Ancient Cuban Cowboy

Travelling to VInales, three hours west of Havana, is like travelling back to a romantic vision of rural life 150 years ago. While Havana is large, chaotic and polluted, smaller Cuban cities and towns are clean, orderly, beautiful and very much functional. That is not to say Havana is not beautiful; it is, but in the manner of an impoverished and aged prima dona.
Of course the geography of this very large tropical island is stunning and Vinales is no exception. The earth is clay red and very fertile. The mountains are awe-inspiring and prehistoric. One can imagine the great Brontisaurus Rex appearing in the plains. The farmers on horseback with straw hats, the oxen pulling carts and ploughs, the campesinos hoeing the fields of tobacco, sugar cane, cattle feed, rice, pineapples, vegetables and more, the thatched barns, drying sheds and cottages - if there was ever a Shangrila, this was it. That is not to say life is not one of hard work, but it is one of richness and vitality, of community and song and of great pride.
So it was with excitement that John and I arranged for a horseback tour of the trails, farms, mountains and caves. I had not been on horseback in forty years. But I soon realized it was somewhat like riding a bike... one really never forgets how. Of course, I had learned to ride in the English style and this was the western style... but my learning served me well and kept me from bouncing uncomfortably. It was thrilling. And even more thrilling that we were communicating in Spanish... as faulty as our linguistic skills are.
When we stopped after two hours for lunch and to rest the horses, I was feeling invigorated and confident. Eager to dismount, my memory instantly clicked into play. I tossed my leg from the stirup as once I had. But my memory had forgotten that I was 40 years older, 50 pounds heavier and that I now had an artificial hip which somewhat resticts one's flexibility. The leg did not fly so high or so freely as it once had. Instead of landing me on the ground with finesse as the gymnast I had been in my youth, it caught on the hump of the saddle. I toppled indignantly to the ground on my back. I was saved only by the fact that I had landed on my full knapsack, which cushioned the fall. In the process, our lunch sandwiches were squished out of recognition. Fortunately, the only damage to myself was to my pride.
The horse seemed amused and certainly the guide and John were - at least once they had discerned that there was no blood or broken bone to be attended to. I had learned my lesson. The second part of the journey went very well and at the end of the four hour sojourn I dismounted cautiously and with the assistance of our guide.