I made my way from Patzcuaro to Moralia via the bus and the ride was as pleasant as the others I've taken. In Moralia I waited a long time for the bus and when it finally picked me up I was welcomed by the blaring Mariachi and Banda music that all the Copandero buses play. Several men on the bus shouted my name as I got on and I smiled and waved.
Many folks on the bus were familiar to me and the girls next to me were all smiles. Eventually I was beckoned to the back of the bus by a young man who speaks a little English. I must have met him at some point in Copandero but I don't remember when. He and his friends were drinking beer in the back of the bus and were excited to have me along with them. I could barely understand my companion, partially due to the language barrier and partially because of the incredibly loud and happy brass music shaking the bus through the speakers.
I arrived just in time to play at the cafe. Juan, Lupita and the girls from the cafe were all relieved to see me and had been worried about me out alone in the Spanish speaking world.
A family from Moralia had come all the way to Copandero to try out Juan's Lasagna. Juan had convinced them to stay for the entertainment (me). I had fun playing for them and the rest of the crowd, but my favorite was all the little babies dancing in their seats. All the young kids danced and clapped, especially Juan and Lupita's daughter Natalia, who had greeted me with a sweet little, "Hello Lucas", when I arrived.
I had the large family from Moralia come up and put on my various instruments and they took a photo with me. Marina had come for the show and I hugged her and gave her a gift from the Fabriqua.
Juan and Lupita are incredibly gracious hosts and Lupita tells me that this is my house. Two and half year old Natalia helped her mother make my bed and they bid me goodnight.
I can tell I'm back in the heart of Michoacan. The gas man is no longer playing jingle bells as he did in Uruapan. Everywhere I've slept while here in Michoacan, whether at the hotel in Patzcuaro, houses in Copandero, downtown Uruapan or homes in Moralia, there are roosters crowing early every morning (and often most of the night). I've grown accustom to the sounds of animals everywhere I am and it only just occurred to me how novel it is for me to hear such sounds in largely urban areas.
In the morning I had breakfast in the cafe. Some police officers knew who I was and asked me to join them. One spoke proficient English and we had a nice conversation. They both commute several hours to work and say that such an arrangement is common for police officers because it's safer to work in communities they don't live in. They both say they are glad to work in Copandero because there aren't any gangs.
I went over to Pancho's house and gave Ulyses some juggling balls so he could practice what I had taught him. I also made a bucket bass for Guera. Pancho wasn't quite ready to leave for the Jaripeo (Mexican Rodeo) so I sat and watched a black and white film starring Professional Mexican Wrestlers and laughed and thought of my dear friend Doctor VanVeerhoog.
Poncho and I and several young men in cowboy hats and wranglers piled into the truck and drove through the town picking up more of the same. Juan Carlos (my cholo friend) came up to the window and looked like he wanted to go. He looked incredibly sad. One man in the car said something aggressive sounding to him and we drove off while they all made fun of him.
On the ride to San Augustin, David and Pancho did most of the talking. I understood only small amounts but recognized that every curse word I am able to identify in Spanish came up repeatedly and often in David's speech.
David speaks a little English and asked me questions about girls in the US. He asked how many girlfriends I had had. I told him I wasn't sure and he convinced me to take a guess. The whole truck erupted in victorious applause at the approximated number, for apparently it was a lot in their view. David told me I'm mucho cavrone which I believe is best translated as a bad ass.
At the Jaripeo I sat in the empty bleachers and watched Pancho, David, and some of the other men from Copandero unload the bulls out of a truck. The operation took about seven men and each bull took a few minutes to get out of the truck. Two young men on top of the truck would lasso a rope down into the truck. Once the bull was hooked they'd throw the rope to a man behind the truck, who would yank on the rope until the bull was positioned to walk out down the ramp. One of the young men would swing down and kick the bull in the ass and shout until it ran out of the truck. Everyone would then run willy nilly out of the way while two young men inside the pen pulled the rope taught higgeldy piggeldy until the bull was fastened securely to the pen.
Copandero is a major jaripeo town, Rodeo is life, and so bulls for jaripeos are very often from there. This jaripeo was no exception. After the ten bulls from Copandero were unloaded we all went and ate at a nearby restaurant and I had my first shot of tequila of the night.
I sat in the bleachers with Aunt Prissy and watched the crowd file in. Very quickly a sea of cowboy hats had arrived. Vendors prowled the bleachers selling plastic bulls with riders, beers, hot chips and cotton candy. I sat next to two boys probablly twelve and thirteen years old. They both drank beer and smoked throughout the jaripeo. A large portion of the crowd appeared underage and most of them drank beer they purchased directly from the vendors.
A twelve piece brass brand in purple uniforms played loud fun Banda music. They played while the cowboys transitioned a bull into the starting cage and trussed him up for the rider. The cowboys put styrofoam pads on the bulls horns and tie a rope around his chest for the riders. The riders kneel before the cage and pray to a prayer card while an assistant ties spurs onto their boots. Once the bull is prepared the rider usually puts the prayer card in his mouth, genuflects (sp?), and then straddles the cage from above. They test the rope and often make the sign of the cross again before they drop onto the bull and the gate is opened.
Many riders I saw were thrown off, but a fair amount stayed on. The cowboys inside the pen lasso the bull's horn (rider on or rider off) and wrastle the animal back into the bull pen, diving and dodging as necessary to avoid the stomping and the goring and the death. The band plays the entire time, with a specific diddy for when the bull throws the rider and for when the rider stays on. The loud exciting brass music I hear on the Copandero buses suddenly makes sense.
After five bulls it was time for me to go onto the stage and play banjo for the 2,000 folks attending the jaripeo. The jaripeo announcer kept saying my name and people near me motioned to me get my banjo out and hurry to the microphone. I smiled and gave the brass band the thumbs up and walked past them to play. The sound was terrible, lots of feeding back and reverb but the crowd roared with applause nonetheless. I played two songs and then a little spoon fandang and they responded loudly.
I repeated the Spanish phrases Pancho shouted up to me and whatever I said was extremely well received by the crowd.
I got off the stage and large portions of the stadium were chanting Lucas! Lucas! Lucas! Apparently I was supposed to play another song but didn't understand. Pancho drug me into the middle of the bull ring with the announcer of the jaripeo. The announcer put his arm around me and said a bunch of words in Spanish. A lot of words. I was led out of the pen and stood by the ring to watch the riders. I was handed two beers and drank them quickly in succession. A huge man brought me a shot of tequila and he and I laughed and watched the crazy cavrones who strap themselves to a thousand pound animal with horns.
After one more bull, I was pushed back onto the stage to play again. After another round of shouts from the crowd, Pancho motioned me back into the bull ring with the announcer. I said gracias, gracias into the microphone and then Pancho pulled me out of the ring and left me in the charge of two short drunk men. One took my banjo and awkwardly slung it over his shoulder. They held a tarp out between the two of them and motioned for me to follow them.
I followed the two drunks around the bleachers as many many people threw money down from the bleachers and into the tarp. I waved my cowboy hat and shouted gracias till I was hoarse. Many men came up and gave money directly to me and shook my hand telling me what a cavrone I am. Several handed me beers and wouldn't take no for an answer. I very quickly became as drunk as my tarp wielding companions. Young gals shoved each other up to talk to me and then chickened out, throwing their money into the tarp and darting away.
As my Mexican caravan rounded the bend the drunk who was carrying my banjo bumped into a young woman holding her baby. She had her back to him and the zipper to my banjo case somehow got hooked into her hair. The drunk kept walking and the woman screamed in pain. I shouted until the drunk stopped walking and motioned for Pancho to come help. He held the banjo and we tried to set her loose but couldn't. She hadn't seen what happened and thought the whole thing was my fault.
While the whole disaster was unfolding folks were shouting my name and handing me money and beers. I tried to be gracious but at the same time be apologetic to the banjo case victim. We tried in vain to free her and then the hot chips vendor pulled out his pocket knife and lopped off the entangled hair. The woman was very upset with me but I had no time to make amends as the crowd which had gathered around me pushed me on. I continued waving and thanking them all the way around the bleachers and then shoved the wads of money in my pockets after tipping the drunks.
Pancho drug me back into the ring and up to the announcer who had since found an interpreter for me. I felt like Stalone in Rocky IV and said things to the crowd about how great Mexico is and how Michoacan must be the finest state in the Union. I then discovered, through my interpreter that the announcer had told the crowd about my cancer and that he had said a prayer for me over the loudspeaker.
I hopped over the fence as the next bull was being prepared and was pulled back into the area where all the riders hang out. Crowded in by friendly, happy, drunk folks who wanted to talk to me and shake my hand, I couldn't help but feel a little nervous about so obviously being the guy with large amounts of cash stuffed in his pocket. The entire evening I was closely surrounded by people shouting and laughing and it was nigh impossible to understand anyone or even be certain what language they were speaking because the 2nd brass band (an amazing all women Banda group) was so incredibly loud.
In addition to all the outside stimulation, I was drunk. Too drunk. I had to begin refusing beers. I took to holding an open beer so folks wouldn't be offended, although even then beers were stuffed into my empty hand.
At the end of the jaripeo they moved the bulls and opened the pens and the band continued to play. People filed down out of the bleachers and danced like cowboys dance. It was an enormous Mexican redneck rave that went late into the night. I danced with three young girls (perhaps David's daughters) and we laughed and had fun. A woman brought me a cooler full of chicken tacos and I ate until I wasn't so drunk.
As Pancho, myself and the rest of the Copandero cowboys left the stadium people everywhere shouted, "adios Lucas!". In the car David reaffirmed my cavrone-ness and they all marveled and laughed about how famous I had just become. Pancho insists that I return in February and play the huge jaripeo that happens in Copandero. Approximately seven thousand people supposedly attend annually.
Back in Copandero I recounted the evening's events to Juan who sat wide eyed and shook his head in disbelief. He said that I had experienced more out of Mexico in my three weeks here than many Mexicans do in their life.
Today I went to a very small jaripeo in Santa Rita, the next pueblo over. I got there hours before it actually started and hung out with all the cowboys. This jaripeo was very different. They drug the slightly smaller bulls out in the midst of the crowd and we all had to run and climb gates to get out of the way on occasion. All the riders I saw were probably fourteen or fifteen year old boys who clearly have some serious cajones.
Afterwards, I walked back towards Copandero in the rain for about fifteen minutes until a farmer pulled his pick up truck over for me. I climbed in back with a family and two young fellas I recognized from my shows at the cafe.
Back in Copandero I hung out with the girls in the cafe and we sang ALLA EN EL RANCHO GRANDE out of tune at the top of our lungs. We sat and ate dinner and then they taught me some hand clapping rhyming games.
I leave for Moralia tommorrow and then Wednesday leave this beautiful state. No Tango Ganas though, no tango ganas.