“Come over and ride with us!” said Paul, over the phone.
I walked the half mile along the canal road and down a dusty lane to Paul’s stables, imagining our fun ride galloping in the desert by pyramids. These were two of the main reasons I'd returned to Egypt: the horses and the pyramids.
Paul's Egyptian grooms were busy tacking horses for the four of us. "You’ll ride Borcan,” Paul said.
I stopped short as my daydreams rapidly evaporated. Borcan!
My nerves fluttered at the thought: Borcan, the blustery, formidable, woman-hating, breast-biting (“He’s bitten three breasts so far,” Paul declared adoringly) white stallion in the paddock next to the sweet chestnut stallion Shams, whom Paul would be riding. Jeannie would be aboard a young filly, and Paul would give a riding lesson to Katherina, aboard Prince.
The Breast-Biter himself was already tacked up and standing at his paddock fence, with his lips peeled back to expose his enormous nine-year-old teeth, which were grabbing one of his reins and clamping down tightly, grinding the rubber till it squeaked in protest, exhibiting what he’d do to me if he managed to get a hold of my breast. Clearly a demonstration of equine foreplay.
Let's see: a ride in the desert with a young filly, a green rider, and two stallions . . . one of whom was this fearsome biter that I would be riding. Was this a good idea? These thoughts waved big red flags in my head, but I was too timid to voice my concerns aloud, because I desperately wanted to ride in the desert again!
I’d seen the way Borcan lunged, teeth bared, if one got too close to him; and I'd even seen him go after Paul, his owner; so I always gave him a good berth at his fence. I never bothered trying to pet him like one could most typical sensible horses. Shams, in the next paddock, was so kind and gentle, one would never know he was a stallion, nor that he was so abused by an evil man only five years earlier that he had every right to hate humankind.
I had also noticed, however, that while Borcan put on a show of trying to savage Paul, he was very vigilant not to actually bite him. He would dive big teeth-first open-mouthed at Paul, and when Paul raised his hands, fearlessly inviting him closer, Borcan’s teeth would be closed when they hit Paul’s hands. Borcan pinned his ears fiercely, and peeled his lips back in a threat, but he never opened his teeth to bite his owner.
“You take their anger, and turn it to play,” Paul explained simply.
"Riiiight . . . " I'd answered.
Borcan sure scared me. He also had his reasons for disliking people - particularly women. He'd been abused when he was younger, by a woman who had trained him to ‘dance,' a movement similar to the piaffe in dressage, trotting in place in time to music. The dancing horses in Egypt are trained for special occasions or competitions using various methods of persuasion.
"They used hooks on him. You can still see some of the scars," Paul said, pointing them out. No wonder Borcan hated females, and knew how to get them back where it hurt.
It was obvious Borcan loved Paul, and Paul definitely doted on this blusterball - and in fact all of his horses. Norwegian Paul was one of the happiest middle-aged little boys I had ever had the pleasure to know. His wife was the Norwegian ambassador to Ethiopia, and while she was away, Paul played with his beloved horses. Just ask one little question about his kids - his horses - and his eyes widened and sparkled like sapphires and his face beamed with proud delight. Pull up a chair on his porch, above his stables, and he'll serve you a great cup of Ethiopian coffee (or a good cold beer), and instead of pulling out his wallet and dropping an accordion sheet of photos, he will point to his horses in the paddocks below and tick off their accomplishments as proudly as a father giving you a blow by blow of his kids' soccer games.
I couldn't get quite as smitten by Borcan's antics. I'd witnessed how excited the stallion got when Paul climbed aboard his back; I'd seen how he swelled to a monster twice his normal size, physically and mentally, half rearing, prancing like a naughty juvenile show horse out the long driveway, whipping his butt back and forth, while the other imperturbable horses like Prince and Shams poked along at a relaxed, civilized walk far behind him.
Was it too late to back out of riding? Surely, I reasoned, Paul would not put me on a horse that would hurt me. And I really wanted to ride in the desert.
Still too cowardly to admit I was a little scared, I instead had a little discussion with Borcan out of earshot of Paul. I told him that even though I might look it, I really was not a hate-able female, and, "Please," I whispered to him, "please don’t toss me on the pavement, or in a canal, or out in the desert so you can trample me or shred me with your teeth!"
Borcan ignored me and continued biting the daylights out of his rein, not even letting go when I reached over and took hold of the rein and tried to pull, then yank, it out of his mighty mouth. He even disdainfully ignored me when I dared to pet his neck while he was so passionately occupied with the Death Bite on the rubber. He did not reach over to savage my arm, or some other offending female body part; but he continued to exhibit to me that if he did decide to get a hold of me, I would be a delicious hors d’oeuvre. I was sufficiently wary and possibly frightened, and that ended our talk.
The groom himself had to be leery of Borcan's teeth sinking into his arm, as he held the ferocious stallion for me to mount. I said a quick little prayer as the groom legged me up. After landing on his back, I found the stirrups too short; so Borcan graciously stood still and occupied himself with trying to bite his martingale instead of the groom, or my legs, as I moved them forward for the groom to work on the stirrups.
Once that was fixed, no one else had mounted yet, but, how silly it was of me to think that Borcan would have any interest in continuing to stand still and wait - that was far beneath his Great White dignity. Oh, no, it was time for the Great White Peacock Parade down the long drive. Neck bowed, white mane billowing, Borcan consented to a walk, but only so everybody could get a very long look at his magnificence. He strutted, he waltzed, he erupted with absolute equine masculinity.
And there you have it - against my better judgment, I had already fallen for him. He was such a blustery show off, but he was simply magnificently breathtaking, especially from his back (where he couldn't bite me). I couldn’t help but reach down and rough up his gorgeous long mane, which he only took as his due - pure adulation from the girly peon on his back - and he bowed his neck tighter and shook his head, lashing that silky mane about. He knew exactly what he was doing and how he looked. Television starlets flicking their long hair had nothing on this ostentatious equine.
We got to the end of the drive, and still nobody else had even started after us yet, so I turned Borcan around so he could show off some more. Borcan swaggered back to the stables, where his minions were now mounted and beginning to follow; and this time there was no mistaking or ignoring who was the Great White King of the Egyptian-Norwegian castle.
Borcan led the grand procession down the drive, bouncing on his toes, whipping his tail, dancing and prancing and shaking his head. He was feeling so darn good about his almighty self, and I was so secretly loving being his totally insignificant passenger who looked like an experienced rider on such a tempestuous stallion, that I let him waltz along till we far outdistanced the others.
My white stallion flitted by the fellahin in the fields and gallivanted past the gamoosas in the gardens, hoping they would notice his ferociousness. But the fellahin were busy harvesting crops for the practicalities of life, and the gamoosas were busy eating and flicking flies away with their tails, and none took notice of a haughty blowhard white stallion clattering noisily down the dusty roads, though perhaps they did glance up once in a while to see whether the sufficiently cowed foreign girl rider on his back might be tossed off into the slimy canal, near the edges of which Borcan’s hooves danced dangerously closely.
Borcan and I turned back yet again to meet the others, who were still walking pragmatically and calmly far behind us, then we turned once more and cavorted in front, leading the way across the main canal road, alongside another larger, daunting canal. We passed waving Egyptian children with brilliant smiles, and women wearing brightly colored galabiyas, carrying water jugs balanced on their heads. The children yelled, “Hello! Hello!” and I dared let go of a rein with one hand to wave and smile and say, “Salaam wa-aleikum!”
My hand would then automatically fall to Borcan’s beautifully curved neck, and he would puff up just a little bigger, and skitter just a little faster and tougher down the lane so that I had to grab the reins with two hands again to hold him in check, which made him look even more superbly powerful and beautiful.
We jigged toward the desert far in front of the other less beautiful dawdling plugs. Shoving open a gate, we burst into the lane that led through and past Ali’s stables, where the Western Desert loomed in front of us. Borcan forgot his horse brethren, broke into a trot with Great White Purpose toward the desert, ready to open his Great White Wings, to soar with splendid majesty over the Great Sands of Egypt...
. . . and I almost flew up onto his neck as he hauled on the brakes so he could mark his territory on a poop pile. Since the other horses had yet to catch up with us, I let Borcan have his way, sniffing the interloper’s pile of poop in his Great Desert. He moved forward, then backward, positioning himself just so, and crapped all over it. Take that! Then he turned around, put his head down, sniffed everything long and hard to make sure he had made the most flawless statement; and Borcan found himself quite satisfied with life.
Shams and Paul were just catching up with us, so Borcan lifted his head, puffed himself back up, and leaned in menacingly toward Shams (who ignored him). Then he bore in toward the paddock fence which contained a gray (totally uninterested) gelding, and he fluffed himself up even bigger as he rolled his eyes between the oblivious gelding and heedless Shams and leered at the gray filly (who didn't notice).
My legendary (in his mind) stallion leaped in front again, leading the way into the desert, then, whoa! Another poop pile to sniff and crap on once more, to reinforce the boundaries of his territory and the masterful assertion of his superiority! Everybody passed us as Borcan worked diligently on this exceedingly important task. Once accomplished, we trotted to catch up with the others, Borcan all fluffed up and looking grand for having crapped twice now (nobody noticed).
I figured that now, my mighty powerful Great White King and I would get on with the business of conquering the desert, but Borcan had cast his attention about to other crap piles - there were hundreds, thousands, millions of them, scattered over the Sahara sand like stars in the Egyptian night sky.
When he stopped to crap on the next nearest pile, “Enough, Borcan!” I told him, nudging him with my heels. He moved onward, miffed, because this was really important, and how would I, the insignificant girl on his back, ever understand such significant stallion protocol?
Now, with his focus somewhat forcibly directed forward and upward, we could go attack the desert. I had hoped the mighty Borcan would not be too uncontrollable. But when the Great White King reached the open desert, I was in the opposite predicament. With thousands of miles of nothing but sand in front of him - heavy sand that it would take a bit of effort to get over - Borcan's Great White Purpose for Being (showing off) shriveled, and between my legs he abruptly morphed into a total pansy.
Borcan noticed when the gallop became a little too fast or the slope was a little too much uphill or the sand was too deep. It dawned on him that it was dreadfully hot and humid. And the flies, oh, the wretched flies, oh Misery! It was not possible to canter on Borcan, because while moving, he kicked at his belly and snapped at his chest and swished his tail in colossal agitation at flies, real or imagined. I suspected most of them were not real - I didn't see any flies. I felt he might trip and fall over.
It was a good thing that we weren’t going on a fast ride today, since Katherina was a beginning rider, which suited Borcan just fine. Paul's instructions to me were to keep Borcan a bit apart from everybody, which suited me just fine. Jeannie was riding a four-year-old filly, which may very well have put Borcan in the mood to fight with Prince (who, gelded, could have cared less), and Shams (who, though a stallion, simply had more manners).
So Borcan was free, on this easy ride, to be in front, and not have to work too hard at staying up there. He threw his big white butt side to side like a model on the runway, which made him look really hot in front of Jeannie's filly (who could have cared less).
There were a few rare moments when we were strutting ahead, when Borcan would forget about showing off. Then he’d relax to a normal walk or trot, watch a rolling plastic bag in the breeze, have a look at the picturesque desert around him, glance at the line of pyramids that were unusually sharp today in the clear desert air.
Then he’d catch a glimpse of the gray filly behind him and remember his Great White Purpose in Life - looking good - and he’d puff himself back up, bow his neck, and whip his lustrous tail and flip his luscious mane along his muscular neck.
We worked our way up into the sand hill quarries where Paul picked a little hill and ditch to train on - training for the inexperienced Katherina on Prince, who was testing his rider, and for the inexperienced gray filly, who’d only been out in the desert three times before.
Borcan and I were supposed to wait while Paul gave instructions, but standing still in one spot was not one of Borcan’s specialties. He wanted to move, to dance, to pivot closer to Shams so he could fight or show off. I wanted him to stand still.
After discussing it a bit, we reached a sort of compromise. Borcan kept his feet in one place while he fidgeted with his upper body: he bit his own chest. He bowed his neck like a pretzel, reached down, using those big white teeth, took a mouthful of his chest, and clamped down hard with the Death Bite. He first bit one side of his chest, then he flung his head straight up high in the air and back down to the other side, and bit the other side of his chest, hard. Back and forth, he threw his head up in the air and then down, administering the Death Bite to his own chest.
I was somewhat aghast. "Uh . . . Paul . . . " I called.
Paul looked over at us, said adoringly, “Oh, he’s just sucking his thumb!”
Borcan was quite aware of how resplendent he looked when he tossed his long locks about, but neither he (nor Paul) seemed to realize that his thumb-sucking chest-biting stunt detracted greatly from his masculinity. It also astounded me that he could bite himself so dang hard without a whimper, but earlier in the ride, a teensy-weensy possibly imagined fly bite caused him such wretchedness.
“You Big Queen!” I said, roughing up Borcan's mane, stroking his neck, but nothing distracted him from the Death Bites. He really was a beautiful stallion - gleaming white in the direct sunshine, with little faint brown spots all over, which subtly matched the tan and russet Egyptian sands. I kept running my fingers through his silken mane (he didn’t mind at all, since I obviously worshiped him), which was flecked with blond and gold hairs.
Obstacle lessons over, Borcan stopped biting his chest and leapt to the front of our group as we made a loop through the sand quarries, and back toward home. We crested Japanese Hill, where we had a broad view of the Abu Sir Pyramids on the right, the open desert to the left, and straight ahead in the distance, the pyramids of Giza. Here we usually broke into a gallop over the inviting flat sand.
However, I was riding Queen Borcan, who really had no interest in putting forth the effort to try and keep up with the other horses, since looking good was highest on his priority list, and running behind horses did not in any way support that effort.
We were being left behind with each stride. I smooched to him, and nudged his wussy sides with my heels, and he unbecomingly grunted, but didn’t pick up the pace from a slow canter. The only reason we eventually caught up with our stable mates was because they had slowed to a walk.
A half mile from our desert exit, however, we came over a little rise and spotted a couple of horses - tourists out for a ride - and Borcan blossomed back into a gorgeous white masculine athletic stallion, all inflated and available for the fillies in the string. He pranced and jigged and bowed his neck and cantered in place (you think I could get him to stop cantering now?), rolling his eyes over there to make sure they were all watching spellbound (unlikely). As they passed us, I let Borcan stop and turn around so he could watch them turn around and watch him (they didn’t.)
Just fifty yards from Ali’s stables, Borcan bolted ahead of everybody and then stopped at his own last crap pile, and left another pertinent message. He was once again: Borcan, the Great White King of the Desert!
And he led the parade back home - clattering down the roads, sashaying that Great White Butt, swaggering past the fellahin, sneering at the gamoosas, and exploding in a Great White Cloud of Glory as he arrived at his castle, in the lead, full of glorious tales of his Great White Desert Prowess to tell his stable mates, who would all be sufficiently impressed.
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