at the shoulders or on your hips.

  The instructor then takes you from a walk to frequent halts to trots to, finally, a canter. In my case, she also encouraged me to use leg and calf muscle to attempt to influence the horse in some way. (Which was an incredible suggestion given my greenness.)

  Again, lunging is a great way to learn because you're not responsible for controlling or steering the beast--just for learning the rudiments without worrying about the vehicle. At least for me, it took an awful lot of concentration to simply keep from coming off and, I must admit, I grabbed for stubby mane on more than a few occasions. I was glad to finally dismount (which was more of a slide to the sloppy wet ground, knees bending near to a kneel.)

  Trevor, understandably, was a little more proficient than I--although he'd never before had the pleasure of a lunge line. But, of course, the lambs had settled down for afternoon kips by then and the distraction level was considerably lessened.

  Corrine told us we were both natural riders and happy and buoyed, we went on a shopping spree the very next day for rubber riding boots (65$NZ), jodhpurs (85$NZ), and riding helmets (25$NZ). New Zealand law is very strict about children needing to wear helmets on horseback and we're not talking about one of those flash, black velvet numbers but the serious hard-hat that makes all responsible Kiwi riders look like mounted motorcycle cops.

  Trevor and I dutifully bought our hats (Corrine insisted on them and the black velvet ones wouldn't do), and briefly debated getting black velvet covers to pretty them up a bit. In the end, we felt they just succeeded in making us appear hydrocephalic and so resigned ourselves to the ugly things as they were. Back in the States, I would keep the Kiwi helmet--complete with see-through visor--in my car trunk for neophyte riders, but would wear my velvet hard-hat. What the hell.