The Eighth Tribe, 1978 (5. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1978-05-01 / 5. szám
Page 6 THE EIGHTH TRIBE May, 1978 dred mounts that are available at all times for the riding tours. The mangers carved into the walls were, surprisingly, ceramic, and above each was recorded the name, birth date, and immediate bloodlines of the occupant of the stall. A low pole separated each horse. As we stated our riding capabilities the Master listened, then pointed out a horse, wrote its name by our own, and instructed the grooms to saddle the horses. I noted that traditional English saddles were used. Over the days it turned out that it was a credit to our truthfulness that we were each given a horse suited to our riding. Miklós and László quickly took charge while the head groom, known as András Bácsi (Uncle Andreas), watched with a careful eye. Outside in the yard Miklós held Sobri, my handsome four-year-old bay gelding, which measured a good seventeen hands. Named after a famous highwayman, he looked more like a well-bred cavalry horse. Holding my breath, I mounted with a spring: I’d never ridden anything so large. Miklós tightened the girth and altered the stirrups. I walked Sobri around the yard, felt him respond to my legs, and was comfortable in the saddle. From Tata to Visegrád he was everyone’s favorite: In regional competition, where all horses must pass an examination before joining such tours, he had won first and second prizes for dressage and conformation. The other horses—all four-year-olds —came out blinking in the strong sunshine. They looked in very good condition; their coats glistened, a sure sign of health. I noted their exceptionally fine strong legs, the hallmark of the Hungarian half-blood, their intelligent eyes, well-set heads, sloping shoulders, and well rounded quarters. Each horse was branded on the neck with numbers and letters indicating its ancestors and studbook record. Despite their youth they were extraordinarily well-mannered and appeared quiet as the riders mounted. Within five minutes we followed Ernő out of the yard and were trotting along a bridle path through the forest. At an opening we could see Tata Lake, a placid scene from the last century. Scullers kept pace with us as they skimmed the surface of the water. We flattened our backs and ducked to avoid low-growing branches. How marvelous it was to be on horseback in the fresh air! Sobri sensed my excitement and trotted faster; his action was free and straight as he moved with long, low strides befitting his ancestry. The longer we rode these horses, in ever-changing situations, the more aware I became of their willingness yet general quietness. András Bácsi told me it was because of the way they are broken. As yearlings they are accustomed to romping wild in the fields or are tethered to their mother’s bridle while she performs light farm work. At rising three they are taken indoors and given simple schooling: For the first two or three days they are allowed, with saddle and bridle attached, to wander around the inside ring; between days three and forty-five they progress from a rider sitting immobile on their backs to walking, to learning about the bridle, a rider’s hand, and leg aids, and eventually to trotting, cantering, and galloping with a rider. The mares are apparently the hardest to break, often quite treacherous. For long-distance riding the horses must have enough strength and stamina to finish the day fresh; outdoors they are trained to gallop over grassland at a steady pace and to jump any cross-country obstacles in their path. A horse that lacks courage is a burden. Later we found out that one of our horses had not had a saddle on its back until three weeks before the tour! We decided not to speculate on this, but whichever animal it was, its behavior was a testament to the Hungarians’ charm over horses. Like the people, the horses have spirit, toughness, and sensitivity; they seem as indestructible as the seminomadic Magyars. We followed the Master over undulating fields where the maize grew eighteen inches high. The land was hard and rutted as it was all over Europe that summer. Descending a steep slope, I gingerly gave Sobri his head, but he did not take advantage. I gripped tightly with my knees, leaned forward to take weight off his back, and put myself in a position to pull him together should he stumble. He was strong and surefooted and enjoyed the challenge. I found he was fun to ride and had a sense of humor. He would make little jumps from the top of one high rut to another. I had grown up on a half-breed Arab horse that did the same thing. Although I was enjoying myself, I was soon to have my first brush with him. The track widened to a lane at the edge of an alfalfa field on which large sprayers were dispensing water. The horses were edgy. The Master held up his hand to prepare for the gallop. In our excitement we had forgotten that the horses had been resting for several days and that—as young horses do—they would gallop fast. There was a skirmish to the side of me, and someone fell off. Sobri gave an enormous buck; as I controlled him to avoid the free horse, I yelped. I had to let him have his head as he curled his neck down low, and we had a brief uncontrolled gallop. The only instruction I’d understood in German was to lean forward in the gallop to protect the horse’s back. The rest of the morning passed pleasantly. From then on we galloped in single file; Sobri and I were one. Two members got out of line and raced, not only past us but past the Master—a cardinal sin. The Master shouted, and fortunately we couldn’t translate his words. After three hours we reached a field with belly-high swamp grass, which brushed our boots. In the distance by a stream, hidden behind cascading willow trees, we glimpsed a welcome sight—our small blue bus. A picnic lunch laid out on the ground in the shelter of the trees brought shouts of delight from the hot, hungry riders. With enormous efficiency, which resembled a time and motion study, the grooms had all the saddles off and airing, and the horses were rubbed down. Miklós and László each held half the troop with the reins over the horses’ heads; they had control, but the animals could munch the grass. Close to the picnic spread I saw one horse flexing his knees—he was going to roll. I imagined the confusion it would cause and yelled a warning and pointed. Such language has no barriers. András Bácsi prevented him from going down. When the horses were calm, we were invited to a three-course lunch, complete with china plates, glasses, chilled beer, wine, and soft drinks. A whitecoated waiter from the Diana Hotel served us. The food was good: vegetable soup, fried pork liver, potato salad with caraway seeds, and cheese strudel. Even outdoors the leaves of the pastry were amazingly flaky. I have tried to duplicate the flakiness, but have since learned that the high gluten content of the Hungarian flour produces this special effect. It amused me that each day the Master drank two bottles of beer prior to his lunch, and at the end of the meal, antithetically. András Bácsi always finished the coffee—a preparation for his hard Work ahead. I found myself sitting next to Marianna, who related her experiences on a previous tour. Her English was good, and she offered to translate any difficult instructions. She suggested a catnap; we un-
