The Rebalsito Rodeo

The Rodeo

“Soy Libre!”, I'm Free! Announced the invitation-cum-programme for this surreal event. Below these words the face of a grey haired, jovial, Mestizo man looked at us from an out-of- focus photograph. Juan Carlos Jesus Renardo, a big man in the small town of Rebalsito, where we found ourselves soon after Christmas.

Juan Carlos, in addition to his fund raising, Ejido and community activities, was the president of the Rebalsito Rodeo committee. He had died in February 2005 and this was to be the first Christmas Rodeo for many decades without him.

Rebalsito was gearing up to out-do any party they had thrown for many a year. The Plaza del Toros to be re-dedicated in honour of the deceased. A new concrete tablet at the entrance, inscribed with his name and draped in silk, to be unveiled by his widow. The field and dirt lots surrounding the bull ring was cleared of litter; weeds and scrub burnt. For the few days before it was as if a bush fire had swept through. The town square and surrounding streets were festooned with gaudy bunting, fluttering in the sunlight all day, occasionally dragged in tatters along the streets by over-height vehicles.

The afternoon of the much anticipated fiesta finally came, Christmas had seemed almost like a distraction in this town, celebrated mutely in comparison. The generosity and overwhelming goodwill of these proud people had meant an open invitation to anyone staying in the area was issued. The population of the town and surrounding villages was swelled by Mexican tourists camping in the area; and a few Gringoes dotted around stood out in the crowd, but none was welcomed the less.

By the time we arrived in the town square, at about four in the afternoon, the party was in full swing. Nothing had been left unattended- vast stacks of beer were piled up in the corners of the covered marketplace. Ranks of long trestle tables, crowded from end to end with the chaos of a banquet in full swing: children on their parent's knees chewing at chicken bones. Extended family groups, the very old and the very young, cared for by the teenagers and parents. Men in T shirts bearing the photograph of Juan Carlos and the “Soy Libre” slogan, marched up and down the aisles, disributing with bottles of free beer, before scuttling back to the mountainous supplies for more.

In one corner a twenty-piece Mariachi band was thumping out the Rhumbas, Ballads and Fanfares of the classic Mexican mealtime accompaniment- at five times the size and volume normally seen in the restaurants, or on the Malecon. Dressed in their whites, with the smartest sombreros available; the vocalists sang their hearts out, playing battered, much loved instruments. These musicians were giving it their all despite the afternoon heat. Already a few teenagers were dancing in the aisles, swaying and stepping easily in the rhythm that seems to come so naturally. Why can't we dance like that?

Quite suddenly the crowd in the marketplace moved, although no announcement had been made. As a body they rose, conversations unbroken, the band still playing. A procession was next on the agenda and the band was to lead the way! Through the streets and out of town the crowd swayed and straggled, some dancing behind the band, some walking, some like us, on bikes, others noisily piling into pickup trucks, all heading for the bull ring.

As the procession arrived in the dirt lot outside the ring, the widow of the deceased, with a few close family and friends, gathered at the new tablet. The crowd settled around them and a series of speeches were made to respectful silence; broken, bizarrely, by fanfares from the band and rousing applause whenever the speakers introduced friends or spoke of Juan Carlos's achievements.

The speeches over and the memorial unveiled it was time for the serious business of the evening to begin. Here was the moment one felt the whole afternoon had been building towards. Preliminaries involving dancing horses and twirling of lassos were just a teaser, light entertainment offered to the crowd as they took their places on the concrete tiers encircling the arena. The band played raucously on, perched above the crowd. More mountains of free beer were plied by the attendants. As if on cue, the sun settled over the horizon, dusk quickly came and went. The floodlights came on, and the action began.

This was the point at which the rodeo became a cultural needle. Injected into the proceedings with a sharp rush of adrenaline. Those unaccustomed to the brutality, to the sudden change in tempo were shocked out of their celebratory haze. The first bull, it's young rider cinched mercilessly to it's broad back with a single rope, leaped from the crush into the arena. A few brief seconds of fierce bucking and twisting, of heroic efforts to remain mounted; before the vaquero was flung to the ground, one leg crushed instantly under a single hoof bearing the weight of perhaps a tonne of muscle and bone. Then sickeningly, a fleeting moment of contact between flailing hoof and head.

The cowboys and clowns rushed to distract the bull, the unconscious rider dragged unceremoniously from the ring, one attendant fanning wildly with his sombrero, another emptying cans of cold beer into his face in a vain attempt to wake him. The crowd swayed, the band played on.

It took a while for us to register what we had witnessed, but Suzanne was unable to watch more without at least finding out whether the poor fellow had recovered. We left the children with John and Sharon, our Alaskan friends, and went back to the dirt lot to see what was happening. I paused to look over the floodlit arena. The bull, still enraged, four lassos taught to the saddles of four cowboys, was as strong and fresh as ever. It took a full five minutes for the cowboys to edge him close enough to the gate and out of the arena to safety.

I joined Suzanne in the car park, where she had been watching efforts to revive the wounded rider. She was pretty concerned. I was still high on the euphoria of the crowd, the beer and all that had been going on around us. As we watched, the drama turned farcical for a moment as an open roofed, red sports car reversed wildly up to the spot where the patient was lying in the dust. As roughly as he had been dragged from the ring he was bundled into the back seat, folloewd by three attendants. The car sped off. The last we saw of them they were disappearing in a cloud of dust, four smart white sombreros visible above the sleek red sides of the car, two in the back, two in the front; and a sad, limp, booted leg sticking out of one side window.

It took a long time, and some help from Sharon, who appeared at our side, to persuade Suzanne that this had been an accident, not a foregone conclusion. I wanted to believe that the wonderful, cultural experience we were lucky enough to be witnessing was still just that: machismo was not the only point of the whole thing; surely the gladiatorial spectacle that had just led to a young life being so endangered deserved another look before final judgement could be made. Why injuries happen in all contact sports!

Suzanne was not so sure: for this young man it would have been a matter of absolute pride to have somehow struggled back into the ring, to take his bow in front of the crowd. If he was unable to do that then there was a serious problem- he might well have been killed or permanently brain-damaged. No ambulances in attendance, no safety systems to mitigate the inevitable risks posed by this “sport”. For her any disregard for human or animal welfare is questionable- in the same way as for other outdated and cruel sports: boxing, fox hunting. More importantly, the idea that she should be entertained at the expense of suffering for another human was almost more than she could bear.

I knew what she meant. For me however, that evening was not over, the story not told until every chapter had been read. I wanted to return to the heady fiesta we had been a part of until half an hour before. Reluctantly putting aside her qualms, Suzanne followed Sharon & I back to our places. As we climbed the bank of earth behind our section of the arena, other traumatised tourists were leaving, unable to cope with further shocks.

As it turned out the rest of the action proved relatively uneventful. Between each ride was a long pause while the next bull was maneuvered into the crush, it's rider cinched onto it's back. The beer flowed on, the music became more and more raucous. First couples, then whole families took to the cramped platform to dance in front of the band, high above the arena. We found ourselves swept up once more by the euphoria surrounding us. On the dance floor, blonde haired Jemima was embarrassed to find herself the subject of droopy-eyed attention from a handsome young Mexican lad.

It took a long time- two hours, for the following four bulls to be ridden, some more successfully than others. No more injuries, no more drama. We left before the very end- with one torch between us and a drunken crowd about to hit the roads we wanted clear of the area- and bicycled home to our campsite. The children far less perturbed than their parents by what they had witnessed earlier. “I felt more sorry for the Bulls than the people.” said Harriet.