White, grey, speckled and every shade of brown, they paced and cantered, sidled and skidded, walked and trotted around the dust-filled space. Someone hosed the ground and occasionally the horses, until one rider ran too close and bumped the horse over.
This was Saturday and Cómpeta's fiesta, back in July, in the 'polideportivo', an unfinished sports arena, reached via the gravel track below the florist's. People stood all around the edges talking, drinking and watching. In the centre was a truck with a ladder sprouting from the back, On one side a little platform stood next to a drinks stand, from where the usual loud, naff, chirpy music boom-boom-boomed.
“Here were riders, real riders. Stout little middle-aged guys, transformed into straight-backed caballeros, were persuading their mounts to do fancy, dancing, dressage steps.”
I hadn't meant to come. I'd seen a few horses headed this way early and, a few hours later, waddling down the hill, all hot, sweaty and laden with bags of shopping, I thought I'd 'just' look in. And there were the horses. Three fiesta seasons and I've always missed the horses. I looked at my shopping and asked the nearest body, “When will it start?”
“Huh? Oh, now,” he said, “Well, 10 minutes.”
My eye, I thought. But I stayed.
I love horses. I'm not really a rider, though I can sit on a horse. But I love the way they move; their in-built grace; the way they toss their heads crossly up and down, and come out with a whinny like sarcastic laughter. I love the honesty of them, creatures 100% hardired to herd and to flight, and yet so brilliantly adaptable to working with a bunch of apes like us!
Here were riders, real riders. Stout little middle-aged guys, transformed into straight-backed caballeros, were persuading their mounts to do fancy, dancing, dressage steps. A couple of women riders looked twice as stylish as the men. There were teenagers with moto-boy haircuts and pierced eyebrows; kids of eight or nine giving their family's horse exercise. I did see one rider, shamefully, using spurs, and blood on the horse's sides. But there was only one.
Ten minutes? The horses exercised and people stood around drinking and talking. Eventually a bloke got on the stand and, microphone in hand, promised singing, motorbikes and 'el ultimo' the horses. ¡Qué maravilloso! He then started wailing like a broken-hearted cat and filling in for the instrumentals vocally: “twangawangawang”!
“The rings were small, the ribbons were high, the drivers went too fast and the whole wire was dancing from the last attempt.”
Then, after another bout of the normal boom-boom-boom music, the bikes came in: mopeds, motorbikes and a quad-bike. They raced, revved, and lined up at the far end. Here was the main game of the day.
A wire strung from a side pillar, to the ladder on the truck in the centre, was threaded with rolled up ribbons. From the middle of each dangled a plastic ring, about the size of a 5 cent piece. The motos ran, one at a time (more or less), underneath, and tried to hook the ring with a pencil or stick. If they did, the ribbon streamed out and they slung round their neck and tried again. Several players got none, two or three got one and the good ones ended up with 3 or 4. It was fiendish. You could ride two to a bike, the back lad as hooker: but the rings were small, the ribbons were high, the drivers wen ttoo fast and the whole wire was dancing from the last attempt. Even the quad bike riders were hopeless! One pair was good: although imost competitors were under 21, these two might have totalled 100, so the driver was smart enough to slow down. But the best were single riders, driving and hooking at the same time.
And then, at last, the horses. They re-strung the wire. I'd picked my horse a speckled grey. When its rider jumped down to talk to friends it had sidled up to me and stood while I rubbed its muzzle and pulled its ears.
“Go along next year and boo the men in the donkey trap!”
Now they were ready and off. The trick for the riders was the speed. A slow trot jogs you about like a trampoline no good. But a smooth canter is a faster pace and a slow canter needs a bloody good rider! One team had got two donkeys hitched to a trap. They were decorated with pom-poms, slung with bells and had four riders in the trap, which should surely count as cheating! They took quite a few ribbons, but then they had height, stability and four hook men (the driver used the butt of his whip)!
But I'm glad to say my horseman took three or four ribbons all on his own. I was proud of him! And very glad, to have at last seen the horses.
With a gang, and maybe even a friend riding, it would be fantastic, but even if you are only a lone spectator, I recommend it. Go along next year and boo the men in the donkey trap.
