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A Rodeo And Its Aftermath
Entry 17 of 24 | show all | print this entry |
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American Country & Western music of the most appalling variety belted out across the Public Address system as we took up positions ringside in a sun-baked bowl at the end of a dirt track somewhere in the outer suburbs of a city in the north of México.
Brightly coloured houses spread up the flanks of a crag capped hill beyond the half-dozen tiers of concrete that enclosed the arena. Along the terraces, which were more full than empty, vendors moved, some dispensing snacks and soft drinks while others pedalled leather apparel. Here and there, wives and girlfriends lent colour to the crowd, but in the main the rodeo was a male affair - norteño man and boy united beneath the white cowboy hat.
Trucks came and went, disgorging cattle into a corral adjacent to the ring. Each time a new consignment arrived a squad of cowhands sprang into action. Armed with electric prods they manoeuvred their loudly protesting charges into ringside pens. Meanwhile, the crowd swelled slowly and a larger-than-life compère jabbered incomprehensively to a country beat.
30 second challenge - direct from Nashville
The aural assault continued - steel guitar, mawkish lyrics and twanging vocals. 'Jessica', an airhostess from Taipei, was the first to crack. I laughed into my beer as she approached the director's box to ask for a change of music. Our guide, the broody Guillerme, reacted by sinking his head into his hands, but he needn't have worried, for the compère, swayed by her abundant charms, was more than happy to oblige. Several hundred hat-clad heads turned to gawk as an announcement welcomed the 'foreign guests' - a middle-aged Canadian couple, La Taiwanesa and myself - to the rodeo. We smiled and waved and felt like celebrities while Guillerme looked mortally embarrassed and tried to hide under his baseball cap. A few seconds' later the sound of banda - exuberant flourishes of trumpets backed by the 'oompah-oompah' of tubas - filled the arena. Never before had I been so appreciative of Mexico's favourite genre.
After a long wait a group of bull riders strode out and formed a line across the centre of the ring. There were eight in total - a motley selection of fresh-faced youths and meaner looking veterans. They sported blue denim with flared leather chaps as leg coverings. In the all-important headwear department black and white were level at four apiece. At each end of the line stood one of a pair of clowns, their faces smeared with paint and their bulky forms clad in a uniform of baggy black pants and white shirts striped blood red.
The music died and the compère announced that it was time for prayer. The crowd fell silent and the performers stood with heads bowed and arms clasped tight to their breasts. We prayed together for the safety of the riders and for a successful day's competition. Finally the performers turned and walked back towards the bullpens. The resumption of high-tempo Country and Western signalled that it was time for the rodeo to begin.
First up was a novice, a young man who'd been looking forward to getting his first ride for months. The guy looked a bundle of nerves as he clambered up onto the rails above his mount, which was writhing and bucking in its pen. After a couple of minutes he seemed in place and the gates flew open. The bull exploded into the arena, rider less, and thrashed its way across the ring pursued by the clowns. Cowhands emerged from the adjacent corral and tried to lasso the beast as it cavorted around wildly. Eventually, someone got a rope on the animal's horns and it was dragged, kicking, out of the ring. Somewhere on the floor of the bullpen, sat a humiliated virgin, his pride in tatters. The compère offered some words of consolation as he crept away unseen through the rear of the pen.
Next up was a rider with a few years' experience under his belt. The gates sprang open and he emerged into the ring atop an animal that looked like it too had been around awhile. With a brown and white patchwork torso and a dopey white face overseen by stubby parsnip-tip horns, it looked a docile creature. After a brief, half-hearted attempt to throw its rider - who quickly established his dominance - the beast loped around the arena in a near-perfect circle, earning its master a generous round of applause. For good measure, the rider took his mount around the ring a second time before disappearing into the corral at a canter.
A third rider came out on a skinny black beast with long curved horns. The animal bucked and writhed awhile before ceding control to its rider, who guided it effortlessly around the ring a couple of times before entering the corral with plaudits ringing in his ears. I began to think that rodeo was easy.
Then rider number four appeared. His mount was a more formidable proposition, muscular and
angry. The rider struggled to cling on as the bull thrashed its way across the arena, saliva spewing from its flared nostrils, tail flailing wildly behind. It was fortunate that the rider was wearing a helmet as the bull suddenly stopped short and the rider hit the wall beneath us with an almighty thud. The clowns, anxiety painted across their faces, rushed towards the enraged bull, aiming to distract it before further damage was inflicted on the fallen rider. A couple of hard slaps to the rump later the animal took off in hot pursuit. From the corral emerged men with ropes, ready to bring the bull to ground.
The rider lay prone on the sand, surrounded by concerned cowboys, while the compère rattled on about the rodeo's safety precautions - the helmets, the padding, etcetera. I wondered when a doctor was going to appear. After a few minutes the injured rider, still evidently stunned, was helped to his feet. Clutching a damaged shoulder, he was led across the arena to an accompaniment of sympathetic applause.
The rodeo continued. A couple of more rides passed off without serious incident and then it was audience participation time. A clown popped up before us and beckoned me to join him in the ring. I clambered over the low wall, feeling slightly bemused, and dropped onto the sand below. 'You're on my team' said Bobo, before turning his attentions to my Canadian compañero. Across the ring, the other clown was busy recruiting his team.
Sports bags were placed on the ground to form makeshift goalposts at either end of the arena. It had been a while since I'd played football but I fancied my chances nonetheless. Granted, it wasn't the Aztec Stadium but it was as close as I would get. 'Just go out and enjoy it!' I told myself. There were five of us in all - Alberta Bill, Bobo The Clown, Miguel, Alejandro and myself. Bobo called us together for an impromptu team talk. The clown spoke machine-gun fast and most of his tactics were lost in translation. I decided just to slot into midfield and take it from there. Then Bobo mentioned el toro. Alberta Bill looked real worried and then el toro got another mention and the alarm bells started ringing for me. Seeing the lack of comprehension in our faces, the clown indicated one set of 'posts' and enunciated the word 'g-o-l' in the manner of someone addressing a gathering of the educationally subnormal. With a grand sweep, he turned towards the cowhand stationed by the entrance to the corral and, slowly mouthed the word 't-o-r-o'. I felt my bowels begin to loosen.
The gate was opened and a black bull of medium size emerged into the arena looking mightily pissed off. A member of the opposing team stood directly in the animal's line of sight and began waving his arms and shouting like the raving nutcase he evidently was. The enraged bull wasted no time in charging and the opposition scattered before it. One by one the players clambered onto the relative safety of the wall encircling the arena, a tactic that I took good note of. Thwarted, the bull turned towards us with its nostrils flaring and its horns glistening in the sun. Alberta Bill muttered something about travel insurance and I exploded in a fit of nervous laughter.
As the bull approached I climbed onto the wall leaving Bobo and the others to attempt to goad the bull through the posts. Flapping the arms and shouting abuse were the main tactics. One by one our players withdrew to the wall as the hapless bull turned this way and that, provoked by some new feat of bravado. The goal remained intact.
Slowly, the opposition encroached from the rear. One of their number gave the bull a hefty slap on the hindquarters and raced off across the arena as fast as his legs could carry him. But it wasn't fast enough and the bull caught up with its assailant bringing him to ground with an almighty prang in the ass. The crowd howled with anguish as the animal stood over the fallen player, preparing to deliver the coup de grace.
In the nick of time, the rest of his team, led by Bobo's counterpart, arrived on the scene. A couple of slaps later the livid bull had forgotten about its victim and turned its attentions towards another of its tormentors. The dishevelled looking hombre got to his feet and bolted for the wall, which he scaled in double quick time. Amid the mêlée he left behind, the bull pursued a teammate towards the posts at the far end of the ring. A cheer went up and it was one-nil to them.
The game continued in the same fashion: the bewildered animal goaded from all directions; occasional drama as a player was felled, then rescued by his teammates; and, now and then, a 'goal' at either end. Still not quite believing what I'd got myself involved in, I remained outside the fray, taking to the summit of the wall if the bull so much as glanced in my direction. After what seemed like a long time the gate opened and the exhausted bull disappeared back into the corral. I breathed a sigh of relief and started heading back towards my seat. Bobo asked me where I was going - it was only half time.
The appearance of a brown bull in the ring marked the commencement of the second half. The animal, though medium-sized, seemed angrier than its predecessor and its horns were sufficiently large to inspire fear. With verve and vigour the animal began charging its would-be tormenters. I wondered how many bulls I would have to face and longed to be back in my seat nursing a cold beer. Suddenly the bull had me in its sights and was careering headlong towards me with a look that was less than friendly. I about-turned and bolted toute de suite. Mercifully, the wall was near at hand. I was over the top before you could say 'First World War'. Adrenalin pumping, I clung to the brickwork as the beast rampaged around the arena in pursuit of some other fool.
Alberta Bill was a jovial rustic sort with lanky chestnut-brown hair and a luxuriant moustache. In his younger days he'd worked with bulls, experience which he was about to put to good use. He stood a dozen yards in front of the bull, legs apart, arms outstretched, felt hat in hand. The bull rushed forward and off Bill went, straight through the posts, the animal hot on his tail. Fortunately for Bill, Bobo was on hand to cause a diversion. It had been a neat bit of work from the gringo and the crowd applauded generously.
The scores were close and everything was still to play for. Bill's contribution had shown up me up. A fired-up Bobo demanded more effort on my part. I shuffled further towards the centre of the arena and flailed my arms about half-heartedly, hoping that the bull wouldn't notice. But the bull did notice. I swivelled round and inadvertently lost my footing in the sand. As I regained my feet, I could sense the irate beast closing in on me from behind. Adrenaline surging, I struggled to get away, but it was too late. A freight-train impact to the rear end lifted me up and propelled me through the air. I fell crumpled in a heap at the foot of the wall. Time slowed right down. The animal was there above me, poised to strike again. The sun had disappeared behind its silhouette. I expected the worst. Voices closed in. Feet appeared. The clowns did their job. The shadow vanished and the sun reappeared. The feet retreated and the voices faded. I clambered to my feet in a state of shock. Everything worked. I felt no pain, only relief, profound relief. I thanked God, I thanked the clowns and I thanked my arse for cushioning the blow. Some eejit screamed at me to 'follow the bull'. I screamed back 'Get fucking lost!'
A short while later it was all over. The bulls were safe in the corral and Country and Western music rang out across the arena once more. We shook each other's hands and slapped each other's backs. The compère turned down the music and summoned us over. Amazingly, our team had won. After making the announcement across the PA system, the compère called me forward and presented me with the microphone. The crowd applauded generously. It seemed that I, the gringo with the soon-to-be-sore arse, was the man of the moment. 'Señor. What are your feelings at this moment?' he asked. I hadn't reckoned on a speech. 'You are all totally fucking crazy!' was the best I could manage. But I was proud that I said it in Spanish. I thought that the crowd probably took my remarks in the humour with which they were intended. Clutching, my first cowboy earnings, a six-pack of Tecate, I headed back to my seat.
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The road extended across the meseta - wide, arrow-straight, good for cycling probably. Low, scrub-covered ranges extended along the horizon left and right. A glassy film blurred my vision and the haze of tequila swirled through my mind. An invisible knife was lodged in my throat and the taste of ashtray filled my mouth. A whispering man in a desert western extended his hand feebly and pleaded 'agua, agua'.
Guillerme sat beside me at the wheel. He wore the pained green-tinged expression of a turtle which wanted to retreat back into its shell, but couldn't. We suffered together in silence. From the rear of the van came bright American voices. There were the two girls who'd been in the nightclub and a young couple from Kansas who I hadn't seen before. La Taiwanesa was absent, gone away on the early bus to Guanajuato.
The dull ache in my backside brought me back to the previous day's events: the raging bull, the surge of adrenalin, the horror of impact, the jangling nerves, the oriental beauty and the soothing alcohol. The rodeo had continued with more bull rides before the women were lured down into the ring. This time there were to be no bulls, only a drinking game. The competitors had to down a can of Tecate in one go, run around the arena and then spin around until they fell over. Alberta Bill's wife, a petite blonde lady called Martha, was first up. Bill told me that she was good living and hadn't touched a drop for twenty years. She poured most of the beer into the sand, ran around the arena and spun around half a dozen times before collapsing, to the great amusement of Bill and the rest of the crowd.
A couple of local women had their turns and then it was down to La Taiwanesa. She downed the beer in double-quick time and raced around the arena. The compère counted to quince before she hit the deck. Jessica got up smiling and, to the accompaniment of boisterous applause, bowed first left, then right and centre. She'd finished runner-up to a large lady with a low centre of gravity who'd taken at least twice as long to get around the arena but just wouldn't seem to fall over. Sporting a fetching pink cowboy hat, which complemented the rest of her fiery ensemble, La Taiwanesa clambered back onto the terraces. I congratulated her and went off to look for a cigarette vendor.
A low grey hill stood apart from the range, squat and angular. We turned off the highway and onto a side road. The outline of ruins revealed themselves as we drew close - Chicomostoc. We spilled out into the sunlight beside a small booth in an empty parking lot. The ticket vendor seemed happy enough to see us, until we came to pay. Entry cost thirty-eight pesos a head and predictably, the guy had no change. Various bills were passed around between us and eventually the matter was sorted. Guillerme retreated to the shade of a tree and the rest of us ambled up a dirt track that led to the archaeological site. Ahead, weathered stone fortifications extended up the hillside amid a jumble of scrub-covered terraces. I went off to carry out my ablutions while the others lingered by the entrance of a small museum.
Everyone was in high spirits on arrival back at the hostel, which was buzzing with weekend arrivals. We grabbed some beers and adjourned to the kitchen to consider the afternoon's proceedings. We recounted the events to the newcomers, embellishing each other's tales and teasing out additional detail. I proudly told anyone who would listen the story of how a bull had anally penetrated me in front of a couple of thousand cowboys. Ernesto, the hostel's dueño, smiled but kept his counsel.
Cold water numbed my face and shocked me back to my senses. A sudden voice caused me to pull my head out of the sink and water spilled down my front and over the floor. The young American had been sent as an emissary to find out whether I was coming or not. I smiled a sheepish grin and followed him out into the warmth. The three girls were busy consulting a large notice board containing a plan and some sketchy historical information about the site, which had yet to be properly excavated. Little was known of Chicomostoc, except that it had been constructed by bloodthirsty heathens, whom even the cuddly Aztecs had considered barbarous, around fifteen hundred years ago.
We followed a stony trail that climbed across the flanks of the hill. Lizards scurried about in the undergrowth and small birds flitted from bush to bush. The valley opened out below as we scaled crumbling steps, emerging onto a grassy platform topped by a small two-tiered pyramid built of tightly-packed stone, squared off on top to provide space for a sacrificial altar. The others, who had hitherto been animatedly discussing shared Oregon connections, fell quiet to admire the surroundings. Peace descended across the valley, which was empty save for swathes of nopal cacti and the shimmering waters of a nearby reservoir. A gentle breeze blew in off the mountains to the west. I could think of worse places in which to die.
Banda Rodeo de Morelos
I thanked Ernesto for his language tuition and headed over the road, feeling slightly embarrassed but otherwise ebullient. A Saturday night buzz rose to greet me as I descended into the bar - a hubbub of laughter, chatter and clinking glasses. I recognised a few familiar faces and they recognised me, the cyclist who never seemed to cycle anywhere. Chacho fetched me a beer and I joined La Taiwanesa, Guillerme and some friends around a table where dominoes were being played. 'Hey, Irishman! How is your ass?' asked someone to loud guffaws.
A long steep stairway led up to the skyline. I laboured my way up and arrived at the top wreathed in sweat. The dry-stone walls criss-crossing the summit plateau were of limited interest but the view was stunning - three hundred and sixty degrees of desert and mountains. Eagles hovered in the thin air and butterflies fluttered around in the warm sunshine. The silence was golden. Were it not for the long walk back to town, I would happily have lain down and slept. Chirpy American voices drew me from my slumber and a quirky conversation drifted through the ether to the hippie-loving, bike-infested streets of Portland, Oregon. Momentarily I left the desert to revisit the land of mountains and forests, of rivers and coast, through which I'd cycled a couple of months previously.
I'd won a few pesos playing dominoes in the pub, money that I soon re-invested in tequila. Then a taxi was at the door and we piled in, headed for the rodeo after-party. The inside of the nightclub was hot, stuffy and thronged with people. Once again we found ourselves surrounded by men in white hats. A cacophony of ear-splitting banda reverberated across the dance floor. Alberta Bill was there, boogying with his missus, who waved over. To my consternation I saw that a three-deep scrum extended along the bar. Salvation was at hand. Guillerme had somehow arrived at the club before us. We found him in a corner, in conversation with two American girls. He'd managed to save us seats and the drinks were on their way.
The girls had arrived earlier in the day from the north. Cory was raven-haired with big blue eyes and full of dramatic gestures. She told me the story of how they'd been robbed by opportunist thieves on the overnight bus. I didn't understand why she was so worked up about losing a music player even if it meant going for six months without hearing her favourite punk bands. After all, there was always banda. She shot me a strange look. Meanwhile, on the other side of the table, Guillerme was trying in vain to work his charm on the dark-haired, Spanish speaking Belinda.
I did my bit for tourism, trying to convince Cory that not all Mexicans were thieves and bandits and that, actually, it was a great country and, after all, you could get your music player stolen on a night bus anywhere. She'd decided to stay anyway, to go to Oaxaca and fight the fascist cops. I could admire Cory's punk rock attitude without sharing it. Confrontations with the pigs were not my style.
We were four in the taxi on the way back to the hostel - las Americanas, Guillerme and myself. It was a civilised ending to an enjoyable evening. We would see each other again the following morning for the trip out to the Chicomostoc. I hadn't quite forgotten La Taiwanesa though La Taiwanesa had certainly forgotten about me, having long since disappeared into the night with one of the dominoes players. Dominoes - like five-a-side with bulls - a game of chance mixed with not a little skill. I fell asleep with the tiles still clicking in my head.
We walked downhill from the ruins to find Guillerme dozing in the van. In sleepy silence we travelled back towards Zacatecas. About halfway through the journey we passed some cowboys on horseback and shortly afterwards, a small open-air arena, its terraces populated by a couple of hundred white hat dudes. Through the entrance a bull could be glimpsed, trying to shake off its rider. Guillerme drew the van to a halt at the side of the road and switched off the engine. Then he turned to me and asked earnestly if I would like to ride a bull. I wondered what was Spanish for 'not bloody likely'.
ENDS
Latest Comments (2)
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The Gift of a Jab (reply)
Jun 7, 2007 11:00 EST by fintan
Tadhg,
I don't know what you said to that redneck in Montana that he left you lying in the street unconscious with a broken jaw on a night when it was twenty degrees below but you were very lucky that somebody phoned an ambulance. I suspect that you might have run into the lunatic I met in Rexford, MT, who thought that I was an Islamic leprechaun come to wage holy jihad against Uncle Sam ... show all
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Toro Gunner Solskjaer (reply)
Jun 4, 2007 14:04 EST by tadhg
my friend, thats a classic - you saved the best for last!
But more detail on your ass injury is required!
Was it just a bruise or was it a gash?
horn or head?!
How long did it take to mend?
And you were laughing at my injuries!!
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