Merdian Meadows Stories, by Dave Jones

More Adventures In ... The Quest For Good Horses!
Second in A Series
Author: Dave Jones, Monticello, Florida
Publishing Credit: Paso Fino Horse World October 1998

The first friendly face we saw in Puerto Rico was that of Angel Usategui. He was living there at the time and showed us Pasos in several places. We saw a few that would be worthwhile bringing to Florida, but the pickings were generally scanty and expensive.

Finally, the president of the Puerto Rican Paso Fino Federation called and invited us to visit some Pasos. First, he took us to see some little, bad looking mares he was touting. He called them “grand old Foundation mares.” I thought he was taking us for fools and told Colin so. Colin asked him if there were any good Pasos in Puerto Rico. He was indignant over such talk and took us to see Jockeliere, an Island Champion. I liked her. Colin said, “That’s more like it! How much?” The reply: “Oh, she’s not for sale!”

We then saw the president’s own horse, a stallion. He was stabled where chicken cages, fighting cock housing, abounded. The horse was ridden in an alley in the back of the building. He did a quick little mincing gait that went nowhere. Seemed it took five minutes to go 20 feet. Colin asked, “What’s he doing?”
Reply: “Is Fino-Fino.”
“Well I don’t like it,” said Colin.
“Well we like it,” said the president.
“But he’s not going anywhere,” Colin replied.
“Puerto Rico’s a little island,” said the prez, “We got no where to go!”

We also visited a trainer who seemed to be very grouchy. We were told that a bull had cored him and he was now a Eunuch, which would have the tendency to make anyone kinda grouchy! He showed us a colt who was being trained. Its mane and tail had been shorn, so he looked a bit peculiar. A serreta was on its head and two long lines were affixed to the rings in a saw-toothed noseband, with a man on each line. The grouchy trainer took up a bull whip and hit the colt on the rump. The colt leaped forward but was held back via the lines on the serreta. He was being taught the “fino-fino!”

The president had boasted about how tight the Puerto Rican Pasos were in the bridle. Colin and I concluded that this serreta (with the saw-toothed noseband) would make any horse tight in the bridle if his nose was kept raw for a couple of years!

All of this was new to me. I’d noticed that the Colombians used a choke noseband on their hackamores and held in the colts with great strength. I didn’t know that you could actually HOLD a horse in with a hackamore, for I’d learned to use the jaquima in the west coast tradition. Many California trainers won’t even use a halter on their horses lest it deaden the sensitivity of the nose for jaquima use. And now I was seeing the serreta and the Colombian choke noseband. Later, I found that the Peruvians use a double-choke hackamore. Oh well, live and learn!

Colin told me that a lot of fine Pasos had come out of Puerto Rico. Air Force people stationed there during WWII and after had become friendly with native Paso folks and had managed to find some really good buys “good Pasos at a good price”. Colin and I had swept in like a hurricane and found poor horses at high prices! I don’t think many Puerto Ricans were upset when we left the island and headed back for Colombia. In fact, Colin Phipps was owner of a Colombian ranch, raised fine cattle and hired Colombians at a very good wage. And, after all, he was a “Sin Verguenza” with three native Colombians. It’s no wonder we always had better luck there.

On this, my second trip, I had many Pasos to look at. One of our first major expeditions was to travel to Concordia, a town high in the Andes Mountains. There was a little shop and that was our starting point for various trips. It was there that the main road joined several little dirt roads that went to Colombian towns. We usually stopped there for a meal and supplies. Over my yukka soup, I watched a buzzard hop, skip and flop across the dining area. Kindly patrons tossed him bits of their lunch and he burped his appreciation. Outside, a dozen of his buddies were tipping over garbage pails while seeking out tender morsels that appealed to their kind. My soup slurping slowed a bit as I watched the buzzard eat. The thought came to me that I was actually doing what I’d joked about before: eating with buzzards! When I get some food I dislike, I might quip, “That’s bad enough to make a buzzard belch.” And now I had actually seen that big bird burp! To the wonderment of our hosts, we left some food on our plates and purchased tinned biscuits to take with us on the trip.

Colin had rented at taxi and it cost $20 for three days. We entered the worn out vehicle and proceeded up into the mighty Andes. Every so often, the driver would crunch the taxi up against the mountain and stop. Then we’d hear screams and the raucous honking of a loud horn. A red, white and blue bus would come careening down the road. Cries of “pendejo” (coward) and “matador” (killer) overwhelmed the steady shrieks of the occupants. And then it was gone, down the steep mountain road. The taxi overheated. The driver said that it was prone to do so, but he’d made no provision to take water. One of our friends suggested we remove the hubcaps and use those to haul water from a nearby mountain stream. In a trice, we had a “hubcap brigade” at work! Satisfied, the taxi resumed its wheezing mode and we were again on our way.

Just before dusk, the taxi coughed its way into Concordia, a town about 12,000 feet above sea level. It was misting rain and we were soon chilled to the bone. Someone suggested that we should visit the cantina, a building set in the center of the town square. We did so and were soon sipping aguardiente. Warmth flowed through my veins and I was comfortable, despite the cold. In no time at all, I became the life of the party, for booze makes me a “happy camper.”

Concordia got to looking better all the time, but, alas, this was soon to change. My ultra-keen hearing picked up the sounds of approaching horses. The horses themselves soon appeared. The dashed on up to the saloon and partook of water from the large trough located just behind the building. They were all saddled. Then a rider appeared. He rode up to the horses, dismounted and bridled the lot. He looked our group over and said “Listo” which meant “Haul your butts out of that joint and mount up!”

There were a couple of Colombian jokers with us and they told the viejo (old man, our guide) that I was a gringo amansador (Yankee horse trainer), so he gave me the hot one, a yegua (mare) who just had to lead the pack. I allowed that she could go wherever she wanted to without getting an argument from me.

That ol’ mare was tearin’ it up in her best largo gait, as if she knew where she was going. When the trail broadened, the viejo galloped up and motioned for me to stop. Holding a bottle of aguardiente (literally, “fire-water”) out of his cariel (men’s purse, no pockets in pants) and passed it to me. We toasted “aguardiente, caballos, y mujeres” (booze, horses and women, in that order) quite a few times. It grew pitch black and I couldn’t even see the horse I was riding. She’d sit down and slide a long ways once in a while and I knew that the trail was about six inches wide, but after all that aguardiente, I was a lot like Rhett Butler when Scarlett told him she finally loved him. As to the mountain ride in the pouring rain, on a six-inch-wide trail, I just thought, “Frankly my dear, I just don’t give a damn!” I could have been shot through the gut and not even known I was feeling bad until I sobered up.

All of a sudden, my mare stopped. In a minute or so I saw a light. The old guide yelled for help and men appeared out of the blackness to take our horses. I dismounted and walked toward the house. A chunky little lady, about 4’8”, met us at the door; she carried a tray which was loaded with shot glasses, sliced oranges, sliced limes and the ever-present bottle of aguardiente. We all had a shot or two. You couldn’t wipe that grin off my face with sandpaper!

Colin commented about my appearance. The backs of my legs were coated with a thick layer of adobe. A Paso’s hind hooves shoot into the ground, so dirt is thrown forward. We must have been “balling the jack”, for I had a half inch of red clay plastered to my pants. It dawned on me that the zamarros (Colombian chaps) were very practical, especially when riding in the mud.

After we got all settled, the old guide asked me to shoot craps with him. I said I didn’t know how but he said he’d teach me. The dice had little figures on them, not like anything I was used to. We started, but we didn’t last long for I somehow cleaned him out. Anyhow, it was time to eat.

I don’t remember much about the meal, but it helped me sober up. Every so often, the little lady served tinto, coffee in small demitasse cups. The old guide’s son hassled me to hurry up for he wanted to get a poker game going. Maybe I could have turned down some of that aguardiente, but doing so didn’t seem very social. So far, I’d done Florida proud, so I took a seat at the poker table, just to be sociable.

Even their doggone poker was different. They took out all the cards from eights on down and played draw poker with the rest. The son was trying to win his daddy’s money back but wasn’t having much luck. I was winning steady. Colin said I was winning too much and I told him I couldn’t help it.

All the while, the aguardiente kept coming. When I declined, they insisted. I didn’t want to be a sorehead, so I gave in and drank up. Once in a while, I’d drink a tinto to even things up. I noticed they’d given me a nickname: “Quatro Reyes” or “Four Kings”. All told, I won about $150 in American money.

When the game was over, it was time to go to bed. Emilio Cardoni, owner of Club Hipico in Medellin, and I were put in a little room filled with sacked coffee beans. Emilio spoke no English, and I spoke mighty little Spanish, but we managed to communicate. The beds were pallets attached to the walls and the mattresses were little more than lumpy blankets. Don Emilio said that he wasn’t used to such coarse accommodations and didn’t think he’d sleep a wink. He had no sooner hit his lumpy pillow than he was snoring so loud the windows rattled!

Well, I was, and am, a light sleeper. On top of that, I was wide awake, but fairly drunk. With Emilio roaring away like he was, I knew damned well I’d be the one to get no sleep. Finally, I’d had enough. I picked up my boot and threw it at Emilio. He snorted, raised up, pounded his pillow, muttered “muy duro” (“very hard”) and went back to sleep. This snoring was mind boggling. I hit him with the other boot with the same results!
To be continued ... part 3