A church bell tolls at dawn and the village slowly comes to
life. Villagers wander over to be blessed, and I follow
out of curiosity. I have after all woken up at the unearthly
hour of 5 am to see the show. The travel photography opportunity
in question is the “Rapa
Das Bestas”, which I guess could be translated as “The
shearing of the beasts”, and I’ve been promised that
it is no less than a fight between man and beast in its purest
form.
I’m still absently following the villagers, my eyes mostly closed,
when a loud bang and then another and another pull me out of limbo quite
unexpectedly. I see that the crowd has grown significantly, and now there
are horses nervously crashing through with riders working hard to stay on.
The mayor is having a jolly old time. He sets off a couple dozen firecrackers
just to make sure we’re all ready to head off.
Two hours later I’ve walked and gotten lost twice in the mist shrouded
hills surrounding Sabucedo. The purpose is to find some five hundred wild horses,
and guide them down to the village. Luckily the locals, who occasionally amble
past on horseback, aren’t really counting on me helping too much.
I wonder if the fog will lift. It does, for about a minute, enough to see
a dozen or so horses gallop along a ridge and disappear over the other side.
A small group of visiting folk, including myself are left thinking that
catching wild horses is likely to be a mission impossible.
One of my neighbours suggests that breakfast might be a good idea,
where we might get breakfast in the middle of nowhere escapes me
but I eagerly follow the others just in case. About a kilometre
further up, the land flattens into a large esplanade with an empty
pen where they round up all the horses before leading them down to the village
and there to my astonishment some villagers have set up a couple of trestle
tables full of food and drinks. Breakfast.
The fog descends again, thick as pea soup, but now I’m sitting atop a mountain,
hill seems too small considering the effort it’s taken to get here, drinking
hot coffee and eating a bacon sandwich. Rested and fed I decide that walking
on a little further could be a good idea, after all I am meant to be helping,
so on I go, but after a while and having now seen two or three small groups of
5 or 6 horses canter past me like I were a ghost I decide that elevenses are
a good idea and return to the esplanade for some more fodder. I arrive roughly
at the same time as the first horses are herded in, and in all the excitement
I almost drop my camera. At least there are a few hundred horses still
left to arrive so I may yet get the odd travel photography image.
The rest of the morning is spent watching horses appear like magic through
the fog and get herded into the enclosure. Families and friends,
who have been here before, arrive closer to lunch time on horseback or four
wheel drive with generous picnic baskets. The festive spirit grows. The
bar is doing good business in “empanada” and
wine, and the horses keep on coming down from the surrounding hills.
The timetable outside the town hall said that the horses would
come down into the village at three o’clock but things are running late, very late really
and it isn’t till 5 o’clock that the horses are rounded up at the
esplanade. The horses are herded down the hill and through the village
and straight into the “curro”. This is a small semi circular enclosure
with a sand floor and looks not unlike a roman amphitheatre and it is to be the
site of this afternoon’s battle between man and beast.
I arrive early at the “curro” to ensure a front row seat and slowly
bake under the afternoon sun waiting for it all to begin. Suddenly the doors
open and countless horses trot in. An “aloitador”, meaning wrestler,
follows the horses in and decides there is still room, he signals for more of
the beasts to be packed in. The horses don’t seem to be enjoying the close
proximity especially that of rival herds. The beasts rear, kick & bite and
put on the first real show. It doesn’t take long to identify the stallions
in charge and I’m fascinated by the fact that most of them seem to
be missing large chunks of their ears, from previous battles. So for the
first ten minutes or so I concentrate on the four rival leaders in expectation,
they eventually meet and everything seems to stop. They face each other
arching their necks, snorting, pawing the ground and then they rear up and
go at each other with bared teeth in a head-on collision worthy of titans.
Now I know that the “aloitadores” must have a few screws loose to
consider wandering in amongst these crowded nervous beasts, but my eyes open
wider when I see children being sent in, the men are standing back and enjoying
the show, I must admit to being a little confused so I ask my neighbour who tells
me the “rapaces” are responsible for moving the foals.
The children fearlessly charge in, select their target and launch
themselves at their chosen foal in teams of two, grab the little
fellas head and force it from one enclosure to another while getting
barged and battered by over protective mums who are more than a
little distraught at the forceful removal of their young.
Finally I spot three men standing in one corner discussing the
back end of one of the horses. Suddenly with the explosive energy
of a sprinter leaving the starters blocks the aloitador charges
and leaps onto the back of the chosen animal. The beast leaps forward
and battles with the rider who holds on hard to the mane while
the others race in behind. One aims and launches for the tail,
a successful grab and the animal slows a touch. The other bulldozes
his way through the crowd of horses until he reaches the head of
the animal. He wraps himself around the head, the rider leaps off,
also grabbing for the beasts head. The horse is having none of
it, backing away and rearing viciously, the aloitadores get tossed this
way and that. Suddenly the horse looses its footing and comes crashing down
to the ground and the aloitadores tumble on top. The horse calms down and
the aloitadores breathe a little easier while the shearers come in and cut
the mane and tail, the result is crude and jagged with a few loose tufts
of hair remaining. The first battle is over.
The aloitadores keep wrestling horse after horse for two hours,
my eyes unblinking at the feat and the madness of these men from
Sabucedo.
About the Author
More of Charlie’s work can be seen at www.cpeel.com
