Going in search of the weird and wonderful

An announcement from the crackling loudspeaker interrupted our conversation and Camilo jumped to his feet. “Let’s go,” he said smiling, “it’s about to begin.”

We climbed the stairs of the two-tier stand to where Camilo’s friends were sitting. One handed me another Colombian beer and gave me a thumbs up. Over at the starting gate the first riders (coleadores) trotted in circles, waiting for the bull to appear. In the stand opposite, women and children fanned themselves with pieces of cardboard. Bulky young men in cowboy hats sat with hands on knees and sunlight twinkling off their aviator sunglasses.

Then, the beast was released. The audience stood in unison. The commentator’s voice gained in speed and excitement. One photographer, crouched in the middle of the long runway, quickly scampered through a gap in the fence to avoid the marauding bull and the perusing horsemen.

Approaching the midpoint of the track, the riders positioned themselves either side of the bull before one lunged for its tail, wrapped it around his wrist and grabbed it again with his other hand. He then lifted one leg out of his stirrup, leant horizontally on the horse - his helmet touching the horse’s mane - and pulled the tail around the side of the bull.

Unbalanced and travelling at high-speed the bull tumbled sideways like a drunken old man, hit the ground with a thud, flipped over once and skidded to a stop. It lay with its head sunken into the mud. The two horsemen cantered back around and forced it up with a tug of its tail. The bull raced off before being once again flipped over to the delight of the cheering spectators.

The commentator congratulated the competitors and applause rang out. Then, heads swivelled to the starting position for the next team.

I took a swig of my beer and shuddered at the thought of what my mother would make of this traditional South American cowboy event.