The Borrower

by Lindsey Liles (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Brazil

She wears traditional Gaúcho bombacha pants, a western cowboy hat, and men’s boots. She lives in a barn and her two horses are one part traditional Crioulo, two parts something else. Karina is a born and raised horsewoman of Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil, the southernmost state that shares a border and culture with the gauchos of Argentina and Uruguay. “Home is where your horses are,” Karina says simply when she shows me her lofted bed above the stables. After a few rides with her, I’m starry-eyed at the romance of it all; the sound of Portuguese, the smell of horses and leather, the gourds of chimarrão, a steaming traditional tea. “So this is what it is to be Gaúcho.” Karina raises a brow and points to her hat. “Eu não sou Gaúcho.” I’m not Gaúcho. “Não?” Cowboy hat aside, I assumed it added up: horseperson + southern Brazil = Gaúcho. Karina chuckles. “Do you ride bareback?” I shake my head. “Neither do the Gaúchos.” Fifteen minutes later I’m lying on the ground for the second time looking up into the muleish face of my horse for the day, Helena. Riding bareback means no stirrups, so I led Helena to an embankment to mount. Both times I tried to jump on, she shifted, enough to make me miss her back. “Gaúcho horses don’t play tricks, either,” Karina cackles from her own mount, the magnificent Cavalo de Fogo (horse of fire). He, I noticed, stayed put when Karina mounted. On my third try, Helena allows me to succeed. Her brown coat is slippery and the bony ridge of her back feels like the edge of a ruler. “Hands of a lady, shoulders of a queen, hips of a dancer,” Karina tells me as our horses walk side by side, so close their shoulders touch. “Now, can you go faster?” “Yes!” I muster my enthusiasm. Cavalo de Fogo breaks into a canter, and Helena won’t be left behind. Suddenly, I’m rolling with her, feeling every muscle of her back. Again, “Can you go faster?” I feel Helena bunching underneath me, her canter jolting into a full gallop that leaves me feeling like I’m sitting atop a loose canon. I straighten my back, soften my hands, and let my hips move with Helena. My eyes are streaming from the dust, my left leg is cramping, and my hat is one gust from blowing off, but I’d rather fall than slow down. This is exhilarating, excruciating. This is riding and getting away with something. Twelve miles later I force myself to ignore the throbbing of my legs enough to ask about Karina’s status as a non-Gaúcho. She tells me things I’ll later learn myself, the more time I spend among the Gaúchos. They're tough and they hold fiercely to traditions. If there’s not enough food for everyone, it’s all thrown to the dogs. There’s one way to dress, one way to saddle up, and one way to tie a knot. There’s one way to train a horse, and there’s no place for spirit or sass in a working Gaúcho steed. Though I don’t yet know them well, I have an inkling of why Karina, and Helena, for that matter, might not jive with such a set community. Free spirits are prone to be caught in non-traditional dress doing non-traditional things on non-traditional horses. “I’m part-time Gaúcho. I take the good of my culture, and borrow from other cultures when necessary,” Karina replies to my question of whether she considers herself Gaúcho at all. “I wear bombachas because they fit my wide hips, men’s riding boots because women’s are too small for my big feet, and a western cowboy hat because it keeps the sun off my face better. And as for saddles, I can ride with any and I prefer none.” With that, Karina clucks, “Galope, Cavalo de Fogo!” and he’s off. She howls the high, wild Gaúcho riding call and I urge Helena forward and howl back, the sound torn from my mouth by the wind. As far as yelling goes when galloping down a dirt road on a fast horse—that’s one aspect of Gaúcho culture I’ll be borrowing.