Horse-riding Instructions from an Old Bushie: Or How Not to Fall Off a Horse  
Munya Andrews

This is the tale of a first time rider. It took place in Kalbarri in Western Australia in the not so long ago. The instructor was an Old Bushie whose riding philosophy was simple. ‘There’s no reason why anyone should fall off a horse,’ he said to a group of tourists. ‘No reason at all.’ And then he proceeded to explain in simple terms why this could not and should not happen. With this philosophy shared and the barest riding instructions given, the instructor and riding group set off on course. One of those riders takes up the story as follows.
It was the first time I had ever ridden a horse. I was about nineteen or twenty years old. Ever since I was a little girl I had always wanted a horse as a pet but my family could not afford one. Now that I was an independent young adult, this meant that I could treat myself to one of my fantasies, that of learning to ride. On this occasion, I was accompanied by one of my closest school friends and her then boyfriend, now husband of twenty years or so. We did virtually everything together and so it seemed perfectly natural that we would be given horses that were known best friends. Taking off from immediately behind the instructor, we rode astride each other, two by two.
It was a perfect ‘winter’ day in Kalbarri, blue skies and moderate temperature. We were trotting along just fine until the instructor decided to put on a little pace. Before I knew it, my friend’s horse just bolted out of the blue and took off. Being its best friend, this impromptu gallop immediately set off my horse, which decided to follow suit. All hell broke loose—just like the proverbial bull in a china shop, only, in this instance, it was a case of the bull on a galloping horse! As we both tore around a corner, my friend’s horse threw her. Looking back, I could see that she was all right, although understandably upset, but I had to turn my attentions to what was unfolding before me. With my friend now dislodged, her horse was galloping freely. Not to be outdone, my horse raced neck-and-neck with its equine friend, like participants in the Melbourne Cup, storming down the main straight with the crowd cheering them on.
Fearful of being thrown, I clung desperately to my horse so that horse and rider were one. It seemed to know instinctively where it was going as it careered around corners, weaving in and out of the bushes. Ducking to avoid tree branches and shrubs, I must have looked like one of those riders in American Western movies with ‘wild’ Indians and cowboys doing special stunts and fancy equestrian manoeuvres. Or else a black female Roy Rogers riding on Trigger the horse, although in my case it must’ve been Trigger-happy.
I looked behind to see if some hero had decided to chase after me, take the reins and force the horse to stop, but there was no sign of the other riders or the instructor. We were completely alone, horse and I, after its friend had taken another path. As it raced on, I started to remember what the old bushman had told us—the part about throwing my arms around the horse’s neck, which I did. Yes, but what came next?
With my mind and heartbeat racing to the rhythm of the horse’s hooves, I desperately racked my brain to recall the remainder of his instruction and then it came to me in a flash of lightning. Ah yes, the bit about throwing my right leg around the saddle and dismounting with both feet coming down so that I was in a virtual standing position. Then, using my arms around the horse’s neck as a balancing prop from which to hang until both my feet touched the ground, I could release myself from the horse so that horse and rider could continue on their individual merry ways. This too reminded me once again of those Western movies where riders would freely swing their legs around, briefly dismount and launch themselves back up into their saddles as though they had landed on springboards that catapulted them into the air again.
Suddenly the true realities of the required manoeuvres became all too readily apparent. Not only did it seem an impossible task but a bloody stupid one at that. What is more, from my perspective, the ground looked as though it were at least six or seven feet below, which I am not. As I contemplated my options I pictured myself dangling precariously from this tall animal with my vertically-challenged body, legs and feet dangling, feeling about, trying pathetically to search for terra firma. Not a good look when you’re twenty and trying to look sexy to impress the girls. Being concerned with appearances at that time and age, I decided that particular exit was not for me at all. Not only was it undignified, it now seemed quite dangerous. Nor did the idea of being thrown off the horse hold any appeal. As tough as I was, the idea of a broken limb or some other physical injury did not seem either desirable or heroic, not to mention the thought of possibly embarrassing myself.
These days, of course, I find myself beyond embarrassment given the countless number of mishaps and other calamities I have experienced throughout life. Like the time I once fell down a manhole in Perth in full view of urban observers… How the streetworkers laughed. So did I, in fits of laughter. There I was at the bottom of a six-foot hole in the ground with hamburger and bottle of Coke intact, until they eventually pulled me out! Or the time when I was on a boat cruising the Fijiian Islands when I shamelessly asked a one-armed French tourist if he could take a picture of me. Of course, by the time I realised his physical predicament, and my own lack of sensitivity and tact, I was in far too deep to save face. Not that I should have worried, the picture turned out just fine after the poor man had graciously juggled my camera with his one arm and hand.
But I digress.
Meanwhile horse and rider were joined by an inexplicable sense of fate, of destiny. We communed at that moment, he and I, at first in silence until I heard myself speaking my thoughts out aloud. Tightening my vice around its neck, I heard myself say to equine: ‘If I’m going down horse… you’re coming with me.’ I like to think the horse sized up the offer placed before it. That it deliberated upon the pros and cons of continuing in this mad, senseless gallop with inexperienced rider on its back before it came to a sudden, complete halt. It was then that I realised the full extent of its decision.
The strange sounds of it desperately gulping for air made me realise that, in my panicked state, I had almost strangled the poor animal to death, for the sounds it was making were those of a choked horse. It was truly one of those precious, comical moments, one of my finest theatrics and not an audience within a horse’s whisper. No camera or video to record the event for posterity, just the horse and myself. Finally, in that moment, away from the pack of other riders and horses, we understood each other. And as I took control of the reins once more, he gently cantered back to base with the rider he could not throw.
Munya Andrews has been riding horses for more than twenty years. She still does not own a horse as a pet, not because she can’t afford one but because she doesn’t want the responsibility that accompanies having a pet (or child or lover for that matter). She has never fallen off a horse in all those years (touch wood) but she has broken her leg in a motorbike accident. Some people mistakenly believe she has a ‘death wish’ as she continues to jump off cliffs and out of planes with parachutes and other paraphernalia attached such as long rubber bands, towels and Velcro. Her other passion is flying planes but that’s another story (and another book).

Munya Andrews was born in Derby, Western Australia on 25 April 1960 to an Aboriginal mother and Scottish father. As a child growing up in the Kimberley her adoptive grandmother (Canice Cox Ishiguchi) told her many Dreamtime stories of the stars, which fostered an early and lifelong interest in astronomy. She is the author of The Seven Sisters of the Pleiades: Stories from around the World which was a finalist in the 2006 Lambda Literary Awards (USA).

From: HorseDreams: The Meaning of Horses in Women’s Lives
Eds. Jan Fook, Susan Hawthorne and Renate Klein
pp 4-6

Website: http://www.spinifexpress.com.au