Ometepe, Nicaragua: And The Band Played On (cont.)

After walking for a while longer, Horacio takes us through a meadow to a farm, where we buy fresh papaya and sit and rest for a while.

“Horacio, did you hear that insane marching band in the middle of the night? What was that?” I ask.

“Oh, that was to rouse the town for church. This week is the festival for our patron Saint, Santa Anna. They are doing that every day this week.”

I couldn’t believe that people got up at 4:30 a.m. for church. And I couldn’t believe that we were going to be awoken again tomorrow in this seemingly torturous manner.

“This afternoon is the big rodeo, and tonight is a dance. You should come!” Horacio tells us.

As we walk back toward the road, we come across two men and a cow. Below the cow is a puddle of blood and pinkish red. I look to the left and see a small calf, covered in mucus and attempting to stand.

“She was born ten minutes ago,” the men tell us.

The calf shoves its front legs out and then tries to lift its rear legs, but its knees buckle and it falls over. This happens several more times, and the mother keeps nudging it, trying to help. Finally, the calf is up on all four legs for about fifteen seconds before it collapses again.

On the way back we head to the middle of the small town, massive Mt. Conception looms ominously overhead. A large dirt area has been converted in a makeshift rodeo. There are rickety wooden bleachers surrounding an open area and people are crammed onto the bleachers and hanging off the sides, and about three dozen men and young boys crowd the middle of the ring.

Everyone is drinking beer and shouting loudly. As we climb up the bleachers, it feels like everyone is staring at us. We are the only white people here, and being four young women we stick out even more. As we stand on the bleachers we hear snickers, and realize that young boys are underneath looking up our skirts.

We opt to stand on the side.

We quickly forget about the stares when a large bull is led out to the middle of the ring and tied to a post. It tries tirelessly to escape, but several young men hold it still. Then a boy, who looks about fourteen, mounts the bull. The men release the ropes and taunt it with shouts and scraps of red cloth. They wait for the bull to run and buck, but the bull has other ideas and ambles back into its pen.

The men give chase and shock it with cattle prods; the audience begins to throw garbage. The bull slowly works into a frenzy and starts bucking and charging. The boy riding bare back is quickly thrown clear and lands hard on his head. His body is limp and prostrate. Some men corral the bull back into the pen while another group of men carry the motionless body away. My friends and I stare in shock. Expecting the rodeo to be over on account of the medical emergency, we turn to leave. Prompted by an unexpected roar from the crowd, we turn around, only to see another bull being led into the makeshift ring. Another teenager gets ready to be lifted onto its back.

I cannot watch the pathetic animals any longer, so I walk around outside the ring where carnival booths are set up. One has a row of bottles that you are supposed to try and throw a ring around.

“What do you win?” I ask.

“The bottle,” the young boy behind the counter replies.

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