THE FIRST LEG of my trip to Costa Rica was exactly as I’d envisioned it: I ate a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, and gallo pinto (black beans and rice), followed by nine holes of golf at one of the premier courses in Central America. My friends and I then lunched poolside and returned to the links. Afterwards we headed to the 19th hole for “Michelada” Imperials–beer served in salted, frosty mugs with ice and a dash of lime. For dinner we feasted on grilled corvina (sea bass) and ceviche (raw fish cured in lime juice), and we ended the night playing blackjack (they call it “rummy”) at the local casino. That could have been the template for my entire week and I would have been perfectly content. But my hosts, J.C. and his wife, Julie, had other plans. After three days of this idyllic routine at the Los Sueños resort on the Pacific Coast, we headed inland to Chomes, a ranch that has been in Julie’s family for almost a hundred years. Here, there was no air conditioning and no casino. Outside it was arid, dusty, and a sweltering 90 degrees. What was happening to my dream vacation?
It was about to get better. One of the things J.C. insisted on our doing was riding horses. “Sure, sounds like a great idea,” I said, with a hint of reluctance in my voice. What I didn’t want to admit was that, having grown up in Jersey and moved on to Washington, D.C., I had never been on a horse in my life (not counting the coin-operated ones outside K-Mart). We were actually approaching the stables before I confessed that I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
“Never?” asked J.C., incredulous. Sadly, the number of people who have never been on a horse is on the rise. As more of us spend our lives in cities and suburbs, the notion of horseback riding becomes as novel as parasailing and bungee jumping. It’s gotten to the point where I now know people from Texas and Oklahoma who have not once been on a horse.
When the time came for me to mount, I had to picture Clint Eastwood in the movies, swinging one leg over the saddle. That was easy enough. But then what? I suddenly felt myself towering over everyone, sitting atop a powerful beast that could, at any moment, get spooked and drag me to an untimely death.
I located the stirrups and the reins, and was told how to make the horse turn, accelerate, and stop with just a tug of the rope. (It turns out verbal commands such as “Heeyah!” and “Whoa, Nelly!” do not work.) Still, I found myself gripping the saddle horn as if my life depended on it–even though we hadn’t started moving yet. Meanwhile the local cowboys, known as sabañeros, were clearly amused at this gringo in a baseball cap and Skechers trying to show his horse who was boss.
It turned out the boss was J.C., who rode a white horse befitting Patton. It was feisty, or, as they say, con brio. As he and his stallion led the way, my gentle, ruddy horse and I followed without incident. And I discovered there’s something exhilarating about riding a horse. You imagine you’re the Marlboro Man rounding up the cattle, as breathtaking scenery unfolds around you. We rode through sugar cane fields as the sun set, throwing out movie lines from “City Slickers.” But just to remind us we were in Costa Rica and not New Mexico, black monkeys were staring down at us from the trees.
A couple of days later, we were back on the range, this time at J.C.’s family ranch, known as Las Delicias. We were joined by a cowboy who took us on a more advanced trail–through rivers, mud pits, and pastures filled with grazing cattle. Luckily, my horse was rather tame, though maybe too much so, for as we forded a river, he decided to lower his head and have a drink. He was parched, and we sat there, my stirrups underwater, for a good five minutes.
“Show him who’s boss,” advised J.C. “He sort of looks like a donkey,” said our friend Pete. But my horse and I were undeterred. It was a hot day, and we both needed a break.
Later, we came upon a cow who had just given birth. As we rode up, she was licking her calf, and in a few moments the baby was struggling to take its first wobbly steps. The sight took my breath away. And to think I could’ve spent my whole vacation at the casino in Los Sueños drinking Micheladas and splitting aces.
–Victorino Matus
