Best 4x4 By Far
On horseback around the world

‘I’d rather have a goddamn horse. A horse is at least human, for God’s sake.’
- J.D. Salinger (Catcher in the Rye)

Last of the nomads (Intro):
Cross-cultural, timeless and natural, horseback travel re-establishes a partnership that stretches back 6,000 years.
A horse can give you access to Guatemalan pueblos or Berber camps where a 4x4, even if it could cross the natural obstacles, would merely present an insurmountable social barrier. It can allow you to challenge Andean conquistador routes or revive the spirit of the Old West. Or it can make you a participator, rather than a spectator, in the life of the African savanna or the immensity of the Australian Outback.
It is an answer to a migratory call from the birth of the nomads.
‘God gave us horses in order to free us from the bondage of gravity,’ says explorer and writer CuChullaine O’Reilly - ‘…nomadic principles of the past; grass, water, fire, and contemplation. These are the keys to equestrian travel.’
            As a founder of The Long Riders’ Guild, O’Reilly has compiled the definitive ‘Equestrian Travel Timeline,’ listing nearly 300 riders who between them have ridden the equivalent of 30 times around the world. The stamina and determination of Long Riders – like George Beck (who rode 20,000 miles, visiting the capitals of all the lower 48 States), Dmitry Peshkov (the Cossack who, in the winter of 1889, rode across 5,500 miles of the Siberian tundra in 193 days) or Bud and Temple Abernathy (who, in 1911, rode from NY to San Francisco in 62 days…aged 11 and 7 respectively!) – might be beyond the reach of most of us. 
But the chance to saddle-up and hit the trail is now more within the reach of us mere mortals than perhaps it ever was.

‘Midnight Cowboy’:

I had been expecting the clash of personalities that would be the natural outcome of a long-term travelling partnership with the most stubborn of animals.
I had certainly not imagined that I would ever feel reassured to find myself riding through the impenetrable blackness of the rainforest night, halfway up an Andean mountain. It is common knowledge that mules have well-developed senses and - prepared to accept that this one probably had more sense than me - I had delegated all responsibility for our welfare to my mount. I was riding now without even holding the reins, guided ‘By The Force’ like some saddle-tramp Skywalker…I needed my hands out in front of me to protect my useless eyes from the brushing branches.
Finesse and style have never played a great part in my riding – the most that can be said is that, through sheer desperation, I can usually keep the horse between me and Mother Earth – but I soon realised that I was able to ride better in the darkness than ever before. My only forewarning of a sudden two-foot jump down a rock step or a steep haul up a muddy slope was the fraction of second beforehand when I could act upon the signals that were telegraphed to me direct through the mule’s back. Our muscles reacted almost as one animal, in the way I suppose that great riders always ride. It occurred to me that the few stumbles she had made during the daylight hours had been caused by my own dubious managerial decisions over how best to tackle the obstacles of the trail. Even when the darkness was at its densest and we crossed a rushing brook, where the sound of tumbling water warned me that there was a sheer drop close by on my left, my mule had not put a hoof wrong.
In this isolation such precision could not come from a familiarity with the trail nor, as the Venezuelan muleteers believed, from a sense of smell that allows the animals to distinguish rock from earth. It seemed obvious that, as an animal that has evolved as a prey, the horse has developed its senses to an extent that man has not known in millennia.
By the time she brought me safely to the little ranch that would be our lodging for the night I had developed an unshakeable respect for the wisdom of my four-footed friend.
           

Across the Andes on a Hippo:
My mule and I had joined a Belgian team that was making the first commercial horseback crossing of the Venezuelan Andes over its highest passes.
Paul Coudenys, the expedition leader and director of a company with the unforgettable name of Hippo-Trek (hippo is Latin for horse), is a ‘globe-trotter’ of renown having ridden in more than fifty countries. Even for Paul this Andean crossing would be a dramatic first; as far as we knew, we were the first foreigners to ride this route, all the way from plains to peaks, in the five hundred years since the conquistadors blazed this trail in their search for El Dorado. While we would fall far short of the thousand miles that would qualify us officially as Long Riders our caravan of twenty animals was snaking its way steadily upwards to become, for a short while, the highest riders in the world.
Even in the Andes horse riding is a great ‘leveller.’ There seems to be much less ‘class difference’ between a rider and an arriero (muleteer) than there is between a trekker and his porters. The isolated pueblos and ranchos that we were passing through survive only because of the mule-trains that ferry produce and goods along the mountain trails. The animals are crucial to survival here and, despite the fact that we were ‘rich tourists,’ the mountain people seemed to relate more easily to us because we too were relying on the animals to get along.
Even where vehicle access is possible local people - usually very confident and often incredibly skilled riders - appreciate the fact that a westerner is keen to spurn 4x4s and adopt their own means of travel. They are proud to share their knowledge of what is obviously a mutual interest and, with an arriero, you can count on an experience and a confidence that you might not always find in a hired guide.
And in the worst of scenarios your mount could even save your life. Andean people are full of tales of mules that led their owners away from certain death when mist descended onto the spirit-dominated peaks and in the Namib Desert riders have been saved by bush-horses that knew where to scratch for moisture. Happily we were never reduced to such extremes, with a bottle of warming rum in our saddlebags and a hot meal and a bed (though sometimes just a sleeping-bag in a courtyard) at the end of each long day on the trail.
The town of El Carrizal was an illustration of what is happening all over what was once one of South America’s richest countries, and a classic example of the way in which responsible tourism can ensure the survival of isolated communities. A few decades ago this was still a thriving community of 100 families; today the townspeople have left to look for work in Caracas and El Carrizal is home to just 6 people!
A Venezuelan foundation, Programa Andes Tropicales (PAT), is concentrating on this region in their project to promote sustainable tourism that could tempt the campesinos back to the campo. PAT’s philosophy is that Don Rafael, patriarch of El Carrizal’s last family, should be able to make about half of his yearly income through offering accommodation to travellers like us, while others in the area could provide food or mules, or work as guides. The fact that they would not be able to live entirely from tourism would mean that they would also have to maintain their traditional lifestyle so that their farming traditions would not become, as is so often the case, the first victims of ‘progress.’
Don Rafael’s courtyard saw its first nightlife in some considerable time that evening when Ali, our head arriero produced a guitar and sang some joropo ballads, telling stories of the wild Venezuelan cowboys who rode with Simon Bolivar (‘the god of liberty’) in his battles to free South America from the grasp of Spanish colonialism.
They say that during the Andean wars The Liberator rode the equivalent of three times around the world and fell in love fifty times (not counting one-night stands). For both these reasons he is considered the perfect Venezuelan hero.

View from the seat of kings:
‘There are no handles to a horse,’ the author of an early handbook advised his readers, ‘but the 1910 model has a string to each side of its face for turning its head when there is anything you want it to see.’
Compared with stumbling wearily over slimy trails, under the weight of a loaded backpack, with eyes fixed on the root-strewn track - or flickering towards handholds that look like good habitats for bullet-ants and scorpions - horseback jungle-trekking can seem like an almost sinful pleasure.
            Even along the cloudforest trails of Venezuela – much more up and down than sideways – I was able to see more of jungle-life than I could ever remember seeing on foot. I let the horse take care of the walking and kept my eyes occupied with the quicksilver flight of hummingbirds or orchids that I never would have noticed on foot…and as an added bonus I had a mobile stepladder from which to pick wild guava fruit.
            I had already become familiar with other advantages of this lofty viewpoint during horseback treks in other countries. The benefit of having dry feet as we descended a gorge in the Moroccan Atlas was far outweighed by the feeling of security that came from hanging onto a swimming horse as we crossed a crocodile-infested river in Zimbabwe (it would take an unusually big croc to tackle a Zimbo polo-pony).
Jungle trails must, of course, be relatively open to be suitable ‘bridle-paths.’ Almost a decade earlier in northern Guatemala I had rented a small shack with a hammock and a horse (US$3 a day for the whole package) and spent the days looking for signs of jaguar. But the ‘bridle-paths’ of Petén were densely overgrown and my skill with a machete was somewhat hindered by a horse’s head. It had been an exhausting and noisy experience and, despite moments of fleeting panic caused by the constant rumbling of the old horse’s stomach, I don’t suppose that we ever came within miles of a jaguar.

Saddleback safaris:
On a saddle, on a horse, on a rock kopje, on the open African savanna life seems so much simpler. On a horseback safari you are no longer a spectator but a participant and you and your horse can be considered by wildlife merely as another part of the diverse savanna herds…or, perhaps, as part of the food chain.
A quietly grazing horse will reassure game that all is well and you may get much closer than you ever could in a vehicle. A horse that suddenly tenses is an early warning that there are predators around.
Greater skill is demanded if you are riding through predator territory or in an area where you are in close contact with any of the big five. Elephant and rhino (specifically black) will sometimes charge if surprised and buffalo are notoriously unpredictable and do not give the benefit of a mock charge. While lion do not necessarily distinguish between zebra and horses – it’s well known that the stripes are tasteless – they are usually wary of men.
Botswana is one of the few countries where you can enjoy the added adrenalin boost of riding through lion country and Steve Rufus, trailmaster and director of Limpopo Valley Horse Safaris, is familiar with the responsibility of leading groups of riders through an area of pristine African wilderness. His pre-ride briefing increases the feeling that you are penetrating hostile terrain.
“If we find ourselves in predator territory, we maintain a united front,” he explained as we saddled up for our four-day patrol, “and - unless I say ‘GO!’ - we hold the horses’ heads quietly towards the cats.” The other riders all seemed confident about this and as our little pioneer column trotted away from Fort Jameson stables I realised that for the next few days I would probably be the easiest meal-ticket in the entire Limpopo Valley.
In addition to a large cat population Steve is faced with steering greenhorn riders like me through one of the last refuges of the great elephant herds that once roamed freely across what are now the borders of Botswana, South Africa and Zimbabwe. His groups frequently ride through herds of several hundred and it is with good reason that the 75,000-acre Mashatu Game Reserve is known as ‘Land of the Giants.’
The timelessness of horse-trekking brings to life the history of remote parts of the world and there was an unusual power in trotting along trails that have been known to few since they were opened by turn-of-the-century pioneer columns and in watering our horses at the ruin of Bryce’s Store where belt buckles and cigarette cases are still occasionally found as powerfully personal reminders of a Boer War ambush.
While most vehicle-safari operators constantly strive to habituate animals to the vehicles - I had sat in an open-sided Mashatu Landcruiser while a dozing lioness lay stretched out, like a heap of seven Labradors, within inches of my boot – Steve believes that horseback safaris are more authentic if the animals are not so blasé. I was disappointed that the first herd of zebra that we saw, among the mopane brush, shied away from us snorting and kicking but the dramatic benefits of this unfamiliarity was quickly revealed when we hit open country.
Whenever the monumental kopjes and network of riverine gullies that are emblematic of this part of Africa allowed, the horses were happy to break into a spirited gallop. There can be no thrill like feeling the African savanna whip past beneath you and to feel the thud of hooves and I quickly learned to delegate all responsibility for our welfare to my faithful steed Strider who, raised amongst the wild herds of South Africa, doubtless had better survival instincts than I could muster.
Once we covered almost five kilometres in what seemed like a few breathless minutes but on another occasion, just as we shot out onto the sunlit savanna, Steve whistled and pointed. Five or six big sandy-coloured animals were trotting down the edge of a grassy bluff in a direction that would intercept us in the middle of the clearing.
They were eland, the biggest of the Africa’s antelopes, and this bachelor herd was made up of particularly impressive beasts. Eland are usually timid but the sound of the horses’ hooves had tricked them into thinking that we were a herd of stampeding game and, duped by their instinct for safety-in-numbers, they were coming to join us!
During our trek along the Limpopo Valley we cantered with zebras, wildebeest and once we stampeded a herd of lolloping giraffes but the huge eland bulls that ran alongside our horses were beyond comparison. Suddenly Steve whistled again and pulled his horse up. I was still trying to rein in as I shot past him and farther ahead the eland too, slowed to a puzzled trot – gazing back at us as if to say, “Why’ve we stopped?”
Steve had realised that we were being followed by a rider-less horse. Concentrating apparently on the eland, it had collided with a tree and had managed to insert its robust rider into an unfeasibly small gap in the acacia’s lower branches. The transaction had been a fairly even one: the acacia looked decidedly the worse for wear but it was adorned with a ragged strip of expensive designer safari-wear…and some of the rider’s back.
Steve performed such first-aid as was necessary and radioed for a Landcruiser to medi-vac the fallen rider back to base camp. It was a full twenty minutes before the fallen rider managed to get enough breath to speak and then he summed the whole experience up in a single well-chosen word: “F-haaark!”

Spare the horses:
Many historical horseback expeditioners looked upon their mounts as no more than expendable pieces of equipment. One nineteenth-century ‘adventurer’ won a $1000 bet by riding 800 miles from New Mexico to Missouri in less than eight days…killing three horses and two mules in the process. Sven Hedin, the famous Central Asian explorer, took it almost as a matter of course that a single expedition cost nearly 300 horses.
            Thankfully modern-day expeditioners and most horse-related tourism operators – even the bad ones in the undeveloped world are, to some extent, being forced by the foibles of animal-loving tourists – are doing their best to put the horses first.
            In large packhorse expeditions it is important that cost is not the overwhelming factor in the number of animals used. As a standard rule, a riding horse should carry no more than about one-fifth of its weight but a packhorse should be limited to closer to half of this since a person rides better than dead weight. Many Long Riders who are travelling with pack animals carry hanging scales so that they ensure that the packs are equally balanced. Just as important is the distribution of weight, which should be symmetrical through each pack.
            The fundamentals of these rules apply to any pack animal from Peruvian llamas, to the treasured mules that are known as ‘Berber Mitsubishis,’ to the six-donkey carts that in Southern Africa go by the name of ‘Kalahari Ferraris.’ The first time I put saddlebags on the zebu bull that I travelled with in Madagascar the process seemed insanely scientific (and ridiculously comical, if the faces of the villagers were anything to go by) but within a few mornings I was able to load my ‘Malagasy 4x4’ in a few minutes and waste only the minimum amount of daylight – more frequently pre-dawn moonlight! – in hitting the trail.
The bull demanded frequent rest days but it was not the toughness of the trails, nor any lack of stamina, that forced us to change mounts so regularly during our Andean trek. Like men, horses suffer from altitude sickness and we had to change mounts several times throughout the journey. To allow time to acclimatise, we had decided to climb into the Andes rather than opt for the otherwise more logical choice of walking downhill. I soon realised, however, that it felt safer on these steep mountain trails, often bordered with sheer drops, to be leaning forward over the horse’s neck than to be lying back over the swaying rump.
During the trek I rode four horses and three mules and though I gained new respect for the dexterity and reliability of mules on mountain trails I was also surprised to see that, even crossing literally dizzying passes in excess of 4,400metres, horses did not seem to lose out to mules in terms of stamina. The 3mph days – the perfect speed to take in your surroundings and providing ample time for internal contemplation – were occasionally broken by short, exciting canters across flat, Andean meadows. The horses were spirited enough, and fit enough, to enjoy this and I remember one wonderful gallop when my mare was accompanied not only by her mate (a packhorse) but her yearling foal who dashed in front, kicking up his heels like a gangly bronco.
A lowland horse from the plains or rainforests would never have been able to gallop across that highland pass where the Canagua River was just a gurgling stream, but these horses would have been terrified by the swinging suspension bridges that crossed the river as it tumbled through the jungle. With each remount we also had the chance to travel with a new band of arrieros who knew the dangers and highlights of their own section of this ancient trail intimately.
            One (thankfully rare) unpleasant aspect of horse-trekking is that it can open the wilderness to people who (not through disability, but through laziness) would not take the trouble to access it if they had to pay with their own sweat. It is upsetting to see a European tourist, fag-in-hand, complaining because she has to dismount to lead her horse up a particularly brutal ravine or across a frighteningly rickety bridge.
A thought should always be spared for the comfort and safety of the animals and the tourist should try to set an example. Downright cruelty is unusual among country people who must look on healthy animals as an asset but, as in many other aspects of life, folklore and superstitions sometimes lead to unpleasant practises.
Beside the trail one day we came across a collapsed horse that had been overworked by a (probably equally over-worked) Andean farmer. It was clearly exhausted and overheated and we convinced the farmer to let it rest while we tried to pour water into its mouth from our canteens.
The horse’s problems had been increased by a livid gash on its neck.
“How’d he get this?” I asked.
“He’s got la peste,” replied the farmer – the plague, “I cut him to let it out.”
A ten-minute lecture from an irate westerner will not change the course of half a millennia of local equestrian medicine and instead we rode off to get help from the village.
Further up, on a swampy highland meadow, we passed a horse that seemed from a distance to be wearing skis. I had seen overgrown hooves before but in this damp, stoneless terrain this poor creature’s hooves had continued to grow until they measured almost fifteen inches and were curling upwards at the front. The crippled horse was a hideous sight and I held Paul’s mount while, with the experience of numerous cattle-drives, the Belgian trailmaster made a lasso and went out into the swamp to circle the horse.
It took several of us to restrain the poor cripple while we used our Leathermans to saw through the excess hoof. The obscene walking posture had already broken the horse’s ankles. He was bleeding and clearly in pain. As sickened as I was with the thought of killing a horse with a knife I whispered to Paul that this is exactly what we ought to do. He was naturally not enthusiastic about having to do this in front of clients and convinced the head mule-driver to bring a gun with him on his return trip.
Later, however, the old mule-driver told me that he was glad we hadn’t put the horse out of its misery: “It hasn’t done anything wrong,” he said. “It would be a sin to kill it.”
Such thinking has its own undeniable logic and opinions like these cannot be changed by a word from an ‘educated westerner’ but among the people who hoped to make money from tourists in the region there were already signs of an improvement in the lot of their horses. Country people are rarely deliberately unkind to their animals but look on them merely as work tools that must be maintained so that they can keep working: the possibility of lost income for a mule-driver because his horses have unsightly saddle-sores or a loss of bonus because of undue whipping are good incentives to maintain them better.
Hopefully the tearful eyes of the Belgian girls in our convoy convinced the old mule-driver to dispatch the crippled horse before the time came to take his second group of tourists over that same Andean meadow.

Like a rhinestone cowboy…:
Since Lady Godiva rode naked through the streets of Coventry there has been a revolution in the equestrian world. It is now widely considered necessary to make a considerably higher outlay for your riding outfit, and soul-rider gurus vent spleen upon ‘the consumerism that has overwhelmed the timeless bonds between man and horse.’
            Potentially useful items like instant, nail-less horseshoes and ‘revolutionary’ adjustable packsaddles vie for tack-shop space with lurid saddles, mane ribbons, horsetail shampoo and studded, tasselled rodeo shirts. These days the ‘chaps’ that crop up in horse-riding conversations are less likely to be cactus-proof leggings than the gymkhana crowd at the country club.
            Proof that much of this is totally unnecessary can be borne out by the experienced trailmasters all over the world who shun the latest trends in equestrian fashion in favour of more durable multi-purpose travelling clothes. Good, old-fashioned Wrangler jeans (with flat seams on the calves) are still a favourite among regular bush riders in Africa, Australia and Latin America. Many horse-trekkers swear that jodhpurs (with or without Lycra cycle-shorts and/or Vaseline underneath) are the most comfortable trousers but most Long Riders demand something tougher.
            The clothing that you choose for a longer horse-trek will depend on the conditions and the climate. A trip with pack-mules across the Venezuelan Andes (through everything from savanna, to rainforest, to blizzard-swept passes) will demand more planning than a trip with backup vehicles through the relative predictability of the African bush. A strong pair of cord trousers with good cargo pockets (for sunglasses, sun-block, Leatherman, notebook etc) seemed to be the perfect answer to my Venezuelan trip…though by the end of the trek I had managed to wear right through the double-thickness seat!
Leather chaps are especially popular where acacia or cacti are prominent though half-chaps (gaiters that buckle around the calves) can be a space-saving compromise – beware though, for some reason they are a favourite habitat of scorpions. Long socks or a roll of tubi-grip bandage can also make the difference between a good and bad trip if you have stirrup leathers that pinch.
            Many riding boots are uncomfortable to walk in and a pair of trusted leather walking boots, with a heel that will stop your foot going through the stirrups, are far more versatile. One hot afternoon on the Pacific coast of Nicaragua I made the mistake of going for a gallop along the beach in nothing but shorts. It was delightfully cool splashing through the waves but it was only a matter of a few miles before the stirrups had gouged deep, bloody holes in my ankles. I still have the scars to remind me of the importance of good riding gear.
            There is no doubting that riding helmets are a sensible option for fast riding (and on most trips you’ll want to kick up the dust now and then). Some operators (in Australia for instance) make them compulsory; a ‘ten-gallon’ cowboy hat has been designed that actually fits over the top of a hardhat so that you can still ‘look the part.’ A wide-brimmed hat is advisable as protection against the sun but you should fix the chin-strap with section of normal cotton so that, if caught, it will break before your neck does.
Beware of less reputable, budget horse-trekking operators who may not have reliable saddlery and tack; it is not a pleasant experience trying to control a fighting stallion on an Ecuadorian mountainside with broken reins.
            Some Long Riders recommend a photographer’s waistcoat, which offers storage place for just about everything you could need but, at anything but walking pace, those bulky, swinging pockets are likely to be incredibly uncomfortable. Check with the operator whether they supply saddlebags and if not try to take your own canvas ones, which will fit into your baggage better than leather ones. Cameras should be stowed in saddlebags though I have also found that a second camera strap fastened under the arms can do wonders to protect the teeth from a pound of bouncing Nikon metalwork.

Put your money on a horse:
The was a time when horse-trekking expeditions, as a particularly adventurous holiday activity for dynamic outdoorsy people, were likely to be demanding trips full of rough-and-(at least the occasional)tumble. Today, while the riding can be as challenging as anyone could ask for, even a nomadic ‘fly camp’ safari (as opposed to a fixed-base) in the African bush can offer the luxury of the best lodges. Conversely, a pursuit that was once the prerogative of the rich is now open to most of us and, in a growing adventure-tourism market, there is a horse-trekking holiday (or expedition) to suit most wallets.
The style of riding will be dictated firstly by terrain (i.e. the volcanoes of Iceland will offer very different riding conditions to the flat bush of Senegal) and secondly by the standards of the riders in the group. The pace is set by the slowest so it can be infuriating if just one of the group is not comfortable getting out of second gear. Do not overestimate your abilities – ‘all hat and no cattle’ they call it on the dude ranches – and choose a trip that will match your stamina…and pain threshold. As a beginner long days in the saddle can have painful effects and a benefit of a fixed-base riding holiday is that you will be able to take rest days.
The type of horse naturally varies greatly depending on which area and which operation you are riding with. In Morocco’s Atlas Mountains you may be a long way from the handsome image of the charging white Arab but the tough mules that are known locally as ‘Berber 4x4s’ are among the best mountain horses in the world. In the stalwart mule that led me through the blackness of the Venezuelan rainforest, I could recognise qualities that Strider, the spirited Kaapsehoop wild horse that carried me along the banks of the Limpopo, may have lacked.

The End