Polo lesson #1: "You have to look at the ball"

Four reins in my left hand, polo stick in my right (bouncing uncomfortably in the crook of my neck), I cantered the length of the pitch. I had been tasked with tapping the ball from one end to the other, but the horse ended up kicking the ball more times than I hit it. It was about 50:50 whether I made contact with the ball, and 50:50 again as to whether it moved more than a metre. After five minutes, the neat circular swing I practiced at the start had become dangerously wobbly and lasso-like. As a result, my horse started dodging left when I tried to hit the ball - an unhelpful but understandable instinct for self-preservation.

I was followed by my instructor, the Doctor, a former surgeon and polo fanatic who founded the polo club the year I was born. An exemplar of polo prowess, he scooped up the ball from wherever it ended up after my botched shots, showing off a wide array of sharp 360° swings that sliced the ball from under the horse's neck, or cut it from beside the hind legs. He shouted encouragement and instructions after each of my wild swipes: 'You have to look at the ball!', 'Hit the ball don't just touch it!', and after every shot he made, the ball appeared just ahead of me. While very convenient placement, it was unnerving when a hard ball rocketed past at body level. After one hit my horse squarely on the behind, I began to flinch every time I heard the clunk of his stick.

We did one run of the pitch at full speed, during which I completely lost control of both stick and horse. Unable to turn or stop, I didn't even make a convincing run to the goal, but went straight past it on the far right. Just a small taster of the terrifying pace of polo. I was also given an introduction on how to fight for the ball by 'riding off' the opposing player. The Doctor demonstrated by barging his horse up against mine and hooking his knee in front of my saddle. My horse, something of a polo veteran, sportingly shouldered up against the opposition for a while, but I was all too keen to retreat and give way!

After lesson #1, I was invited to join in a baby chukka of two against one on the polo pitch. Unable to hit the ball, let alone receive or aim a pass, I just galloped in circles and tried to look busy. I vaguely followed the instructions barked by my teammate, but in general, did my best to avoid going anywhere near the ball. Unfortunately, my horse was much more competitive; on more than one occasion, she skid into a sharp 180° turn and sped after the ball, despite the reluctance of her passenger. The experience took me back to my school days and haplessly running around the lacrosse pitch. At least this time there was a horse underneath me!

The lessons have offered a glimpse into what a real game of polo would be like: fast and ferocious, demanding extraordinary control of stick, ball and horse... Needless to say, it's not the sort of sport I will excel in!

The Polo Game

"They're coming to play at 5pm". A phone call announces the forthcoming game. It may only be amateur polo - just 28 minutes of play spread over four chukkas, rather than 49 minutes and seven chukkas - but it is an intense, pressurised hour or more for the grooms. Each is responsible for two riders and eight horses, supplying fresh mounts for each chukka in exchange for two that have just played. The horses arrive from the pitch glistening with foamy sweat, their sides heaving and nostrils flared: seven minutes to untack them, swap their saddles onto fresh horses and take off their bandages before the next two arrive... The game is a chaotic blur of sweaty animals and dirty leather tack.

The preparation begins about 2 hours before. 32 horses are groomed; 64 legs are bandaged; bridles, saddles and bandages are piled up ready for use. A grid with the details of the game is passed around the grooms - which riders play which horses in what order - and there is a reshuffle of horses and equipment, before as many as possible are tacked up and their tails tied in a plaited knot. Then, the players turn up; the game gets underway. An exhausting hour or two later, they disappear as suddenly as they arrived.

A polo virgin and less than 48 hours in Argentina, my first game is a baptism of fire. I don't know my horses names, have never tacked up a polo pony before, and know the players only by the initials embossed on their tack. I am apprehensive, to say the least, about my complete polo ignorance. However, when the riders arrive, they are happy to give me a whistle-stop introduction. It turns out that the horses I had that morning christened as Sammy, Alfred, Molly and Pimms, are officially called Dalinda, Jacinta, Quarta Milla and Marie, and each wears a different, but equally aggressive-looking bit. I hastily scribble down names, distinguishing feature, type of bridle and order of play on a scrumpled scrap of paper. 

I'm also given a crash course on how to saddle a polo pony: instead of a buckle, a long leather strap is threaded through loops on the girth and the saddle, cinched suffocatingly tight and then knotted. Whether I lack technique or brute strength, it seems highly impractical and time-consuming when you have eight ponies to saddle at speed! A rapid demo on how to plait the tail into a neat bun follows, a fiddly piece of handiwork I am yet to master without tying multiple messy knots. The game itself is a whirlwind. I frequently fumble for the scribbled notes, trying to identify horse, bridle and relevant chukka, all the while being handed horses drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. The pace is overwhelming. 

Three weeks on and I still find games a bit traumatic. I have however picked up a few tricks of the trade: rub Vaseline on the girth so it's easier to cinch up; if the tail knot is unachievable, there is no shame in just using tape; if possible, have every horse saddled before the game even starts! I have also learnt the names of the horses, the bits and the players. I still need the scrap of paper though!

An Argentine Groom #2

Hector is slightly detached from the other grooms. He sticks to his own horses, his own stable block, his own corale and his own routine. He's up at 5am to turn the horses out and reappears periodically throughout the day, whether to do his laundry, shoe a horse, or ride one. Slightly bow-legged, he prowls around the yard wearing pumps, loose chinos wrapped close to his calves by horse bandages, and a large cotton shirt that billows out behind him when he rides (when not covered by a woollen, M&S-style jersey). The carved wooden handle of a knife pokes out of his belt, and he often has a few loops of baling twine around his neck.

A polo player as well as a groom, entrusted with training the youngest horses and working the most difficult ones, there's no doubt that he is the most experienced horseman of the grooms. He couldn't look more at home on a horse. Legs thrust forwards and right arm held easily at waist height, he can put any horse through its paces, whether galloping across the fields and pulling up to a sharp stop, or practising razor sharp turns in the menage.

He's travelled across Europe with polo ponies, and has worked here for 17 years - he's currently sleeping in the guest room of the Polo Club House while waiting for the construction of his own on-site house to finish. Hardened perhaps by years of earning his living from horses, he's certainly on the severe side - he's been known to castrate a stallion with a kitchen knife to save on the vets bills.

He works with his son, a sweet but shy teenager who I've never heard utter a word. An efficient, self-contained duo, they go about their work wordlessly. Yet even so, Hector is a noisy presence on the yard. He hollers directions at his herd, 'aaaayy's' loudly at a horse if it misbehaves, sings as he works and, when he does stop to chat, speaks loudly in an incomprehensible garble.

It takes him two weeks to talk to me, during which time I'm referred to as 'la Chica'. We have since advanced to a 'buen dia Lottie' greeting, and a 'finitio?' bark if I'm near him when I get off a horse. Yesterday, he even gave me a few tips (and a thumbs up) in the menage when we happened to be riding there together. It may be slow, but it's progress!

An Argentine Groom #1

When I first meet Paulo, he's brusque and almost surly.  Round-faced with smooth, dark features, he's wearing a baggy adidas jumper, nike trainers and a black flat cap; he could be a teenager, but for the rotund bulge of his belly and calm, confident manner. First off, he takes me to meet my horses: 'Son tuyos' he emphasises, as if pleased to pass on the responsibility. Trailing a handful of halters, we pass through a gate hidden under the trees and enter a large sloping square of land covered in patches of waist-high scrub - a field that is seemingly devoid of horses. With a gruff grunt and wave of his arm, he indicates that I walk in the opposite direction to him, and then let's out a deep 'hee-ahhh' holler that resonates from the depths of his belly. Six heads, ears-pricked, pop up above the bushes. Dotted randomly across the field, there are blacks, browns and one with a striking white blaze down its nose.

He hollers again and, to my surprise, the horses amble into a trot and form a small herd that trundles through the gap between us and towards the gate. Guided by whistles and 'hee-ahhh's', they lope into a canter and disappear single-file through the gate. By the time we catch up, they have bundled into a small square corale just beyond the stable block. A suspicious, tail-swishing huddle, they are young and skinny with coats shabby from the winter. As Paulo approaches, they shift their quarters and raise their chins warily. Unperturbed, he tiptoes towards them, traversing the mud with unexpected grace. He reaches one and, as it moves to shy away, gently slips an arm around its neck as if embracing it, fastening the halter as he does so.

Over the next few days, Paulo diligently instructs me in grooming, bandaging, tack cleaning and coraling, meticulously correcting the slightest variation in his instructions until my technique exactly mirrors his own. I begin to realise that his brusqueness is more economy of words than surliness, something that extends to his sense of humour - an abrupt comment or sarcastic remark is immediately softened by a toothy grin and a chuckle. It could also in part be shyness - when talking to other grooms, his words slur into one long garble, rushing out through smiling lips that barely part.

Paulo is one of ten brothers and father of two. He previously worked as a mechanic and, now 22, has worked at the 'caballeriza' (yard) for a year and a half. Ironically for a groom, he can't ride following an operation to remove a hernia. Instead, he exercises the horses up to six at a time in the corale, cracking a whip at their heels as they whorl around him. He fills the time he would be riding a variety of ways. Most often, it is food preparation and digestion. Elaborate lunches so far have included roast chicken, battered aubergine and chicken stews, on rainy days followed by  fried dough eaten with spoonfuls of dulce de leche. Digestion involves extended snoozing on the sofa: cap over face and hands on belly, the room fills with his snores.

The Turtles and the Lobsters

The turtles creep out of the sea

Ever so anxious not to be seen.

They shuffle up the sandy beach

Until the restaurants they reach

There the lobsters lay in wait,

Reflecting on their grizzly fate:

To be eaten by a head of state,

Off a silver-gilded plate.

The waiters leave to check the rice,

The turtles leap to the trays of ice,

In one fail swoop they seize their loot,

Then disappear to evade pursuit.

 Freed from their plight,

The lobsters dash off in flight.

The waiters watch exasperated,

The turtles smile much elated.

Turning tail and running,

Ever so pleased with their cunning,

They race back to the ocean.

Causing quite a commotion.

The boy called Will

There once was a boy called Will,

Who didn’t like that fish were killed.

Seeing ice-trays of seafood,

He thought rather crude,

And, though he liked fishing,

He spent his whole life wishing,

The world was a little less cruel.

So one day he moved to the ocean shores,

To learn first-hand about fishing folklore.

He soon realised that fish stocks were dwindling,

With no hope of numbers re-kindling

And that overfishing shoudn’t be ignored.

He voyaged the seas far and wide,

Enduring tempestuous seas and dangerous tides,

Studied the distribution of cod

And the number of dolphin pods.

Discovering everything from giant squid,

To enormous aquatic pigs.

He became a legendary sailor,

Admired by even Japanese whalers.

So with intelligence and tact,

He laid out the facts,

Convincing them all,

That over-fishing
 Just isn’t cool.

Snowbadgers

He had travelled the world far and wide,

Delved into the oceans and explored the skies.

From slippery-armed squid to sharp-horned pigs,

Wide-finned whales to tiny, slippery snails,

He thought he had heard every call,

And seen every creature, great or small.

Yet rumours reached him from far away,

Of a secret species not seen by night nor day.

A mysterious beast that travelled in packs,

And was untraceable save for the faintest of tracks.

 They said it could traverse mountains and scale their summits,

Navigate the coastline and swim through ocean currents.

As at home in the hills as in the sea,

A master of all with effortless ease.

Some said it was reckless,

Seen running across logs aflame with fire,

Or attempting dangerous feats with consequences dire.

Others said it was a drunkard,

Seen more often than not with a bottle in hand,

Running in circles and struggling to stand.

Some thought it was a monkey, with thick dark hair and gangly arms.

Others thought a meerkat, with a sharp, weasely face and cheeky charms.

A few swore it was a bear,

Active, affable and impossible to scare,

While others vowed it a mouse,

Often caught napping, if not asleep in its house.

From gungho enthusiasm and adventurous daring,

To woozy alcoholism and loss of bearings,

Rumours were rife of this chaotic creature,

So the adventurer composed a list of its features.

He questioned witnesses and drew up plans,

Plotted trips that took him as far as Japan.

Yet the criteria was so broad,

He knew not whether to search the skies or scour the fjords,

And was soon convinced that the tales must be fraud.

No matter how much he strained,

His investigation was all but in vain

And he wound up in utter pain.

So, not sure where to go nor how to begin,

He sat down and had a large glass of gin.

Urban Stories: Covent Garden

He tightened the knot of his scarf snug around his throat as he emerged from the lift, falling into the short-stepped shuffle of commuters that were filtering through the ticket barriers. Some joined the throng of people wandering towards the piazza, others traversed the street to lean against the “20% Discount Today Only” stickers emblazoned across the windows of Oasis, the generic meeting point from Covent Garden tube. Bleeping himself through the barrier, Brian paused momentarily to pick up an Evening Standard before joining the stream of tourists, the obsolete hollers of the newspaper vendor following him as he walked.

James Street was congested with the usual muddle: red-vested restaurant touts brandishing 2-4-1 Maxwell fliers; eagle-eyed chuggers armed with superficial smiles, ingratiating small talk and a clipboard; Big Issue sellers resident in the indent between Boots and Sketchers, this time the lady with a dry frizz of purple hair and a sad-eyed dog. To the right of the tube was a charred steel drum sheltered by a tatty red and white tarpaulin and loaded with burning white coals. A dozen pebble-like chestnuts roasted slowly on the grill, later to be sold for £2 per plastic cup. Opposite, a metallic man with a comically large nose sat on thin air, legs crossed, arms folded and comfortably cupping his chin in assumed thought. Other street performers were stationed further down the street: a magician loudly rallying spectators together for his next show, a Jack Sparrow, tapping his foot impatiently while waiting for the life-size gnome to vacate his slot on the street, and a 19^th century sailor dressed in full ceremonial garb.

On reaching the crossroad, marked at each corner by traditional Victorian pubs (The White Lion and The Nag’s Head) Brian turned left. Away from the bustle of the tube station, the street was quieter. The glass-fronted restaurants however were brimming with diners enjoying pre-theatre dinner. Hugging his jacket close to his chest as he passed, Brian glanced up briefly at the helical bridge linking the top floor of the buildings either side of him, then abruptly turning right. He fished his ID from his breast pocket, swiped it across a transparent square on the wall and a glass door swung open; he stepped inside.

He arrived in a room no larger than an over-sized cloakroom – a small reception desk, a cluster of chairs and a water machine. Loosening his scarf, he went straight to the desk where a woman with short blonde hair and rosy cheeks was examining a TV monitor. He caught her eye with a smile.

“Any mail for me today Ruby,” he asked. Ruby nodded, disappearing behind the desk and busying herself in a unit of pidgeon holes heavily stacked with paperwork

“Gimme a min,” she called, her voice muffled.

While waiting, he turned a circle listlessly before wandering over to the row of seats. As he sat down, another figure entered the reception via a side door. She was barefoot and wearing an over-sized hospital gown. Loosely fastened by a tie in the small of her back, it rustled like paper as she moved. She was completely bald and deathly white, with pale chapped lips and wide hollow eyes sunken into pallid, puffy cheeks. As she turned to show her side profile, Brian’s stomach squirmed uncomfortably. The back of her skull appeared to have been hacked away: the crown of her head a squashy, squiggly mess of raw red and pink tissues.

As she leant over the reception desk to see where Ruby was, she caught sight of Brian. She grinned sheepishly. Incongruent with her appearance, it gave her a slightly crazed look.

“That goddam makeup department,” Brian smiled, getting to his feet. “Your head makes me squeamish every time!”

“Gotta look the part haven’t I,” she replied, running a hand delicately across the top of her skull as if modelling a designer hat.

“Just finished rehearsals?” he continued, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek.

“You bet. Wrapped up and ready for curtain up. Got those vocal chords prepped?”

Brian tugged his scarf lightly and cocked his head. “Always.”

******

Two hours later, the cavernous auditorium of the Royal Opera House was filled with the murmuring chatter of an expectant audience; front of house staff ushered latecomers into their seats, coughs were cleared and programmes rustled. As the lights dimmed, a whispering hush fell until the audience were waiting the in silent darkness. As the royal red velvet curtain parted, the orchestra began to play and the silence of the theatre was filled with the melodic lines of the opening overture.

Standing in the shadows in the wings of the stage, Brian felt a ripple of adrenalin. Though unable to see them, he knew that hundreds of people were waiting for him. Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes, hands behind his back and brow furrowed in contemplation.

A few minutes later, the music suddenly crescendoed. Looking up, he stepped from the shadows and into the dazzling spotlight on-stage.

---

 First published on Urban Stories.

Spiderman Unmasked

Like the rest of Madrid, Plaza Mayor wakes up slowly. In the morning, it is refreshingly quiet and serene; you can amble across the cobbles without having to traverse the crowds, pause to take a photo without being harangued by a Mickey Mouse and take your pick of the terraces without having to stalk tables... The calm before the carnival.

As the morning drifts by, the street performers filter in one-by-one, preparing for the day’s entertainment. A year since I last visited, I watched as a steady stream of familiar faces arrived. The inexplicably successful snapping goat (a body of tinsel and a plastic head with a hinged jaw) remained resident in the north-west corner. Whether desperate or just enthusiastic, its jingles, snaps and shakes seemed even more animated than they were last year. The man masquerading as a baby, his face painted garish colours and nestled in an overly twee pram, took up position in the centre of the square. More disturbing than entertaining, his success is even more surprising than that of the goat. The headless sailors meanwhile had multiplied three-fold. Wearing identically ill-fitting suits, the bulge of their heads protruding clumsily from between the shoulder pads, they hovered awkwardly in opposite corners of the plaza. 

A few new faces had joined the ranks. The yellow zig-zag crest of a Bart Simpson bobbed through the crowd, alongside a short and squat Tigger, a Winney the Pooh and a host of less-recognisable characters. I was informed that one, which can only be described as a pink banana with a smile, was the sidekick to Spongebob Squarepants. Innovation must be running low… There were a few token Spanish acts: an ornately dressed matador waving a bilious red flag and a Carmen swishing the elaborate red skirts of a full flamenco dress, as well as a few notable absentees: the tango-tanned Elvis and the Charlie Chaplin were nowhere to be seen, nor was the Jesus Christ who made his debut last April (hardly surprising in a staunchly catholic country). 

In the business of the plaza, experience shows. By midday, the Tigger had retreated glumly to the shade of the central statue; the Goat, in comparison, had procured a generous hatful of change from passersby. Spiderman meanwhile, the undisputed ringmaster of Plaza Mayor, remained nowhere to be seen. Presumably, he was unconcerned with the slow trade of the early morning. As expected, just as the square was beginning to buzz, I heard the rattle of his plastic trunk being dragged unceremoniously across the cobbles. 

When I looked up however, Spiderman was nowhere to be seen. In his place, a large, squashy-looking Spaniard wearing an unbuttoned scruffy shirt, baggy knee-length shorts and flip flops. Running a hand absent-mindedly through his thick mop of black hair, he sat down on the trunk and looked around the plaza absent-mindedly. His round-shouldered slouch and perusing gaze curiously familiar, not to mention his possession of the trademark trunk, I was immediately suspicious. … Could this bushy-haired, broad-bellied Spaniard be the man behind the mask? After a moment or two he lumbered to his feet. Standing, his silhouette was unmistakable. The faded black T-shirt had risen to reveal a band of belly flesh drooping in a generous sag over the waistband of his shorts and he was rocking back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back. There was no mistake: Spiderman had appeared in the plaza without his disguise. Was this a first? Spiderman unmasked?

He didn’t linger long in the open. Taking hold of his trunk, he began walking towards a nearby restaurant and, waving a hand in greeting to the waiter, vanished inside. I imagine his metamorphosis from mere mortal into superhero was rather more cumbersome than most flash transformations; he didn’t emerge for some time. A booming “Venga! Hay criminales por aqui?!” alerted me to his reappearance. Slaloming through the crowd with his distinctive gait – belly first and breast bouncing slightly with each step – he began his shift by patrolling the square. Taking command of the plaza, he swept past the restaurants to high-five the waiters and greet the locals before setting to work with characteristic panache.

On his watch, even those observing from the safety of restaurant terraces weren’t safe. Quick to catch the eye of any tourist even mildly curious, he would swoop to their table, yoink them from their seats and work them through his extended repertory of poses: ultra-camp, then heroic, then sexy. When a slightly disorientated group wearing sombreros and dragging wheelie suitcases stumbled into the plaza – a potential jackpot – he was immediately ready for the pounce: legs bent and bouncing on the balls of his toes as they approached. While the snapping goat lay abandoned in a shimmery heap on the floor (its occupant having a quick fag under the archway) and the Flamenco dancer squatted dolefully under the shade of her umbrella, Spiderman dominated the square with ease. 

Undoubtedly the star of the circus, Spiderman's success is undeniable. When I first saw him in the scorching heat of August 2010, he was practically a permanent resident of the plaza: a guaranteed presence right from the first café latte through to the evening aperitif. Now, he has the liberty to work to his own slightly sporadic timetable, has upgraded his worn out rucksack to a sturdy plastic trunk and has acquired a miniature statue of himself. He has even appeared in the local English newspaper several times. Needless to say, those in miscellaneous fancy dress have their work cut out if they’re trying to compete!

---

As you can probably tell, I’ve been following Spiderman for fair while...

• 23 Jan 2011: The Peculiar Resident of the Plaza
• 4 April 2011: An Update on the Plaza 
• 19 May 2011: The Ringmaster
• 12 April 2012: Does Spiderman get Hangovers?
• 11 May 2012: Times are Tough in Madrid

Eggy showers, rotten fish and baths in the mountains...

It’s February in Iceland and the mornings are drowsy. The soft light of dawn only begins creeping across the sky at 9am and the sun remains permanently low in the sky, sinking back below the horizon by 6pm: a natural timetable that favours boozy evenings and lazy mornings. The bar-based routine is encouraged by the fact that venturing outside can be something of a trial: feathery dustings of snow conceal lethal sheets of ice and the climate flits unpredictably between bitingly fresh air with clear skies and blizzard-like conditions with zero-visibility. To leave the city without first checking weather forecasts and road reports is just asking for trouble. Even so, Icelanders have mastered how to live out the winter in style: the island is kept toastie-warm by geothermal energy. Though a slightly eggy smell lingers in the water supply, the bottomless furnace that keeps the indoors warm and welcoming more than compensates. An infinite fuel supply also allows guilt-free decadence using power: heating on and windows open, luxuriously long showers and natural under-floor heating.

Outside of the city however, Iceland is anything but welcoming. Little seems to survive other than the Icelandic ponies who, hard-as-nails, are unperturbed by the most extreme conditions. The countryside, battered by raging winds and arctic temperatures, is inhospitable and unforgiving. The landscape stretches on endlessly in bleak monotones: plains of volcanic black gravel dusted with snow and precipitous snow-covered mountains only just divisible from the white clouds. However, though stark and severe, it is also strangely beautiful. In certain areas, lakes are only part-frozen and patterned with sharp jigsaws of broken ice, while in others, rubble-like rock creates an alien landscape that wouldn’t look out of place in Space Odyssey.

However, stranger than the topography is that, just below the surface, this arctic land is a volatile cauldron of heat. Across the country, flumes of steam spiral from the earth to blend with the snow cover, and you don’t have to venture far into the mountains to find yourself hiking through the stinky sulphurous clouds belched out by hot springs. Craters of gloopy black mud burble suggestively as you pass them, gurgling pools of water bubble furiously at boiling point, and the mountain rivers are so scalding hot that it is preferable to stand barefoot in the snow than paddle.

On my last day, I visited the Kolgrafafjörður fjord on the on Snaefellsnes peninsula. However, what I had thought to be a scenic drive became an impromptu field study when we passed a bay where there had been a mass mortality of fish. I was accompanied by four biologists who, without an inkling of queasiness, made a beeline for the water’s edge. Soon ankle deep in dead herring, they began picking up the least decayed specimens to examine them, one filling up a plastic bag with ten in an opportunist sample collection. I stayed somewhat apprehensively further back. Even so, the mortality was on such a scale that, despite hovering 10m away from the shore, I still found myself squelching through the feathery spines and congealed putty-like fats of rotting fish.

It seems that, as fierce as it is on the surface, Iceland has a vulnerable side. An exemplar in its use of renewable energy, Iceland should be an eco-friendly paradise. However, for 30,000 tonnes worth of dead fish to wash up on the shore, something must be wrong. Then again, my brother, an ardent marine biologist, seemed wholly un-phased, dismissively likening the herring to lemmings. Perhaps it was just a freak of nature rather than a mad-made marine catastrophe…

Either way, from steaming hot rivers that snake through snow-covered mountains, to unexplained natural phenomena, Iceland is full of suprises...