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The first thing to know about elephant polo is that the elephant is very likely to do the following: kick the ball, move at a tortoise-like pace, step on the ball, have a seriously hard time turning around, or deflate the ball entirely. These things I learned within the first few minutes of my short career as an elephant polo competitor during a recent two-chukka game on the grounds of the Rambagh Palace in Jaipur, India. The match pitted myself and a friend from New York against two other traveling com- panions, who had made the trip to India with Micato Safaris. I had the unusual distinction of being the most competitive in the group without having any actual polo skills; I was in it to win it. A standard polo ball is used in most elephant polo matches— including the official ones run by the World Elephant Polo Association (WEPA), an organization founded about 30 years ago by a British expatriate living in Nepal and a Scottish adventurer who was a former Olympian. But since our group was comprised of polo newcomers, we used a blue-and-red soccer ball. Other than that, we followed the official rules: four competitors per team playing two 10-minute chukkas (the polo equivalent of a period) separated by a 15-minute break. (My favorite rule is one that I learned later while reading the WEPA rulebook: "An elephant may not pick up the ball with its trunk during play. To do so shall constitute a foul." Luckily, none of our elephants proved to be rule- breakers to this degree.) Elephant polo got its start in the early 1900s in India, then disap- peared for several decades. The establishment of the WEPA coin- cides with the modern era of the sport. In 1982, AV Jim Edwards, a British expatriate and pioneer of tourism in Nepal, met up in a St. Moritz bar with the Scottish Olympian James Manclark. Manclark, an adventurer who had attempted to circumnavigate the globe in a hot-air balloon, was a polo enthusiast; Edwards owned some elephants and a jungle lodge in Nepal called Tiger Tops. Over a few drinks, the two hatched a plan that included elephants, polo, and a bi-annual championship match held in Nepal and Sri Lanka (the Sri Lanka competitions were later dropped from the schedule). Typically, about a dozen teams compete in the championships, and the players hail from countries like Thailand, Australia, Scot- land, India, and England. The sport's Scottish heritage accounts for the fact that the Scottish spirits company Chivas sponsors the most successful elephant polo team—the Chivas players routinely domi- nate the WEPA championships. Our field was 100 meters, which is regulation length for the sport and three-quarters the size of a regular polo field. It was set behind the lavish Rambagh Palace, which had been converted from a royal palace to a luxury hotel by the Maharaja of Jaipur. The shorter field length is intended to accommodate the lumbering speed of the elephants. During play, each elephant is ridden by a mahout—an elephant trainer who guides and steers the pachyderm and who, in the Jaipur fleet of elephants we were employing, is also the animal's 66 Myopia polo 2011 owner. Players sit behind the mahout and are responsible only for making contact with the ball. To score a goal, a team must hit the ball over the goal line. (Having been a serious field hockey player in high school, I figured I'd be able to handle the mallet with a fero- cious grace. Not so. Spindly, heavy, and extra-long, the elephant polo mallets were a challenge to swing.) Our match in Jaipur got off to a slow start. My team chased after the ball, but our opponents were quicker with their mallets. After a few scuffles where we all gathered around the ball and swung unsuc- cessfully, I was starting to feel like we were in an exotic version of kindergarten soccer, whereby the entire team flocks to the ball and no one actually makes contact. Eventually the ball emerged from the scrum, heading in exactly the wrong direction. The first point went to the other team. We reassembled in the midfield and got our mallets ready for action. Within seconds we were crowded around the ball again— but this time, it disappeared. When we saw it again, it was flat, squashed by one of our mounts. The new ball turned out to be my team's good luck charm. We quickly rebounded and scored a goal. Then, just before the whistle blew, signaling the end of the chukka, we scored again. The score was 2-1 when we dismounted and retreated into the shade of a tent on the sideline. Elephant polo is nothing if not elegant. The animals are painted in vibrant colors and elaborate patterns. The saddles are draped in beautiful embroidered red blankets. And in lieu of Gatorade, champagne cocktails are served during the half-time break. After 15 minutes of rest, we mounted the elephants again to finish the match. But this time, each team had lost a player (one of the hazards of half- time champagne). I would be going head-to-head with the remain- ing competitor, and the pressure was on. The referee dropped the ball onto the field and my mahout steered us toward it, my mallet dangling alongside us. Before I could reach the ball, the other el- ephant had kicked it—across the goal line. Score! Was this cheating? Apparently not. Again, the referee dropped the ball and both teams set off in pur- suit of it. This time, I made contact, smacking it a few feet toward my goal. My opponent then appeared out of nowhere and blocked my next shot. We had a midfield scuffle that lasted at least a minute. Finally my elephant kicked the ball—all the way across the goal line. By this time, my arms were tired and my competitive streak was as strong as ever. I was willing to share the glory of that point with my elephant. The score stayed tied through a couple more minutes of play and until the whistle blew at the end of the chukka. Exhausted, we dis- mounted, thanked our mahouts, and shook hands. Then we slipped back under the tent, admiring the palace in the distance and the elephants relaxing under a tree, and we congratulated ourselves on a game well played.