March is typically the worst of months for me during the year, which is not a new statement. I say it every year. This 22nd year of the 2nd millennium is no different. If we can get through March, we might be ok, or so I tell myself like every other freaking year. March 2022.
Today, I am saying it out loud to Joep, who is flicking his ears impatiently as I decide where to place his food dish. Poor horse. He doesn’t have much of a thought for what is happening outside his little world, only that I am between him and an adventure somewhere, and more importantly, his breakfast. I watch him eat, gloomily. It has occurred to me more than once that I am probably going to have to change his show name, not a big deal in the grand scheme of life, but he has earned enough of a following to be known as White Russian, a name which has suited him so well, but no longer feels appropriate, thanks to Voldemort Putin.
Will I be pressured to change his name? Either from inside my head or by my peers?
He was acquired, after all, on a trip which included going to Moscow to look for horses, a trip I did not blog about directly, merely posting a few photos on social media, and sharing stories with my closest friends about how incredibly exhilarating those few days were. I intended to write about it while it was still fresh, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it in the way I felt would make the experience special enough. I had learned copious amounts of nuances, held such optimism for continued business there, simultaneously feeling cautious to protect my future, and not expose too much in written words, (either good or bad) regarding Russian equestrians, and my Latvian friends. Selfish, maybe, and I regret it now, because writing about what happened then during the conflict now is, well, painful.
Joep landed in the U.S. two months after that extraordinary trip. Three months after that trip, in March, blogging took a serious pause as I was swept up in the agony of dissection and sidelined. Again. I had competed Joep just twice, once at a Swan Lake schooling show in the 2’3” hunters, and once at Loch Moy, in a starter trial of all things. Not my usual discipline of choice, but he was so brave, I felt like I could give it a real go. As it happens, this was an unusually special day, since it was the last day I would also spend with one of my closest friends, the late Packy McGaughan. He was there for me, boisterous as ever, applauding and complaining about how sloooowwwww I was in stadium, I was so booooooring to watch compared to everyone else. He was so annoyed at two things, why I chose such a small height division, and why on earth I was 2nd. Haha, I didn’t mind his bantering, I knew him well enough to know he thoroughly enjoyed himself that day. I wonder what he must be thinking of the upside down world from above us? Horrified, I am sure.
In the short time he had been in the States, this special horse had captured my feels, but it would be a year before attempting to step foot in the show ring again. I was sound and ready, so was Joep, but the world had other ideas. Enter March 2020, and Covid-19.
It was July of that year before we could figure out how to horse show safely in the pandemic, and I will never forget my foolishness. Since I had spent so much time training at home, I seriously miscalculated what Joep would be like at our first outing together in 18 months. To not really much fault of his own, I fell off. Everyone around me was rightfully horrified at the spectacle, and I can admit it now, but it was not the first time I had fallen post heart surgery. It was the second, and far more epic. The first being a bit silly, quick and painless involving a cold backed horse at a mounting block. This second fall drew anxious gasps from the crowd, as I flipped over his head and was pulled backwards, allowing copious amounts of sand to enter my pants. However, it was a testament to an incredibly good recovery process post-dissection, as well as a testament to Tipperary. (Well done, lads. You make a great safety vest). I was unharmed, and remounted to correct my mistake into the double combination. Oof, that was a day.
I bring my attention back to Joep in the stall, ask him what he wants his name to be, thinking back to the voyage to Moscow for inspiration. It was wild. I had to apply for a visa months in advance, completing documentation which said I was visiting with a friend from Latvia, who spoke and understood some Russian, and prove we had plans on where to go, who to meet, and where to sleep, as well as how long we intended to be there… I mean, we had an idea, but the details were really rather vague, to be honest.
I had met my friend in Latvia via YouTube nearly two years earlier, sending her a message about what I was looking for. Nora responded immediately, and a friendship developed. After a few successful trips she was really catching on to the hunter market and we had some successful purchases together under our belts. One evening, over a bottle of wine, I brought up Russia, and mentioned to her I had aspirations to purchase hunters out of that area if we ever found ourselves exhausting the Baltic countries. I really was half kidding. The words stuck with Nora, because scarcely three months later she called to say she had found a connection via Instagram. How serious was I exactly? I laughed. Well, then.
Was I really going to commit to going to Russia? The idea was out there, preposterous, yet tangible at the same time. It was 2018. I thought about it. Russia was a big unknown as far as exporting hunters, but, there was a time when Germany was too. And look at what has shaped our industry in the last four decades? German warmbloods.
Fuck it, I thought, why not?
I didn’t feel as if anyone would really care if I failed or succeeded, nor did I have anything to prove, so there was no indication my time would be truly wasted by spending a few days around Moscow browsing through stables, looking for suitable horses for Americans. I told Nora if her new friend understood it was a crapshoot, then let’s go.
We all needed each other to complete the trip - I remember thinking - if one of us is lost, we would be completely screwed.
The bulk of the trip was not planned by me. How could I? Nora and I had already formed a bond after being strangers ourselves once, so it was she I had to trust to do the planning, and deserves plenty of high praise for her efforts. I flew into Riga from Brussels, and we spent the weekend all over Latvia, at various familiar stables, including the one where we found Joep, gangly, furry, and dark in color.
We ticked him off as a favorite, and planned to visit him again when we returned from Russia. Belarus was our next stop.
The tiny plane which dropped us into the airport in Minsk made me feel as if I was a flea on a tiger, but we emerged onto the tarmac unscathed, and I resisted a fleeting impulse to kiss the ground. Instead, I made a peace sign to the heavens.
A black van was all we knew to look for at the airport in Minsk… A. black. van? Why couldn’t we be waiting for Scooby’s mystery machine? Why did it have to be a nondescript black van?
Lord have mercy, this was some creepy shit I had gotten myself into, I remember thinking. It was bitterly cold in Minsk, being December and all, and the snow swirled around us as we internally worried about several possible grim scenarios where our bodies would be found in the summer behind some small cabin in the woods or by a lake no one ever ventured near. Two silly Jane Does buried in horse manure in the countryside of a very foreign land no one at home before last week could point to on a map. Thirty pretty agonizing minutes went by before the correct black van flew up beside us and an obvious horse person jumped out and buoyantly greeted us, his argyle socks, riding pants, and sneakers a perfect give away that we had our man. His pretty, young, blond haired partner was in the passenger seat, and we set off toward the city of Minsk absolutely flooded with relief.
At night, the lights in Minsk were certainly dazzling, reminding me loosely of Las Vegas, without all of the extra neon signs or tackiness, and I was pretty impressed. I felt a little silly taking pictures, not really knowing what it was I was seeing, but our hosts enthusiastically described certain buildings, monuments and changes the city had seen in the last decade. More and more of the West was creeping in and taking hold, and no one seemed to be complaining. Our dinner was in a mall. A very popular restaurant with a somewhat cowtown feel, the decor was wood, pictures iconically American, and the food intensely Belarussian. It was loud and vibrant, small children ran in circles, there was plenty of wine, and the two levels packed with diners chatting and eating. The waitress brought me a menu in English, and our hosts encouraged us to choose the local favorites, which was no problem for me, I eat anything. It was all good. Our host was funny, and he prepared us for a long drive to the hotel, worrying me a little, since I was thinking it was nearly midnight, but he simply drove to the other end of the mall, which had a Hilton attached to it. Of course it did, I thought. He bade us a humorous farewell, warned us quietly not to leave the hotel for any reason because everything we needed was here in the Hilton, and said he would return mid-morning to fetch us. No problem. I had no intention venturing anywhere without him or Nora, so it wasn't hard to follow those instructions. We were asleep in minutes.
Sure enough, we were indeed scooped up the next morning. A noticeable difference between Germans, Belgians, and especially with the Dutch is how loosely Eastern Europeans interpreted time. Give or take 5 or 10 minutes in the West was more like 40 to 50 minutes in the East. I kept myself entertained envisioning ever being late for a Dutch or German appointment, and grimaced - no thanks, I am not brave enough.
The horses in Belarus were good. Some above average, some below average, and mostly the correct age, and despite being limited to one facility, it turned out to be a massive place with no shortage of horses and riders.
I tried horses all day and into the night, only stopping for a short snack and more coffee. I was learning this was more the norm as I ventured further East, not the farmettes I was used to seeing in the Benelux and Scandinavian countries, where you spent more time driving, less time riding, but more of a training camp for all disciplines, multiple indoor and outdoor rings, not necessarily fancy, but sufficiently equipped for training and competing.
I marveled at all the differences, and similarities.
Even if I didn’t purchase a horse from our new Minsk friend, it was a good contact to keep for the future, and he was more or less optimistic for my return, I think.
We flew back to Riga, and then it was time for Moscow! We shed some of our luggage in the storage units at Riga, to travel even lighter over the next three days, and sent a message to Nora’s close friend about the location of our extra things in case we went missing.
The intensity was rising and I remember trying to quell nervousness as we descended into one of the airports around the city. It was so massive I was having a hard time believing what I seeing from the plane. Inside customs, before we even had a chance to retrieve our bags (two small ones we really couldn’t put in overhead), I found my way through the line to speak with the agent requesting proof of insurance, along with my passport. I pulled out my blue cross blue shield card and held it up. She stared blankly at me. Uh-oh, I thought. ‘What is this?’, she inquired. ‘My insurance card’, I replied, and a twenty minute confusing albeit imploring discussion followed - which needed an extra colleague to address the mess, until they finally gave up, handed my card back, and said ‘Do not get hurt here!’. I glanced back at Nora who was across the room purchasing insurance at a kiosk. Admittedly, I had no idea what I was doing, arguing with the customs officers like some sort of demented clown, and when Nora claimed she spent ten euros on health insurance for the three days in Russia, I was a bit like, oops - that would have been way simpler than claiming my Blue Cross Blue Shield card was the golden ticket of entry into Russia. Jesus, Deloise, what were you thinking? Nora took it all in stride, and we had a good nervous laugh at my blunder at baggage claim, but I wasn’t sure there was as much room for error moving forward.
However, we were in. No turning back now…
stay tuned for Chapter 2, and thank you for subscribing…