Annie Get
Your Gun
We hopped aboard one of the over-loaded, shiny white and turquoise Chevy
pick-ups running passengers and their provisions from the Mercado Municipal
de Patos to Pianco and sitios between. We had just gotten out of town
on the hot and dusty sertao road when a rear tire blew. Every other
shiny white and turquoise pick-up was equally loaded and passed by without
stopping. We were on our way to the vaquejada at Olho agua and didn't
want to miss any of the festivities. About 2 hours had passed when I flagged
down an empty cattle truck on its return from the matadoro in Patos.
Mercedes couldn't stand the stench in the back so squeezed into the front
seat while I stood tall to gasp as much fresh air as possible.
The truck dropped us at the
entrance road to the vaquejada from where visitors (for quinhentos mil reis)
shuttled in on horseback. Mercedes had never been on a horse and her horse
knew it. I pulled her up on my horse and we road directly to the bar
where the vaqueiros tied their horses at their table to down a few; dedos;
between events. The place was packed, but we soon spotted the boisterous
table of voluntarios including Michelle, her roommate and John from Pianco,
Anne the Nurse from Patos, Rodger and an entourage from Pernambuco. As we
approached the table, I was promptly informed that the group had already
finished a bottle of cachaca. Just as promptly I ordered 3 bottles and
downing one.
A few bottles later we realized that Annie had not
returned after being invited to the table of a vaqueiro she knew from Patos.
The vaqueiro came over and announced that we had better get over to the
chutes right away. It seems that Annie had gained the vaqueiros; respect
after drinking, cussing and telling dirty stories with the best of them.
Now, she was next up in the vaquejada. They must have thought that she
would gingerly trot down the runway. Were they ever surprised as the bull
bolted out of the chute. What they didn't know was that Annie was a champion
equestrian, as well as a champion bull thrower (just kidding Annie).
I am sure that year after year, the vaqueiros and the repentistas gathered
at the vaquejada of Ohlo ; Agua recount the story of the americana who out
drank, out cussed and out rode many a vaqueiro.
Orange Juice & Snakebite Medicine
On the way out of town we admired the privada that we and the other
volunteers had just finished the day before. We passed by the house of the
mulher rendeira just as the sun peeped over the serra for which we were
heading. Mauricio was taking us out to inspect his vast tomato fields
on the crest overlooking the town below. We had taken a bottle of snakebite
medicine just in case. The sun was now high overhead. We were dusty, thirsty
and getting hungry. And besides, we had been badly bitten and needed to
hurry back for more snakebite medicine. OJ had polished off most of it
leaving only enough for Mauricio and I to wet our whistle. Out in front at
full gallop, OJ disappeared around the bend. As Mauricio and I rounded
the bend OJ was nowhere in sight. Not to worry; he might get back first, but
the medicine cabinet was full. It was fifteen minutes later when Mauricio
and I came upon OJ's mount, but no OJ. We split-up to backtrack
looking for him. Passing the bend where he had first disappeared, I
turned to head back down another track he might have taken when I heard
strange noises coming from the mato. I dismounted to investigate and
found OJ just coming to, groggy, but otherwise apparently just fine. We rode
double back to OJ's horse and rejoined Mauricio. We waved boa tarde to the
mulher rendeira and admired our majestic privada on the way back to
Mauricio's for inoculation before dinner. The long mahogany table was
elegantly dressed with a locally made tablecloth of renda holandesa, set
with colonial silver candelabras and decorated with fresh cut flowers. OJ
and I were sat at the middle of the mammoth table and Mauricio 5 meters away
at the head. As our meal was being prepared we were served from
medicine bottles with the black label and the red crustacean on it. OJ was
at his best. Even the reserved servants had to break into hysterics at his
story telling. Just as the meal was about to be served, OJ pushed back
the lace tablecloth, laid down and didn't get up until the next morning. OJ
had survived the snakebite, but not the fall; all the volunteers signed the
cast on his badly broken arm.
Abracos,
Wayne de Patos
Wayne Frost
Realtor,
Weichert,
Realtors
(703)765-4000 (o)
(703)354-9678 (h)
Email: waynefrost@mris.com
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