The Man in the Purple Shirt
The man shines in a bright purple shirt. He wears smart jeans, boots, and a cowboy hat to protect his face from the afternoon sun. After taking a swig out of a modelo can, he pours beer over the hinds of a great horse. He rubs the liquid into thick, hairy skin, washing out the perspiration and cooling his animal down. The horse, big and brown, is struggling in the heat. Sweat erupts across its body and white froth churns out of the mouth. As the beer runs down the long, muscular legs, the man’s friend purses his lips and slaps the great horse’s rear.
The man in the purple shirt sits up and begins to simultaneously twitch the reins, his riding crop and spurs. The horse clip-clops to the left, behind, the front, the right, repeating the sequence to the pace of the music blasting from the marching band. This cumbia troupe consists of clarinets, trumpets, trombones, tubas, French horns, and huge sousaphones — not to mention a multitude of drummers. The musicians play the melodic and perpetual rhythms of ‘La Danza de Coyote’.
The crowd dances forward, stepping to the pace of the music and singing loudly to the chorus while clarinets rise above the din of the brass, playing the catchy tune. We walk behind the man in purple, and a host of other riders all decked in clean shirts, pressed jeans, and wide-brimmed hats. All hold the reins of their horses in one hand, and a can of beer in the other.
The sun shines as we smile and sing — ‘y ahora vamos bailar la danza del coyote sin parar’ — and make the annual procession to the rodeo ring in the centre of the small rural town of Los Sauces.
Everyone knows that the afternoon and evening will include more music, dancing, tacos, salsa, beers, as well as the posturing and brute determination of the young men who are going to ride impressive limousine bulls, trucked in from the regional capital of Tepic.
The pom-pom of the cumbia drives the celebrations, and the drinking, eating, dancing, cheering, and gasping, are accompanied by songs of beautiful women, vicious mothers-in-law, and cattle ranching. After the bulls, more food, drunken conversations and the mutual teaching and learning of dances, the crowd slowly drifts off in search for a place to sleep.
Suddenly, it was mid-dawn. My eyes blink and my head stings. With a grunting effort, I put on my boots and stumble outside to hitch a ride.
Stepping into the road I see that man in the purple shirt. His back was and in one hand he grasps a bottle of whisky. In the fingers of the other, he loosely held his reins, as he dances his way home on that big brown, tired horse.
Poor beast.
