The horses at Parque Chicaque in Colombia could be described as slender, teetering on malnourished. We first spotted the creatures lazily munching on grass outside their simple stable, which was laden with piles of poop. Towering over the stable, just few yards away, was the lodge where my boyfriend and I spent the night. The whole structure was built on stilts and visitors had to climb a flight of stairs to reach the main door. With high, wooden beams and a giant fireplace in the middle of the dining hall, the lodge embodied the coziness of an Aspen cabin. The park itself is a cloud forest, which meant a thick fog blanketed the canopy of tall trees.
We spent our first day in the park hiking along a trail that promised to lead us to a lush lagoon, but turned out to be a narrow brook feeding into a small pond. Eduardo and I chose to comment on the beautiful scenery while hiking back to the lodge instead of what a rip-off the “lagoon” turned out to be. But because he only speaks Spanish and my Spanish is far from perfect, my commentary on our surroundings resembled dialog from a Dora the Explorer episode rather than the banter from a romantic forest date. “That flower is really pretty. I’m hungry, are you hungry? What do you want to eat when we get back to that big place where we will sleep?”
Once we arrived back to the “big place where we will sleep,” we gobbled down dinner and spent the evening on the rustic balcony that wrapped around the whole lodge and overlooked the sprawling forest. Eduardo climbed into one of the woven hammocks and I sat on a stool made from a stump and sang “Rock-A-Bye Baby” while gently pushing the hammock.
“What are you singing?” he asked in Spanish. I offered a rough translation of “tree tops” and peered over the balcony rails at the actual tree tops that seemed to go on forever. The beauty of the slopping mountains and the lush trees below gave me pause. It was moments like those that inspired me to leave the United States in search of adventure. I craved a life with less headaches and more hammocks.
We spent the following morning reading in bed, playing cards on the balcony, hiking on a trail that wasn’t actually an official trail and seeing who could throw sticks the farthest – your typical off-the-grid activities. When it was time to leave, we opted to ride horses instead of walking the slippery trail that ascends back to the welcome center.
It turned out we weren’t the only ones too lazy to climb the trail to leave the park. About a dozen other people joined us on the trek of shame. Encumbered by our backpacks, we mounted those poor horses with the grace of drunk hippos on roller skates. Knowing the trail like the back of their hooves, the horses didn’t need much coaxing, just a whistle from the worker charged with leading us, and the animals began trotting up the rocky path. Eduardo’s horse started the journey next to mine, but it seemed these particular horses didn’t care if we were a couple – we were quickly separated when his horse dashed to the front of the herd while mine lagged behind.
The ride was anything but relaxing. My horse didn’t get along well with the others and maliciously nipped at anything that got too close to its mouth. When it wasn’t busy being a bully, it would randomly gallop, attempting to get to the front of the herd. “Stop! Please slowdown,” I begged my horse in English. It dawned on me the creature might be more receptive to commands in Spanish. (I have lived in Colombia for more than a year, and in that time my Spanish has drastically improved, but I still have a habit of speaking to Colombian babies and animals in English.) Even before the ride began, I recognized my horse was a little squirrely. My original goal was to control my horse. However, once we got moving and I witnessed just how much of an asshole this creature was, my goal quickly changed from “control the horse” to “don’t fall off the horse.”
Most of the trail was made of stone and the horses tripped and stumbled during the journey. Some even buckled, sending the rider scrambling to maintain balance. I panicked and held the reins even tighter each time my horse lost its footing – which turned out to be a lot. The man in front of me was trying, without any real success, to record the whole experience with a smartphone attached to a selfie-stick. “Get closer together,” he encouraged his wife and daughter, who were riding their own unruly horses. This amateur videographer was woefully ambitious. While trying to assemble his family for the perfect shot, he didn’t consider my stubborn horse right in the middle of their group huddle. So now, some Colombian family has a 40-minute video that mostly just features me looking thoroughly uncomfortable and wincing every time my horse stumbles, while the heads of a daughter and mother briefly appear in the frame. Precious family memories, indeed.
We passed people on foot during our ascent. Not having a burning desire to be trampled, they moved to the sides of the trail to let us pass. But there was one hiker, maybe in his 60s, who didn’t think it wise to get out of the way of an oncoming herd of horses. Instead, he stood on the right side of the trail and tried to corral the horse in front of mine to the other side of the trail. What was this guy doing? Does he think he’s a goddamn horse whisperer? My horse refused to be corralled by some dude in cargo pants and continued on its trajectory, sending the guy stumbling back. “Control your horse, lady!” the old man yelled at me in Spanish. Silent rage consumed me. No one had told that guy to herd my horse. He was just some random person on the trial. He could have stood on the side of the path like every other hiker and let us pass in peace. But instead, he tried and failed to corral a giant animal on the side of a mountain and blamed me when things didn’t go according to his plan. I wondered if he would have told me, a perfect stranger, to control my horse if I was a man. Probably not.
The most infuriating part was that my Spanish wasn’t advanced enough to properly tell him off. If this had happened in the United States, I would have, without hesitation, responded with: “If I could control this horse, I would tell it to kick your dumbass off this mountain for being such a stupid motherfucker.” Then I would bring light to whatever part of his face or body was most unsavory, make a cruel joke about it and ride off on my asshole horse with my head held high. But because I speak Spanish like a third-grader, I just fumed for the rest of the ride.
The bubbling anger I experienced after failing to verbally defend myself in Spanish wasn’t new. There have been several incidents while living in Colombia where a stranger has said something or done something that rubbed me the wrong way, but I couldn’t find the words fast enough to tell the person off – turning into unshakable frustration. The only time I felt vindicated was during a soccer game. A young woman on the opposing team said something rude to me, but I couldn’t think of anything to say back in Spanish. So the next time she got the ball, I slide-tackled her in the nastiest way. The referee carded me, but I didn’t care because I could see she was shaken. The next play I scored a goal then coyly smiled at her while my team cheered around me.
I wasn’t always like this. Of course, no one has ever labeled me docile, but the mounting frustration about not being able to properly express myself in Colombia has awakened a petty, unforgiving side of me.
For the rest of the ride, I told myself to focus on the beautiful, lush scenery instead of some asshole on the side of the trail, but I wasn’t entirely successful. The horses climbed the final hill after a full gallop and I dismounted without waiting for the leader to help me. I found Eduardo and recounted what happened. “Next time, just flip him off,” he suggested, then demonstrated by erecting his middle fingers and directing the gesture at an innocent tree. That’s one of the things I love about him. Besides the fact that he’s devastatingly handsome, Eduardo never looks down on me for being petty or holding grudges. He understands it’s hard being a foreigner because he is one himself. He always shows the perfect amount of indignation on my behalf.
We climbed into a small, sputtering bus that took us back into the bustling city of Bogotá. Exhausted and dirty, it took two more buses to get us back to my apartment. The fresh air we inhaled hours before was replaced by smog and blares of car horns took the place of chirping birds.
We both agreed we needed to take trips away from the city more often.
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