A High-Goal Horse Opera, Mexican Style (With Apologies to Miguel de Cervantes)

By Dan Harvey Pedrick



I can still hear the cicadas. Of all the new sights, sounds, smells, and other sensations experienced during a few weeks of escape from the Canadian winter to the tropical Mexican coast, my memory of the cicadas is the most indelible. Buzzing incessantly day and night, they seem somehow to be the very sound of heat. It's reassuring, really. I know I'm not going to be cold as long as I can hear them.

What brought me to Mexico this time was a telephone call from my Mexican friend, Salvador. I first made his acquaintance when he was welcoming the world to his country's pavilion at Expo 86 in Vancouver. He had introduced me and my family to his longstanding passion of choice that year--polo. He had learned the game from his father, a gentleman who had taken it up after retiring from a brilliant career in the bullring. Like his father and all of his brothers, Salvador had tried his hand with the bulls also, but a goring early in his career caused him to seek a less hazardous pastime. As pastimes go, polo is probably more hazardous than most. To a bullfighter, apparently, it is just a relaxing way to spend an afternoon.

Like all Mexicans, Salvador is by nature an inviting and gracious host to his friends. Knowing we would appreciate the resort hotel and polo club where he was employed as a professional, he encouraged us to drop by and pay him a visit on our next trip to Mexico.

Mexico is a country of eternal surprises. It surprised us again when we first saw the Costa Careyes region in Jalisco State. The location, in pleasant isolation between Puerto Vallarta and Manzanillo, provides a welcome relief from the usual noisy pace of life in those and other Mexican cities. Arguably the most un- spoiled resort district in the republic, the Hotel Costa Careyes and much of the extensive holdings surrounding it are, respectively, the personal creation and domain of Italian banker- turned-hotelier Gianfranco Brignone. Also in the neighborhood is the Playa Blanca Club Med resort as well as dozens of private villas ranging from the comfortably rustic to the shamelessly palatial.

"La Costa Careyes" (The Turtle Coast) is named for the rarest of four species of sea turtles which lay their eggs along the many kilometres of secluded beaches there in late summer. They are carefully observed and looked after by a resident biologist, Alejandro Peña de Niz. A native of the area, Peña de Niz shares his growing archive of information with the government and the universities of Mexico. He also takes pride in the excellent crop of Bermuda grass he has nurtured to cover the polo fields which now extend over his former family plantation.

The polo club at Costa Careyes is the pet project of Gianfranco's son Giorgio. An avid player himself, Giorgio is trying to make his fields the center of the winter polo scene in Mexico. Giorgio regularly hosts players from many different countries, keen to match their skills against the highly regarded Mexican players.

A rising feeling of adventure filled us the first time we made our way to the polo fields from the hotel. A feeling fostered, no doubt, by the luxuriant tropical growth on either side of the winding dirt road we followed. Butterflies as big as handkerchiefs (in fact they are called such, pañuelos, in Spanish) fluttered in front of us. Colourful birds overhead shreiked a warning to the managerie of creatures we were certain lurked nearby. One of the latter, a large tarantula, ambled lazily across our path; tolerably friendly, if not entirely harmless, according to local wisdom.

The tunnel-like road through the forest opened onto a large clearing which encompassed two full size playing fields and ample stick-and-ball areas. Magnificent fig trees provided an abundance of shade. Under some of these were placed spectator seating to accomodate the usual gathering of faithful fans from the small cosmopolitan residential community and hotel guests. It was Friday afternoon and a practice game was about to begin. On this day Salvador's own SolĒrzano family of Mexico City was well represented. His brother Samuel (handicap of 4 goals) is president of the Mexican Polo Federation and keeps a dozen or so horses at Costa Careyes during the winter months. Salvador himself (2 goal handicap) was managing another string at Careyes. Cousin Joaquin Ruiz (3 goals) was employed as club manager. Samuel's two teenage sons, Gonzalo and Diego, were about to give evidence that they both possess a generous portion of the family's polo playing heritage and skill.

We didn't start playing until four, to give the heat of the day a chance to subside. Even at that it was a novel experience for my northerner's metabolism, as the ambient temperature was still something quite above the average summertime high in my Canadian hometown of Victoria. I tried to regard the experience as an ascetic ritual, a cleansing of ice worms after which further acclimatization would be unnecessary.

Six steaming chukkers later, with SolĒrzanos on both sides, it was deemed un-necessary to try to break a 7-all tie. We then accepted Samuel's generous invitation to join himself and others for an un-forgettable horseback ride back to our lodgings. We were soon darting in and out of the pounding surf along a beautiful and desolate strand. Shying at a large breaker, my mount jumped sideways. She reached the top of a sandy ledge carved by the waves but failed to keep her balance and dumped me and herself into the fortunately soft sand. In a moment we were re-united, none the worse. We continued on our way playing cat and mouse with the advancing and retreating sea. As we all frolicked along the shore, a pair of dolphins eyeballed us from the waves only meters away. They showed a great interest in our antics and seemed to delight in our mood of playfulness. Foam, sand, and sky all turned crimson in the sunset.

Turning away from the ocean, we entered a spooky and darkening jungle path which skirted a large lagoon. Samuel kept our party entertained, if somewhat on edge, with warnings to beware of the crocodiles and jaguars he claimed to have seen only recently. Fireflies surrounded us with yellow streaks of light in the deepening twilight. By the time we arrived back at the hotel it was completely dark.

A practice game was planned for four-thirty the next afternoon, and I was recruited for the thankless task of umpire duty. Never my strong suit, I was apprehensive at first but I quickly learned that in Mexico a foul is always followed immediately by a shouted un-printable epthet that I scrawled into my Spanish phrase book during divot stomping time. Once I got the hang of the pattern-- foul, foul language, whistle--discharging my official duties was as easy as salivating at the sound of a bell.

On Saturday the big field was ready for a match and so were the trophies, a galloping quartet of statuary portraying ancient Mongolian polo players. I had apparently distinguished myself as a popular umpire (a contradiction in terms, I now realize) so I was pressed to don the striped shirt and whistle once again. With a final glance at my phrase book, I mounted up and rode out to enforce (Pavlovian) law and order south of the border.

The game was well underway when suddenly I heard a chorus of shreiks welling up from the grandstand. I blew the whistle and rode over to see a large rattlesnake that had crawled out from underneath the grandstand and was making a beeline for the far side of the field. Before I could make an irredeemable fool of myself by pleading for its life (I would like to have interviewed it), young Diego SolĒrzano dismounted non-chalantly and conked the unfortunate creature on the head with his mallet. His cousin and teammate Joaquin claimed the carcass for culinary purposes, something I took as a joke until I opened his refrigerator the next day to find it skinned and ready for the barbecue. "It's my favorite dish," he said with deadpan sincerity as he tossed the limp reptile into the back of his pickup truck.

Anyway, back to the game, which went well, I thought, as no one took much issue with any of my few calls. Finally the dust settled down gently over the field after a thrilling game which had the spectators clapping and cheering in a Babel of tongues. Who won? Who cares? The requisite fieldside post game pomp and ceremony was conducted with somewhat more haste than usual, for it was the eve of the Chinese New Year, and many of us were in a hurry to prepare for an unusual party.

Gianfranco Brignone had been for some time immersed in the process of creating a new home on a dramatic bluff along the most deserted stretch of coast of his entire holding. About two kilometres to the south, located on an equally imposing bluff, could be be seen the conspicuous baroque dome forming part of the spectacular digs of his nearest neighbour, British industrialist Sir James Goldsmith [died, Aug. 1997]. The outdoor environs of Gianfranco's then unfinished rival villa were to be the setting for a celebration of the entry into the Year of the Horse.

At a planning session a week or so earlier, personnel responsible for the horses were informed by Gianfranco that a respectable contingent of equines would be expected to appear, suitably costumed for the occasion. Another mounted group would parade along the beach in view of the revellers, their riders carrying an array of torches. Some of the assemblage whined and fretted at the idea of using their valuable and intrepid mounts for such frivolity. Brignone silenced the grumbling with a terse reply delivered in Spanish with his husky Italian accent. "I don't want to hear it", he growled. "I only ask you polo players to do something besides play polo once a year. Now, be here so we can have some fun!"

Put that way it seemed not the harshest of orders. There was nothing else for it, then, but to salute the chief and begin preparations.

Costumes for horses are rare in any location, especially in such a remote part of Mexico. However, the dynamics of supply and demand being what they are soon created a veritable black market in crepe paper, Christmas tree ornaments, party favours, paints, and various other ordinary and extra-ordinary objects that could be applied to the task at hand. Secrecy was the order of the day as it was rumoured that there would be a prize. In a fit of inspiration, Salvador discreetly approached me and announced that he had the perfect "Rocinante" in his string. Would I play the part of Don Quixote? He quickly added his opinion that I bore a striking resemblance to that eccentric knight and was sure to be a hit. I took that as a compliment and, sufficiently flattered, accepted his offer. A lance cut from the jungle growth, a cooking pot for a helmet, a taco griddle for a breastplate, and I was the terror of the windmills of the Turtle Coast.

At the secluded party site, everyone was arriving at once. With Don Quixote's lance hanging alongside our car, we arrived just as the horses did although we had set out much later. The grooms had their work cut out for them just getting the horses there. It was about four kilometres from the stables to the party house, much of it along a dark jungle trail made all the more daunting by a complete absence of moonlight. Parking space was at a premium as were sources of artificial illumination. What few beams there were seemed to evaporate, swallowed up by the pervading obscurity of the night. The grooms with their strings of ponies were milling around in the dark, awaiting orders on exactly how to deploy themselves. Shouting to each other in the confusion, someone asked if crocodiles were nocturnal. Large bats, which I was sure must have been of the vampire variety, darted crazily overhead against the starry sky. The sound of the horses blowing and stamping close by and yet practically unseen created an air of almost unbearable tension, for me anyway. Suddenly I had an intense vision of a military operation gone bad.

At last a leader appeared, gave orders, and the horses marched off to take up their respective positions. Arriving guests, many in evening dress, made their way up the pathway to the site of the soir‚e which was illuminated with several bonfires and about five hundred carefully windproofed candles. The strategic setting and the looming form of the unfinished villa were reminiscent of the ruins of a medieval castle. That, combined with the eerie light of the flickering candles and the flames, lent an alien-like quality to the whole scene.

Eight horses were positioned in a large semicircle around the perimeter, each undergoing final stages of adornment while standing inside their own low stone enclosure. Two Mexican folkloric groups played music in alternating sets, backed by the roar of the nearby surf. The buffet and the bar left nothing to be desired. I mounted "Rocinante" and realized I had the best seat in the house. Instantly recognized by the guests as that greatest character of Spanish literature, I was saluted, congratulated, photographed, and offered every manner of refreshment which I tried to consume with a chivalrous air. Gianfranco himself pumped my hand enthusiastically, addressing me in English (which language he spoke as well as his many other tongues, I then realized). I figured I'd be a shoo-in for first prize, probably a bag of gold coins.

Before all the wonderful and various costumed horses could be judged, however, the fireworks detail mistook their cue and ignited the fuses of their waiting arsenal of rockets. As the sky overhead erupted in a breathtaking display of brilliant colour and heartstopping sound, the ponies decided that they really must excuse themselves. The ones poised for the grand parade along the beach went first. Bolting off into the night, they left their dismounted grooms to plod after them on foot. The four-legged fugitives were found much later, lounging around the hay stack back at the stables.

The costumed horses in the enclosures also intimated a sudden desire to leave and their climactic exit completely stole the show. As though choreographed in grand operatic style, they collective assumed an anthropoidal posture, pirouetting on hind legs while gesturing evocatively and hollering to high heaven. Terrified guests from mature matrons to mariachi musicians added a chorus of shouts and screams as they fled in all directions. After a couple of obligatory curtain calls, the exuberant equines finally allowed themselves to be escorted away to a quiet glade. There they were calmed and stripped of their tu-tus and other finery before being pressed into service as remounts for some of the frustrated un-horsed grooms. Meanwhile the scattered celebrants cautiously re-grouped and the party continued, sans chevaux, until the bonfires and the candles began to burn low. The Year of the Horse was upon us, although the horses were now all gone.

Having discarded my lance and shield, as well as all hope of material reward for my performance, Salvador, my family, and I went to see what had become of the ponies and grooms. We found all back at the polo stables, worse only for a few bruises and scratches. Ironically, one pony whose owner refused to have it brought to the party had died in its stall of unknown causes. Boredom, or perhaps a broken heart? We may never know.

Those who felt a need to wind down gradually from such a made their way back to the clifftop Mirador Disco overlooking our hotel. I took my cue from the ponies and made my way back to my bed, exhausted from the demands of my greatest rôle.

The following day, as we flew back home into the gloom of winter, we hoped against hope that our everyday existence would not seem too tedious and humdrum after our unexpected adventure in exotic Costa Careyes. I can still hear the cicadas.

The author as photographed by Kari.

(This piece was originally published in POLO Magazine.)



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