Walking by a lone Grevy (a large breed of zebra), everyone became quiet. We were all on horseback. Charlotte, two of the grooms I had been training and myself. Our horses didn’t seem to pay any attention, pushing forward over blood-red stone. But the Grevy made a definite turn towards us… and started to scream.

It charged us from about a quarter mile away. In about one minute it was closing in on us fast and still the horses would not react. Does this happen all the time to the horses? Are they used to it? And then the zebra skidded to a halt in front of us. It wanted to make sure we were clearly made aware of its presence.

Charlotte shifted in her saddle, turning towards me.

“Looks like he’s interested in the mare,” she said in a soft, british accent. If I remember correctly, she was riding the mare. “Many of the wild animals around here will charge. The first time it’s usually a warning. If you don’t get out of their territory, they will charge again. And mean it.”

Charlotte is from England, transplanted after she rode as a tourist at the Sosian lodge years ago. Now she manages the safari riding tours. I’ll never forget the story she told me. Something like this:

“So Charlotte,” I said. “Any close calls with charging animals?”

Under her sunglasses I could barely see her eyes going to an old memory.

“Yes,” she replied. “An elephant. It wasn’t far from the lodge. He came at us and then stopped. It would have been fine but one of the tourists didn’t have much horse riding experience. The horse spooked, sidestepped and off she came… right in front of the elephant. I had to keep my horse between them until one of the other guides could pick her up off the ground. Luckily, the elephant turned and left. It could have been much much worse.”

I was thinking about my early days in LA, guiding horseback rides through Griffith Park where the only thing you had to worry about was the occasional intoxicated tourist going over a cliff. “Must be a lot of reponsibility, eh?”

“Things are usually very peaceful, you just want to know where the elephants are.” At that moment, we turned onto an old airstrip and Charlotte yelled out, “How about a run?”

We put all our horses into high gear. Racing down the airstrip I had a fleeting thought of taking off. I looked over to see the two grooms happily galloping on my left. It was a great feeling.

Sean (Charlotte’s husband) and I went out to check on the cattle most evenings. This was a strange, satisfying feeling — checking on the cattle. Something very soothing about it. These evening jaunts were of course also a way to see more of the wild. The cows were herded to various spots over the year, all in locations where a heavy duty truck was the only other way (aside from on foot) of getting to them. One time we were up to the bumper in river water getting to one location.

“We got a sick calf here,” said Sean as we rolled up to about 60 cows. He pointed at the steel panels surrounding the animals. “Those are to protect them from the lions at night.”

They didn’t look terribly high to me. “Seems like the lions can still jump in if they really wanted to.”

Sean shook his head.

“Na,” he replied. “Lions are smart. They know that if they jump in they risk getting trampled in the chaos.”

Sean was the kind of guy you wanted on your side in a bar room brawl. An ex-rugby player, he was probably a foot taller than me. I followed him through the anti-lion fence and immediately saw the calf next to its mother. One of the herders was trying to feed it milk.

“It won’t drink from it’s mother,” said Sean, some sadness in his voice. “It’s too bad. Might not make it.”

I looked at the moaning cows. At the cattle herders and their jerky movements around the animals. At the scrub bush and the invisible lions out there in a perpetual plan to kill. Earlier, I mentioned the rules of the wild in Africa. Every animal seems to know its place, the unseen boundaries around them that keeps them alive or dead. And it is respected. I looked back at that calf, refusing to take another drink from mom and had to detach myself. Two days later it died and was eaten by a leopard.

After checking the rest of the herd, the dogs loaded up into the truck (a giant German Shepherd and a Rottweiler/lab mix with three legs) and we were off. We waved to the cattle herders. I couldn’t help but notice one of the herders was wearing shorts with an old, red suit jacket. I smiled.

Sean noticed and said, “The herders are real characters.”

Over the course of three days I spent at Sosian, we had a very successful training clinic with the grooms and trimmers. The idea of less is more (in regards to hoof trimming) became more apparent as they could see the hooves building and getting stronger. In fact, everything was going great until we had a surprise accident.

Just as I was about to meet the grooms to continue the training, I saw a plane fly overhead. It was very low to the ground. Many of the local lodge owners or farmers have planes. Flying low may not be the safest thing to do but some do it for fun. This is called “buzzing”. I didn’t think too much about it as I had experienced a little buzzing myself in Andrew’s plane. Then I heard the bang.

Charlotte came out of the house. We looked at each other knowing something wasn’t right. So we headed toward the lodge, quickening our step as a strange silence crept over the entire ranch.

When we got to the lodge I saw Gram (a kind fellow I met the evening before). He walked through the doorway covered with blood. And then one of the staff workers came in right behind him in similar condition. Gram’s plane had crashed.

Gram, who was flying, did not see the telephone pole. The plane tore into two parts. Gram was thrown out by the impact and the other fellow somehow managed to crawl away from the scene. The fact that they could walk away was a miracle.

Another plane was called in and they were flown to a not so nearby hospital. Gram had some scratches and some broken ribs. Just a few scratches for the other guy as well. Before the plane came to pick them up, I was holding ice on Gram’s knee. Gram opened his eyes at me, blood still trickling down his forehead and asked, “So how’s the horse training going?”

A couple of days later it was time for me to head back to Nairobi to get on a plane back to the states. Ken, Marian and family drove me down the five hours. While I was in Nairobi, Ken and Marian also picked up a couple coming in from Scotland. The gentleman’s name was Nick and he too was a hoof trimmer coming in to give some training seminars.

I spent one more night with the family and the new couple. That following morning, Ken packed up the Land Rover to head home. I was staying on in Nairobi, waiting to catch my plane at night.

Nick caught me staring up at the trees.

“You’re going to miss this place aren’t you?” he said with keen intuition that comes from working on thousands of horses.

I turned to look at him.

“Kenya,” he continued. “It’s wild. Brings you back to your roots… in a way.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Life back home can be very predictable and here I never know what’s around the corner.”

With a calm look, he nodded. Nick travels around the world doing consult work regarding horse’s hooves.

“I try not to think about it too much,” he responded. “I just let the phone ring and from there I don’t know where I’ll end up.”

Whether it’s being taught polo from the grooms in Nigeria, or evading elephants on a midnight ambush, this trip has filled me with unpredictable moments. It has re-awakened in me a desire for adventure and opened up a new prospective for the subtle and beautiful uncertain. For me it seems like a lifelong quest to find this “place” of uncertainty. But deep down I know that at this “place” there is no quest. Because it comes without trying. Thank you to everyone involved with making this Africa trip happen. I hope very soon that I might be able to return. As they say in Nigeria — no wahala. And in Kenya — hakuna matata.

Sosian Hoof Clinic

I felt out of place rolling my bulky suitcase loaded with rasps, tools and clothes across the abandoned airstrip toward Ken’s all terrain vehicle. As I recall it was a perfect day. A cool breeze. And the grass was greener here from recent rainfall, which I later found out brings in herds of elephants.

“We’ve got big plans for you, Tim,” said Ken as we drove along a rocky path. I could see his quick mind conjuring up adventures. “We have a friend who is very good at knowing where the lions are. Sometimes you have to know where to look. You can spend time with the horses and and then we can take breaks out here in the bush.”

Ken seemed like a man who loved to show visitors around his homeland. The kind of guy that would get you as close to wild animals as possible just to take delight in seeing the expression on your face. And that is exactly what he did.

After several detours off the main path, we came across towering bull elephants, zebras, impala (like a deer) and even ostrich. There are rules out here in the African wild and I could immediately sense it. When all of these animals are together in one place, each one is aware of the other and somehow, if you are paying attention, you can see a remarkable sense of order — even if it’s an ostrich standing mere feet away from a grazing elephant.

After a 30 minute drive, we pulled up to Ken and Marian’s house. A large, peaceful place that reminded me of something you might find on the set of Lord Of The Rings. The house had a straw-thatched roof and the back patio overlooked a canyon that seemed to go on for miles.

It was only a two minute walk to the guest house. When I opened the door I was greeted by a strange grunting noise. I looked over onto the bed to find that I already had a visitor. Bubbles was his name. And he picked up his block-head as though smiling at me. He was a bulldog mix of some kind and he proved to be a very loyal friend.

I meandered my way back over to the main house. Marian offered me some tea and we all sat down on the back patio. Above us, the birds made quite a ruckus flying in and out of their little cave like dwellings they had made high in the tree-tops .

Talie, the 13-year-old daughter came bounding out of the house to meet me.

“Hello Tim,” she said with a huge smile. I had a lot of fun later trying to get Talie to speak with an American accent. I was a bit stunned the first time she broke her sweet, english charm and said, sup yo.

Also met Elizabeth, Ken and Marion’s oldest daughter. Tall and very intuitive with both animals and people. I spent a few minutes watching her start one of the horses in a corral and was impressed by the way the horse responded. Both daughters were delightful company. Even on my most serious sick day (perhaps from eating the goat), Talie played a few games of chinese checkers with me.

My last night at Marian’s, I camped out in a tent not far from the main house. I looked up at the stars through the fine mesh tent. Had to do a scorpion check before I crawled into the sheets. Kept my eye out for spitting cobras as well (I heard they were coming out in numbers after the rains).

An hour later, I felt myself starting to nod off. I’m in a tent out in the middle of nowhere. In Kenya! Could it be any more perfect? That’s when I heard the noises…

It’s only an impala. Or a giraffe maybe. My mind was trying to come up with friendly possibilities.

THUNK! The footstep was only 10 feet away. And then a tree fell over. I sat straight up in the dark. That’s not a giraffe. Okay, so these were the options. Do something. Or do nothing.

I couldn’t find my shoes anywhere. Damn it! Forget the shoes! I quietly unzipped the the tent and felt my way outside. I walked over some rocks and down a pathway toward the main house, hoping the cobras didn’t come out at night. I saw Ken though the window of the main house and I knocked.

“Ken,” I said, matter of factly. “Are there supposed to be elephants outside my tent?”

Ken’s eyes grew wide. I seem to recall him telling me the story of a time when elephants destroyed his home while the family was away.

“No, they’re not supposed to be in here.” He grabbed a couple of flashlights and handed me one. “We have to shoo them away.”

“Shoo them away?” Now I didn’t say anything at the time, but I was picturing all of the discovery channel shows I had seen about people being stomped to death by wild elephants. Especially when they would come near a baby elephant.

Out the door we went with our light beam weapons. Ken was clad in traditional kikoy (it kind of looks like a colorful Scottish kilt) and me barefoot. A dangerous duo.

Ken looked down at my feet. “Are you barefoot?”

“Yes.”

He looked impressed. “Good for you, Mate.”

When we arrived on the scene there were five elephants near my tent. One of them I think was a bull with tusks growing down past his knees. Ken made a trumpeting sound. He and I then proceeded to lightsaber the beasts. They ran off, thankfully in the other direction.

Ken started to put the electric fence back together.

“This is how they got in, those buggers,” he said.

I was kind of speechless. “Okay. Well, I’ll go back to sleep then.”

Ken patted me on the shoulder and said, “See you in the morning.” Then he turned and headed back to the main house.

Though I could probably write a book entitled Adventures With Ken, I will narrow it down to this next little story.

I was dead sick for about a day and a half. Could hardly stand, and when I did I saw the world start to spin. That’s when Ken came into my room and asked if I wanted to go to the hippo pool.

“Yes, I’ll be right there.” Did I just say that?

Ken clapped his hands together and said, “Great, my dad is going to drive us down there. You won’t be disappointed.”

“Okay,” I responded, trying to muster up any kind of strength reserve. I’m not going to miss seeing some wild hippos.

The drive was bumpy and fairly long but I managed to stay upright and didn’t vomit. Ken’s dad talked most of the way. His strong English accent and my current state prevented me from understanding most of what he was saying.

Finally, the road opened up and I was looking at a beautiful little paradise — a few palm trees, sunlight glinting off rocks in the river. We came to a halt and Ken jumped out of the back.

“Tim,” he said, excitedly. “I know you will really enjoy this. Walk with me over to the river.”

“Ken, I can’t stand up for more then a couple of minutes. And aren’t hippos supposed to be really dangerous?”

“We’ll be okay.”

I looked at Ken’s dad and he just smiled at me. I took a deep breath and ignored the dizziness.

“Okay then,” I said, stepping out of the vehicle.

“Great!” said Ken, leading the way.

As we walked toward the river’s edge I couldn’t help but notice Ken’s dad situating the vehicle in such a way to make a quick escape… if need be. The next thing I know Ken and I are no longer walking. We’re stalking. My legs are on fire and my sickness just ramped up another notch. it’s about this time when Ken turns to me and says the last thing I wanted to hear.

“Get ready to run.”

Are you shitting me?

I looked through the reeds and about 10 feet away were the hippos. One even had a baby by its side. Nothing compares to seeing an animal like that in the wild. For a moment I forgot about how sick I was. The hippos didn’t seem bothered. Either they didn’t see us or they simply didn’t care. In any case, there was no mad dash to the vehicle.

After my three days with Ken and Marian, it was time for me to move on to the next location. Ken drove me about 15 minutes to a neighboring ranch called Sosian, also in the tourism business. Tourism and cattle that is. Here, I was introduced to a new group of grooms and trimmers for a barefoot trimming course. Additionally, I met some characters out in the bush who were herding the cattle and protecting them from lions. Sean and Charlotte were my new hosts and I soon began my next adventure.

Ken, Marian and family

Do you know that feeling of uncertainty and certainty all rolled into one emotion? When you know you are supposed to do something and it is perfectly correct but you are not sure how or why. This is what I felt looking over a dry landscape coming into view. It was hazy. Looking through the airplane window, the scene was coming to life clearly etched with surrounding mountain shadows. This was Kenya.

A taxi man picked me up. I tried to get into the car on the driver’s side, not knowing that the driver’s side is reversed in this country. The taxi man laughed and pointed to my appropriate seat. I guess he didn’t want me to drive.

We drove for about 45 minutes, heading to my first destination — Chyulu’s house.

Chyulu — by the sound of the name I had stuck in my mind an image of a prominent African woman greatly involved within the equestrian community in Kenya. But when we pulled into the driveway and Chyulu came out to greet us, I stopped in my tracks.

There was a split second before either of us said anything. Perhaps she was expecting someone less furry (by now I had grown a full beard). She was a petite blonde, raised in the Congo and now living here in Kenya. It was her horses I would be visiting as well as the 23 horses she manages at a tourism facility called Ol Malo.

After a night of little sleep, we didn’t waste any time getting to work. A huge army truck showed up early morning carrying 8 horse shoers. They were sent over, I think by the military, to attend my hoof care training course. A few horse owners also participated with the hands-on course. We had a lot of laughs, trimmed a lot of horses, and finished with only a few finger wounds wrapped in duct tape from the ever-persistant hoof file.

That same morning, before we started the course, I was having tea on the back patio with Chyulu, her mother and brother. That’s when I nearly fell out of my chair at what I saw approaching and climbing the stairs toward us…

Am I on Pandora or something? I thought as a local family of warthogs decided they would come hang out with us on the patio. Yes, with the 8 inch tusks.

“Oh, they’re really quite docile,” said Chyulu’s brother in his British accent. “You just don’t want to get anywhere near those things.” He was referring to the spears growing out of their mouths.

I watched in awe as he preceded to get one of the warthogs to sit for a piece of bread.

I shook my head. This is awesome.

About that time “Ginger” (Elena) showed up. The name I later changed to “Red”. She was one of Chyulu’s best friends, here from England to help organize the big wedding. Chyulu was getting married in a couple of weeks. But first, we had horses to trim.

So the American and two Brits (well Chyulu was actually Kenyan but she sounded british) left Nairobi and headed 7 hours by Russian Landrover into the wild, toward Ol Malo. It was like a reality show.

Just before the seventh hour, in the dark, it went something like this:

Brakes screech as we come to a halt.

“Did you see that hedgehog?” said Chyulu, her voice wavering slightly and rising in pitch. “I think I ran over it.”

Red was not having it.

“Chyulu, I’m tired and I’m hungry,” she said. “Keep driving!”

Chyulu whipped the car around on the rocky road. We had picked up a hoof trimmer guy around hour 4 and he was in the back with me and the dog. We went airborne in the seats as the Landrover struggled to stay upright.

When we got to the place where the unsuspecting hedgehog was road crossing, we found to everyone’s relief no sign of the thing. As we drove away, I couldn’t help but glance into the bushes, looking for lions.

I spent a few days at Ol Malo, working with the grooms and trimmers. In the spare time, we went on a horseback ride and I also learned what a sundowner is (when you go somewhere to watch the sunset with your favorite drink).

One evening here at Ol Malo, I experienced the chance of a lifetime.

I bought a goat as a gift for the local Samburu tribe. The warriors allowed me to join in with their dancing, jumping straight up and down.

I asked Lebat (one of the warriors, recently married) what we were celebrating.

Lebat smiled, “We dance for the gas.”

That made sense. “You dance for the Gods?”

“No, the gas.”

I was confused. “You need gas?”

Lebat looked at my funny. And then it hit me. “The girls!”

“Yes,” he said with another grin. “Girls.”

Sure enough, more and more girls were showing up. The louder the warriors sang, the better the chances a female would hear.

Lebat took me into one of the huts made of dung, sticks and lots of mud. The woman who made the hut was there with her baby. Inside she stoked a fire, which made the place very cozy. With her other hand she held firmly to her child as it suckled from her breast.

Later came the the big feast. Lebat cut the goat’s jugular. He pulled back the skin, a pool of blood forming.

“Drink,” he said, excitedly.

Down on hands and knees, I took a couple of gulps. Blood soaked my beard.

Nothing was put on during my visit to the Samburu village. The warriors and I sat around the fire as though nothing was out of the ordinary. We just ate goat. And I will never forget that moment.

To me, their rules made perfect sense. Warriors can not eat around family because they believe it will make them weak. Husband and wife make their own first fire. The wild animals are not hunted because they are god’s cattle.

The Samburu tribe is elegant, intelligent and very strong. I was inspired by their way of life and impressed with the young warriors’ maturity.

After my time at Ol Malo, it was time for me to move on to the next ranch to work with more horses and more grooms. We loaded up into Andrew’s (Chyulu’s fiance) airplane and took off, heading for Marian’s place. This wasn’t the first time Andrew took me for a ride. The day before, we went up counting African wolves for some researchers — a dizzying experience with all the tight circles in attempts to stay close to the animals.

We landed and a after quick goodbye I was out of the plane, yanking my luggage out of a little cubby hole. Andrew was in a hurry so after he left it was just me and my bag left on the seemingly abandoned farm airstrip. Luckily, Ken (Marian’s husband) was gleefully walking my way. His all terrain vehicle was parked nearby and ready to roll.

The Samburu Warriors

“Mr. Tim, you will fall off the horse if you do that.” This is Bashir, a short fellow with forearms made of steel. He gently takes my hand and properly wraps the polo stick strap around my wrist. He makes a fluid motion, showing me how to backhand (for lack of a better word) the ball on the left-hand side of the horse.

I was actually on a wooden horse inside a large metal cage. It was setup in such a way that most anyone could learn how to play polo without too much difficulty. I was rather proud of the few connections I made with what looked like a wooden softball. This was the deal I had made with the grooms in Lagos — I would teach hoof care and they would teach me how to play polo. Unfortunately, time didn’t allow for me to play on a real horse on the field. Maybe Bashir was concerned I might flop off the horse.

I spent one week in the city called Lagos. I am told that here is the mecca of business and culture from the neighboring states.

I rode a bus from the airport across a bridge that seemed to go on for ever. Stuck in traffic, we inched closer to the distant buildings standing tall in the hazy distance. I looked over the 50 foot drop, the ocean gleaming below. The boats reminded me of something I might see in Asia — tall masts made of some local wood rising above a skinny canoe shape vessel. I later learned that these were the Lagos fisherman.

Up until the day I left Port Harcourt, I did not have a place to stay in Lagos. Luckily, someone who attended one of my clinics (Frank) from the past weekend offered me his home. But when I got there, it was empty. Amina, the housekeeper popped in and out, so I would serenade her with Frank’s slightly out of tune guitar. I’m still not sure if she enjoyed that or not. In any case, it was just her and I for the week.

In the afternoons, I would travel to the local polo club. They were very receptive to the hoof care training. The trimming done by the farriers here is good, and they were happy to exchange ideas. I saw one case of chronic laminitis and many cases of varying degrees of thrush. With some anti-bacterial and anti-fungal cremes I found at the pharmacy we were able to treat most of them and I suggested a trimming plan of action for the laminitis. The polo club vet came along, enthusiastic to see the grooms applying the treatments. Horses, however, were not the only animals I visited on this leg of the journey…

I met a Swedish woman named Helen. Her volunteer mission is to find foster homes for dogs in addition to making conditions better in a local veterinary clinic. I had to check it out.

Richard is Helen’s driver. He picked me up one afternoon and took me to the vet clinic.

“Pick a dog,” he said. “And we’ll take it for a walk around town.”

I looked at the barking rottweilers and mastiff mixes, saliva flying from their floppy jowls. They seemed to know that someone had come to take them for a walk. I picked a boxer type of dog who was eyeing me in the back.

“That one,” I said.

Richard also chose a dog and we started our rather wild, zig-zag journey through the neighborhood.

The dogs were actually walking us. The villagers would jump out of the way, frightened as we passed. However, one brightly clad, well-bosomed Nigerian woman came out of a house yelling and shaking her fist.

“Don’t let those dogs poo poo here!” she hollered at us. She followed us for five minutes or more.

Richard then drove me to Concrete Beach, a haven for villains and scoundrels I was told. The beach was filled with destroyed concrete foundations, making a dusty maze of rubbish. Onward to the museum we went (I think Helen felt sorry for me that I was by myself so she told her driver to take me to all the sights).

We shared the museum with hundreds of school children. I learned a lot about the blood that has been shed in Nigeria. They even had the car on display in which a president had been assassinated. Still had the bullet hole in the leather seat. It was kind of an eerie feeling as all the kids were walking by, gawking at the car. Next, we were off to the nature conservatory…where we were ambushed!

Monkeys came from out of nowhere and greeted us with demanding hands. One of them jumped into my lap, adamant that I feed it something. At first I thought it was lucky that Richard had bananas to give them. I was very wrong. We made a quick escape into the sanctuary and had a spectacular walk through the jungle.

My time in Lagos ended with a late evening out with Frank. He came back from business the last day of my stay. Frank is one who doesn’t believe in having drivers. I liked that about him. So we hopped in his BMW convertible and drove around town. Many policeman stopped us, asking for bribes. Frank was polite to them and retained a cool that impressed me.

“Sometimes they say they want money for water,” said Frank, smiling at me. “I usually have water in the backseat and when I offer it to them they don’t want it.”

Later that night, we ended up at a Nigerian fashion show. Don’t ask me how. The next thing I know we are surrounded by flashing cameras and cupcakes.

Now, I’m on an airplane heading to Kenya. I am told that I will possibly be able to meet a nomadic tribe similar to the Masai. They are called Samburu. With a new adventure ahead, I am looking forward to seeing the raw land of East Africa.

My time in Nigeria was filled with wonderful experiences, kind, warmhearted people and of course the horses; which it seems no matter what country, they are ever present, always maintaining that silent language to anyone who cares. No matter what the conditions, a simple pat on the neck will for a moment connect you.

Lagos Polo Club

A tall business man walks quietly beside me. He is well groomed, bearded and quite guarded. This is the Captain of the Polo Club in Port Harcourt.

”It is amazing to know that these simple things can affect a horse so greatly,” he said, after watching me remove a large flare on a hoof and treating the frog with an anti fungal scrub. ”It’s no wonder the horses are not as willing to run so fast right now.”

”That’s right,” I responded. ”It is uncomfortable for them to move when the back of the hoof has an infection.”

The humid, hot weather is a breeding ground for bacteria and fungal infections. Nearly every horse at the polo club was suffering from some form of thrush. In a few I saw canker. I gave the Captain and the rest of the owners at the club a list of suggestions that can improve the health of their horses’ hooves.

”If you want to win your polo competitions, this is what you need to do,” I said, knowing he might respond favorably to this.

”Oh yes,” he said, smiling for the first time. Immediately, he instructed his grooms to go to the pharmacy and purchase betadine as well as anti-fungal and anti-bacterial creme (I think we were very lucky to find these basic ingredients).

The Captain gave me a tour of his own horses. Soon, we were surrounded by his grooms (a few I had been training). I was getting a better understanding of Nigerian English. Up to about 60% comprehension. But suddenly, I found myself in the middle of a very heated conversation between the Captain and the grooms. And from what little I could gather, this was it…

”I want these horses moving more and the infections attended to every day,” said the Captain.

Strange, blank faces came over the grooms.

”What?” The Captain didn’t miss a beat.

There was a lot of pigeon english I couldn’t figure out. And then… ”You’re not paying us anything for the work we do already,” said someone who was brave enough.

So there it was. Even the Captain was somewhat taken aback by the retort. He turned to me and said, ”They are lazy.”

I had been working with these grooms, sweating underneath the horses for a few days now and knew they were anything but lazy. At least the grooms working with me. But a few stones had been tossed into the water. The owners are now aware of the needs of their polo horses’ hooves and a some of the grooms are now skilled to trim and utilize what is available to them to keep bacteria and fungus in check.

Hassan, a lean, determined groom who was by my side the whole week said, ”Tim, can you put in a good word with the Captain so he can pay me more?”

I said, ”Hassan, you have a voice. Don’t ever be afraid to use it. You can speak to the Captain.” I hope he does.

It was sad to say good bye to the grooms at the end of the week. I gave them each a certificate of completion and called out their names one by one as though it was a university graduation.

I might never see Hassan, Bala or Dogo again but I won’t forget Hassan’s sly little comments, Bala’s professionalism or Dogo’s quiet knowing that is calming and passes through everyone. One of boys told me they will never forget this. They gave me a card, each writing something that they had learned while I was there.

Port Harcourt is a special place. Yes, it is dangerous and not top on the list for anyone to visit. And a constant feeling in the air always keeps you designing an escape route or a combat plan in your head. But there is an overall sense of great pride among the people I had to marvel at. Much of the population lives on very little, perhaps in broken down shacks and leaky roofs. But every day they get up, head held high and dressed with class and style.

Before I left Port Harcourt, I also taught a clinic to some residents of the shell compound. For not having any experience trimming hooves I was amazed at how quickly they learned. By the end of the clinic, however, I think each person attending was wearing a piece of my black duct tape to cover an incident with the file.

The shell residents were very kind and hospitable. I went to one of their parties and ended up being thrown in the pool. Even jumped in with the band and played a Black Eyed Peas song.

The morning I left Port Harcourt to go to the airport, Rebecca, my host, the one who made this all happen gave me a hug. Her pregnant belly met me first and she said, ”Don’t do well with goodbyes.” This is a woman with great care and vision. Port Harcourt is lucky to have her.

I jumped in the car and waved. ”Rock and roll,” I said. A saying that seems to work in almost every situation. She laughed and that was the last I saw of her, the Port Harcourt horses, and my temporary little sanctuary. My next stop…Lagos. Starting all over again.

Rebecca and I

A white bus with blue curtains. I’m on it, hidden from view by any outsiders looking in. Feeling a little sick from something I might have eaten, I stare out the front window watching as two trucks ahead of us, filled with soldiers carrying machine guns lead the way. This is my ride to the SHELL residential compound.

Backtracking a bit — after a lengthly rode trip and discussion of how the Mossai tribes in Kenya surround and kill a lion as a passing into manhood (which I don’t think happens so much these days), Scott dropped me off at the Abuja airport. We shook hands and I was on my own.

I made my way inside to departures where a crowd of people were forming lines at the checking counters. I saw the sign for AERO and made my way over. Normally, I would believe things to go quite smoothly here at Abuja airport. But in the back of my mind I knew this might be a little difficult mainly because I was carrying in my backpack a 5 kilo bag of what looked like cocaine. It was actually calcium. The horses in Port Harcourt are deficient in the mineral so I had the rather exciting challenge of bringing it down to Port Harcourt.

As the lines got more crowded at the check in counters, I could feel the bodies pressing up against me. A fellow showed up wearing the airline’s signature bright yellow vest. He was ordering the clerks around at the ticket booth. I gave my checked luggage to him and kept a close eye on him as I got my ticket. Then he took me through the first series of metal detection machines.

Sure enough, I looked over and one of the bag checkers pointed at his nose indicating that I was carrying cocaine. I simply said, ”This is for horses.” And that was all I needed to say.

He smiled and replied, ”Okay.”

Cool, that was easier than I thought it was going to be.

Then the guy with the vest led me to a second set of x-ray machines. This time, it was run by the military. So onto the converyor belt goes my backpack, and I casually stoll through the machine.

”Who are you!?” barked the military guy.

”I’m Tim Prindle,” as I gave him my passport.

”What is in the bag?”

”Calcium. For horses.”

He took the bag to a senior military guy to have council. Senior military guy didn’t seem impressed.

”I know what is calcium,” he said.

Then they pointed me in the right direction and said, ”Welcome.”

The plane actually left on time (which I’m told is a rarity), and we landed in Port Harcourt an hour later.
One thing about Africa I was told and now know, you will often find yourself presented with anything but what you planned for… My ride (SHELL transportation) did not show up after I got off the plane. This is not something you want to happen in Port Harcourt. I was instructed to NEVER take any other transportation. No taxi, nothing. So I waited.
Looking like you are standing there for a reason I realized was the best thing to do. In fact, always looking like you are there for a reason is the thing to do. After turning down several offers to go somewhere or do something, I asked one of the workers wearing the signature yellow vest where the SHELL people were.

”Oh they are eating lunch,” he said. ”I will find them. You wait here.” Off he went into the street and disappeared.

I stood there for about 30 minutes, guarding my luggage and calcium. Then a guy wearing the SHELL logo showed up and asked for my paperwork. I guess he wasn’t told that I was coming. He looked me up and down and probably wondered what the heck this yank was doing here. Finally satisfied he led me to the SHELL transportation.

I got onto the big white bus with blue curtains and sat down. The whole ride to the residential area we listened to Christian talk radio and then later a Dr. came on the radio talking about STDs. I felt like I was heading into the Dharma Institute from the show Lost. After being here for a while, a guy I met (who is very high up in the ranks) joked with me saying didn’t you know when you come here you are locked in.

In the days to follow, I have actually gotten outside the compound walls to go to a Polo Club where they contain around 40 horses. About 95 percent of them have thrush infections in the hoof. The conditions are harsh, and I found a nail in one hoof. So this week I’m working with the grooms — hands on trimming and applying anti-fungal/bacterial ointments.

Rebecca, the girl hosting me here in Port Harcourt has a mission to better the living conditions and well being of these horses. She is strong willed and I have a feeling much can be done here with her help. In my own perspective, I think it is possible to make the hoof care better. At first it may only be 10 or 15 percent better. At least that’s something.

Hassan and Bala at the polo club

So much has happened since I last wrote. The night before the second part of the clinic I couldn’t sleep at all. Perhaps only a few hours in the early morning. Susan (one of my hosts) woke me up as I had completely blacked out in the morning. We arrived at the horse center quite early as I was told the Germans were putting on a large breakfast before we would get started.

I met Carl (the riding officer)– a classic German personality, complete with twisted mustache. He informed me in only a few words that we were to get the show on the road. So I downed a croissant and started.

It was really neat to see everyone so interested in the presentation. I think it was the hoof trimmer (native Nigerian) who took the most interest. He would very often smile and try to repeat much of what I said in his broken english. He was not at all defensive. I made sure to let him know his work was good and that we can exchange ideas. We were both pouring sweat as we trimmed around 8 to 10 horses in the African heat (rainy season has started, so the humidity adds a fun amount of heat).

Most of the horses only needed their heels to be trimmed but there were some with more serious cracks, flares and thrush.

When we finished, Holmer (the German stable manager; whom I mistakenly kept calling Helmet) took me out for a 3 hour horseback ride into the bush. I think I saw all of Abuja on that trip. I started out with a horse named Mario. He was a handsome horse and very studly. That’s why I chose him. However, he had a very VERY strong dislike for Holmer’s horse. He kept trying to attack, rearing up and biting. So we both decided it might be better to get a horse that might be better suited for the journey. Apparently, Mario had never really gotten out of the nearby pastures.

Aragon was the fill-in. True to the lord of the rings ideal, Aragon proved to be trustworthy, strong and had an endurance that amazed me for such a little horse.

Finally we started our trek. First, we had to ride on the shoulder of oncoming highway traffic. Cars would rather honk at us than slow down. We went over a bridge — honking cars speeding by on the right, a 20 foot drop on the left. And then we turned our horses onto a rising bluff. That’s when Holmer said, “Oh shit!”

Huge stones were blocking our path. Holmer said that often times, things change here within a matter of days. “The stones weren’t here yesterday!”

Holmer got off his horse and started filling in the gaps of the pathway with other stones to try and prevent one of the horses legs from stepping into a hole.

Oh boy, I thought.

Very delicately, I walked Aragon over the stones. That horse looked like he was walking a tightrope; watching his own steps with careful precision. But we made it! Then we headed upward.

To me it seemed like the next expanse was Jungle, but Holmer informed me this was just scrub bushes and trees. Aragon wouldn’t cross one section, so we rerouted, which led us directly into a herd of long horned cows led by a village boy.

I thought for sure the heavily testicled bull staring at me would charge. But it didn’t. We moved on to the top of the mountain, where we overlooked all of Abuja.

Holmer said, “The city is coming,” as he pointed in the distance at the roughly constructed apartments encroaching in on grass huts.

I said, “Looks like Los Angeles back in the 20s when there were huge orange groves.” We looked at each other knowingly, not really needing to say much more about that.

After an obstacle course of going around mounds of earth (harvested roots) and trailblazing, we found a road that led us through some grass huts. Half-naked kids would come out yelling, “Owebo… owebo!” (not sure about spelling). It means white man.

A police truck let its siren off behind us. I’m not sure why exactly I took off galloping. Initially it was to get to a place to let the police pass (if that’s what they wanted). The next thing I knew we had left them in the dust. And they were gone.

We finally made our way back around the mountain, trying to beat the looming rain cloud overhead. (When it rains here, you can’t see in front of you). Holmer yelled, “Tim, we have to go faster to beat the rain!” So we galloped most of the way back. After snaking through a peculiar market where they sold things like sofas on the side of the highway, we were back at the stable.

Later that evening the world got dark and started to downpour — my first African storm! Thunder fills your chest and the spray of rain is allowed to come through the front door. It makes you reflect on a lot of the chaos we can bring into our own lives. But even in that there seems to be some kind of order — a reason to identify everything that is swirling around us. After the storm, cat-sized bats fill the sky and the air is suddenly filled with unspoken grace.

Susan and Scott in Abuja

Use NoThrush for quickly growing out cracks. First, bevel slightly to reduce pressure on the crack. Debride the crack of any loose or hanging hoof, then wire brush area completely. Rub No Thrush into the crack to prevent fungal buildup.

To properly use NoThrush make sure to press nozzle tip as far down into frog crevice as possible; this allows for the best results at getting to the root of the infection. Sometimes the opening of the bottle gets impacted so a good tip might be to first apply some powder over sulcus crack and then press the powder deep down.