Most of Nihi’s horses are rescues. Image supplied.
My story of equine assisted therapy on a remote island off Bali
By Sarah Heneage
Last month I found myself on a remote island 50 minutes off the coast of Bali called Sumba for the launch of the widely acclaimed Retreat and Conquer – Equine Assisted Therapy at NIHI SUMBA.
Retreat and Conquer is the brainchild of Retreat of the UK’s leading horse therapy centre – Operation Centaur (based at Hampton Court and Richmond Park) which has been helping people with everything from anxiety to coping with grief, depression to eating disorders (and so much more) for over 20 years. The company now offer overseas retreats located in some of the most remote locations in the world (including Nihi, the private island of Mustique, Arabia and Africa) ensuring a safe environment in which to discover vulnerability and connection.
To say I was dubious would an understatement. I am a rider – not a brilliant one admittedly, but I have been around horses all my life and consider myself “horsey”. From a young age I have retreated to a stable when the chips were down and sobbed into my ponies mane as told of my latest tragedy. Even now as an adult my patient horse Foggy will listen to me waffle on regarding whatever disastrous relationship I have just recovered from – what then would someone like me get from horse therapy?
And so it begins:
“Like endings, all beginnings are difficult,” so started Andreas Liefooghe, motioning to the group we had started. I had no idea what I was expecting the beginning of this retreat to look like. A cocktail party? AGM of the pony club? Instead, I’m in a group of nine strangers, sitting in a circle, listening to the sounds of the Indian Ocean crashing on the rocks beneath us. We are asked to introduce ourselves and bring to the group the reason we are attending.
Andreas Liefooghe. Image supplied.
“Hi, I’m Phoebe, I am not brilliant at public speaking,” I fumble. Some eye contact, some smiles and nods. “I’m here to talk about abuse my entire life, and how this has led to a succession of disastrous relationships.”
Stony silence… have I brought too much to the table? Tears brim, erupt and start streaming down my face whilst my throat appears to be closing up.
Pause for what seems like an eternity before: “Welcome, Phoebe. I’m sure we can do some useful work these next couple of days,” Raul, the facilitator, soothes. After 90 minutes, it feels as if a wave of oxytocin has engulfed the group. Strangers no more, we bond through our shared agonies.
Safety
Over breakfast the next morning, we all express surprise how deep everything went right from the start. Usefully, the usual safety briefings on how to behave around horses (“all horses can kick, all horses can bite, if you don’t feel safe take action”) extended to how to keep yourself safe in a group. Something few of us had ever openly discussed. How vulnerable can I allow myself to be? How far can I trust? How truthful can I be? This was all new to me.
Connecting with the horses. Image supplied.
We make our way to the stables which leads down a long track to the beach. The Nihi herd consists of 27 rescue horses – some from the herd and some from a racing background but all have found sanctuary at NIHI and as a horse lover I am so very happy to see how well they appear to be and happy.
Upon instruction from Andreas, we climb the hillside and wait…
Connections
The majestic sweep of Nihiwatu bay is a sight to behold – perhaps the most pristine stretch of beach in the world. Add a herd of galloping horses and it becomes something fairy tales are made of – especially for horse lovers like us. From my vantage point on the hill overlooking the beach, I feel connected to an extraordinary sense of the place. For the first time on this retreat, I feel my heart rate slowing down to a strong, rhythmic beat. I have arrived and am literally in horse heaven.
My task this early morning is to identify “a horse that speaks to me” (Andreas Liefooghe’s words). I perch myself on one of the highest points and I watch the herd ascend. I feel myself becoming mildly irritated at some group members (“no, that’s not how you approach a horse!”) and quickly berate myself for being judgmental. What happened to that all-empathic version of myself that dominated last night? My initial ease moves to a flicker of anxiety. Will these horses like me? I am supposed to be the horsey one here… I decide to stay put and wait until a horse approaches me. Better to be ignored than rejected – right? Is this how I start relationships? Waiting for the herd leader to approach me?
A liver chestnut climbs up and starts grazing near me. He looks unsure when I move. I marvel at how sleek he is, how gracefully he moves, the old scars on his side (most of Nihi’s horses are rescued). My heart skips a beat when I see some other group members approaching but he turns and ambles towards me – curious of this human that is not expressing an interest. We find each other and I am glad with my unusual approach of waiting – it has served me well in this instance.
The group
We have moved to a round pen. The circle reminds me of the chairs the previous night – circles provoke attention to the centre but there is still a level of uncertainty for me – I never was very good at being directed. What is about to happen and would I manage this with ease? From very early on the group designated me the ‘horse expert’ of the group. To be fair, that was probably correct – I have my own horse, and they have featured heavily throughout my life.
It was only somewhat later that I realised I had been here before: the only one working, when everyone else was looking on. As a single mother of three girls, I have so many times been the one appearing to glide along the water whilst the feet were paddling furiously underneath.
Keeping the girls in ponies has cost me an absolute fortune and often caused more stress than I would want in a lifetime – but we swallow down the tears and keep on, right? All apparently until right now.
Somehow, taking a leadership position had meant doing everything and it scares me. What was stopping me delegate? Am I scared of conflict? Was this why I always feel so exhausted? Feeling that it’s constantly me against the world?
I acknowledge that managing different opinions is also hard. I realise I like to be right, and while I proclaim to want to compromise, deep down I know what I want and I’m going to get it = perhaps this is what life has taught me. The horses’ energy gets off the scale and I realise that it is mirroring my flight mode. Quietly grooming each other one minute, they’re now rearing up at each other. One manages to open the gate and run onto the beach. Andreas walks towards the rearing horses and things become calm again. People are not right or wrong, they’re just different. A simple statement, yet hard to fully comprehend.
Retreat and Conquer is the brainchild of Retreat of the UK’s leading horse therapy centre. Image supplied.
Letting go
The five days flowed and I would have been hard pushed to find anywhere more perfect to bare my soul. I have travelled the world with my job in travel PR but NIHI surpasses anywhere else I have been. The hotel has worked so cleverly with the local community on the island – investing in schools and medical supplies whilst respecting the traditions of old – a clever thing indeed and even though I initially resisted working in the group, towards the end I felt very different – people’s stories, their struggles and traumas helped to shape my understanding of myself and gave me a deeper understanding of my patience – or rather lack of it.
I went quite deep into the history of my bad relationships during the retreat and allowed myself to open up in a way I never thought possible. I cannot deny what happened with the horses and how they allowed me to channel my sadness and finally mourn the grief for the young person that was so used. I have worked with horses and owned my own all my life, but it was on this remote island that I finally understood what it means to say horses are like mirrors: I did see myself in that reflection and I finally faced the truth.
Stepping into the sea and swimming with the horses for the last time feels cathartic, the sea sweeping with it years of anguish and torment and my horse and I have a union. I see my reflection in his eye and have a sense I am where I’m supposed to be. Perhaps for the first time in my life.
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