The Ferias of Andalucia: Barbate

The feria in Barbate is much more like I had originally expected out of a fair. The only reason for this was that it was, more or less, similar to any we would have back in the states. I actually spent a couple of days at the feria.

The first was with a bunch of friends and two of their young children. Very typical fair experience including riding rides, eating way too much candy and trying our luck shooting cans off a wall and throwing darts at balloons. All of the fair rides are constantly screaming loud obnoxious music. Some of it is discotech type music, brit pop and rap, but some of it is obnoxious Spanish techno which makes me want to claw my eyes out. It is generally blasting so loud that you cannot hear your own thoughts, let alone the person standing next to you speaking in a foreign language.

One of the rides we rode on was a typical train goes around a track and into a mountain tunnel ride made for the kids. Only, rather than having a nice quiet riding experience, a clown armed with a large hand broom beats you everytime you come around the track. Yes you read that correctly, the clown beats you with a broom while you are on the ride. It is hilarious. Don’t believe me? Check out this video of my friend Antonio trying to steal the broom from clown man.

My second day at the feria was spent savoring the more gastronomic side. Barbate is known worldwide for their tuna and every year, when the tuna “run” from the Mediterranean Sea out to the Atlantic Ocean, the whole town comes alive with fisherman who still wrestle these thousand pound fish to the surface by hand. The tuna feria (as it’s known) has tents full of tapas made from the famous fish and most also offer tasters for those passing by. There was even a booth where once a day, a tuna was brought in live, chopped to pieces in front of you and served up raw for anyone crazy enough to stand in the queue for a half hour.

To wrap up my feria experience, I thought I needed to see it by the light of the moon. Knowing I could count on him for a good time, I phoned up my good friend Fran to show me the best time. When he offered to pick me up for dinner at 9, I trembled at the thought of the night only beginning that early. When we found ourselves strolling up the Paseo del Maritimo in Barbate to stall while we waited for the rest of his friends to arrive at 12:30, I really started to panic. “The tents we’re going to aren’t open until 2,” he assured me, “don’t worry, the night is young.” Ya, well… the morning will also be young when I wake up for work at 7.

After rounding up all the troops, we drove to the feria, parked and did what every fair experience began like back in Oklahoma: we drank in the parking lot. Only, so was everyone else. Like EVERYONE else. Hundreds of people with car music blaring, cups full of mixed drinks and kegs. Finally, at about 3:30, we headed to the main event, which was a large seemingly deserted tent in the middle of the feria grounds. We ordered some beers, stepped out on the dance floor and spent the next 2 or so hours dancing, chatting and partying. When I finally realized it was 6 AM and that I had to be at work in an hour, I begged Fran to take me home. As I looked around, I realized the party was just now in full swing, with our tent jam packed with people of all ages and all of the other tents similar to ours lined up along the side of a dirt path just as packed. There were several thousand people still dancing and drinking like it was just past sunset. But unfortunately for me, I had no time to spare.

So Fran dropped me off at home, I changed into my riding clothes and I stepped out of my front door only minutes before Rachel showed up to pick me up. When I hopped in the car, she took one look at me and asked, “Rough night?”

You have no idea, boss. No idea.

The Ferias of Andalucia: Jerez de la Frontera

After spending the day in Los Naveros at the horse feria there, I thought I knew everything about how this whole feria thing works. But I was completely wrong. As could be expected, since Jerez de la Frontera has more than 200,000 people, the feria here was much larger than that in Los Naveros. But this was the complete opposite extreme as far as I could tell. The streets of Jerez are wide, and they were lined with booth after booth of restaurants serving tapas and sherry. Everyone was dressed in their finest flamenco dresses and the men were boasting their full vaquero show attire.

In the show arena, men were showing their horses. In hand, you could see yearlings all the way up to aged stallions. You could watch as one man on one beautiful black stallion navigated 12 spotless white mares without so much as a rope connecting them. You could watch full doma vaquera competitions, classical dressage, foals being shown at their mother’s sides. It was amazing. We watched Antonio show a yearling owned by one of our friends Paco. I wandered aisle after aisle of tiny baby horses, some looking like they were no more than a couple weeks old.

Outside of the main show arena, crowding the streets were thousands of Spaniards ready for a good party. Even though it was early in the day, the bars were packed and the streets overflowing with group after group of all ages of people swaying, singing, dancing and drinking. Then there were the horses, some organized, some not. There were carriages for hire with up to ten horses dressed in full regalia with bells, pom poms and giant headdresses carrying people up and down the streets. There were hundreds of free standing horses, ridden by mostly men and children (some of whom looked as young as 3 and 4).

Dispersed in between the hundreds of horses were the parades of flamenco dancers. Twenty or thirty women would walk arm in arm dressed from head to toe in fancy flamenco costumes inclusive of head pieces, bright makeup and matching high heeled shoes. Every 50 or so yards, one of the matriarchs in the group would begin a song and most of the group would start to dance. Sometimes it was organized, with a few girls dancing in the Sevillana in the middle of a circle, but more often than that, it was just a few women dancing and everyone singing and cheering in unison.  Each group had at least a couple girls in strollers (but still dressed as lavishly as the rest) and each group had at least one woman who looked like if she took another step she may keel over. We’re talking hunchback grandma Maria who looked about 95.

And the party didn’t stop. We arrived in Jerez around 9 AM and when we did, there were people who were just going home from the night before.  The word fiesta should not be taken lightly here.

The Ferias of Andalucia: Los Naveros

I’ve grown up around fairs. In fact, I’ve spent a lot of time at some of the most country fairs that exist in the little backcountry towns of Oklahoma. Nothing could have ever prepared me for this kind of fair. From April to November every year, each small town in southern Spain takes its turn hosting a fair, or feria in Spanish. Most ferias are typical American type fairs with a procession of dinky fair rides, chocked full of calorie fair food and carnies.  Only, there are small differences, and at some feria’s, these differences are much more evident than at others. My first feria experience was in Los Naveros, a small town about 18 miles away from San Ambrosio.

I knew we were riding to the feria, but I really had no idea what to expect.  I had seen the townsmen riding to other ferias in prior weeks and I knew it involved a lot of booze and many hours in the saddle.

We started the procession. Rachel, Vinny, Jose and I left our barn about 8:30 AM and headed towards Los Naveros, knowing we were about to partake in about a 4 hour journey. As we passed by Paco’s house, Paco (and his son, Paco) both came out to join us on two of their stallions. As we passed by Braulio’s house, Braulio joined us on his purebred Spanish mare. As we rode past house after house, man after purebred Spanish man would come bounding down his driveway on his purebred Spanish steed.  And after about a half an hour riding through San Ambrosio, we had acquired about 40 horses and their riders. Rachel and I were the only women, but we were told it was ok because we weren’t Spanish. Even though we picked up another 200 or so horses on the way to Navarro, we remained the only women in the procession.

We rode for hours through the countryside. I learned quickly that my Spanish was going to have to improve if I were to survive this day at all. About 11 AM, we pulled up to a field where there were 3 or 4 tractor trailers waiting for us with all of the women in the back. They had cooked us breakfast: tortillas, chorizo, manchego, bread and (naturally) sherry; lots of sherry. From here, the tractors led us – our own personal moving bar & grill. Fully stocked with gin & tonic, beer, sherry, summer wine and anything else you could fancy to drink. And drink we did.

We arrived at a gate at about 12:30 which was unlocked and opened by a man in a golf cart. He ushered the 100 or so horses in the gate and closed it behind it to lock us in as he rushed ahead about a mile to open the corresponding gate on the other side of the field. Suddenly, I realized why we were locked in, as I glanced to my right and spotted a herd of about 100 fighting bulls about 100 meters away. “Put on my jacket,” Paco demanded, “you’re wearing red and the bulls are trained to run to it.” Are you serious? They could see me from that far away? “Well, you’re more than welcome to chance it, if you’d like.” No thanks, I’ll take the jacket. About 20 minutes later, as the bulls slowly began walking towards us, I asked Antonio what we should do if the bulls start running towards us. “You run as fast as you can towards that gate, let the men take care of it,” he casually responded. Great plan.

So I can’t really relay to you the amount of panic that ensued, when a couple of minutes later I hear thundering hooves coming from behind me and a man screaming. I turned around to see a man on a beautiful stallion barreling full speed from about a quarter of a mile away. He was screaming in Spanish but I had no idea what.  He was coming right for me, but I had nowhere to move – and I have a feeling if I had moved, he would have moved with me. Because this stud was after one thing and one thing only: my mare. The next thing I know, the horse runs right into me and all I see is hooves as he attempts to mount my horse while I am still on her. Naturally (good girl) she kicks out at him and he runs off to his next victim, which happened to be anything and everything in front of him: four or five other horses, one of the tractor trailers and eventually the ground  as his poor rider gets tossed to all ends of the world. All the while, the bulls are standing about 50 yards away just watching, wondering whether to charge or not, and all of us are praying that they stay put; which fortunately, as we picked up the pieces of horse, rider and tack, they did.

Next on our agenda was our parade. A procession of our now just over 100 horses trotting through the streets of town after town while families poured out of their houses to take pictures, throw confetti and cheer us on. And then we were there. We came upon a field with several flagged areas set up, a couple rides and many tents. We all dismounted, grabbed a beer and a bite to eat out of the trailer and stood around with our ponies for the next 3 or 4 hours drinking, chatting and watching the amazing caliber of horses that seemed to emerge out of the sticks of Southern Spain. We saw display after display of horses trained to lay down with their riders on board, horses walking on their back legs, horses doing cabrioles in any empty space and tons of horse related feria activities which included ribbon races, dancing, obedience and then traditional doma vaquera. It was incredible. Here we started to see a couple other women riding, but only on the back of the horse, sitting sideways in flamenco dresses while their significant others rode up front.

Here we sat and got pretty much trashed. By about 5 PM when it was time to start back to home, I thought I was going to have to sleep the whole way back. I’d kicked back at least a 12 pack and a half bottle of sherry. And there was no end in sight as even when the trailer’s booze supply ran out, the men mysteriously produced hip flasks and saddle flasks full of cool dry sherry – full with accompanying glasses and everything. When I politely declined a pour from Antonio explaining that I didn’t have a glass, he shook his head and produced a spare out of his saddle bag, “Don’t worry,” he said, “I always carry an extra.” Of course you do.

So we stumbled (or rather, our horses did) slowly back to the house. At this point, I thought my knees might dislocate. I was no longer drunk, but hungover. It was dark (we didn’t get home until almost midnight) and we were trusting that our horses could see in the pale moonlight. Vinny and I were cursing profusely at our heads, stomachs and aching bodies as we slid off back at the yard, threw our saddles in the van, and then poured ourselves into bed.

But all pain was forgotten the next morning as we recounted the best day in any of our lives and plans were already being made to do the ride again the following year, with a bit more preparation.  And as I retell the story week after week for the new guests that come in, I still can’t believe the day actually happened. And I count down the days to submit myself to such misery again next year.

The Best Job in the World

A little over a year ago, I was soliciting the help of most of you to help me win a contest that I’m sure I was not alone in entering: The Best Job in the World. It was a contest to be employed by the department of tourism in Queensland Australia as a sort of “mascot” if you will, for tourism in the area.  Needless to say, I was devastated when through a sequence of events, my application was not considered for the position. Though I listened to my mothers advice, “it wasn’t meant to be, something else will come along!” I didn’t really want to hear it.

But now, I realize that although the job on Hamilton Island would have been amazing, it is not the last opportunity I will have to work a dream job and is rather, just one of many jobs I’m sure I will hold over the next 20 years. 

I have found the best job in the world – for me. I work at a riding holiday called Los Alamos where every day I wake up, do what I love, spend time with amazing people and fall asleep knowing that life doesn’t get much better than this.  If you need to catch up on what a riding holiday is, read my post from last week. If you’re caught up, let me give you a glimpse of my typical workday.

8:00 AM – Alarm goes off, time to get up

8:10 AM – stumble out of my bedroom door and into the Red VW van already running and ready for me to drive up to the horses

8:15 AM – arrive at horses and tack them up with Jose and Rachel for the days ride. Sometimes Mitch or Jesus (the two forest guards or guardabosques) will stop by on their stallions for a chat or to help out with the horses.

9:15 AM – back to the Jacaranda (the name of our house) for breakfast. Tea, orange juice, muesli and a banana for me. Sometimes a Sprite or a Coke as well if I’m especially in need of caffeine.

10:00 AM – back up to the horses to meet the guests for the day’s ride, mount my steed and head out for the day’s ride. I usually ride backup, at the very back of our little procession watching for problems and communicating with the lead if we need to stop for any reason – it’s a relatively uneventful position to be in and I generally pass the time chatting with guests or studying up my Spanish on my iPhone.

1:00 PM – we arrive at lunch somewhere in the forest or on the beach. I sit the guests down, order drinks and food and then help wait the table. While I’m not doing that, I am chatting with Jose and the bar owners, eating my meal and having a couple glasses of Tinto de Verano.

2:00 PM – back on the horses to head home

3:00 PM – arrive at the field, untack the horses, hose them down and wipe down the bridles.

3:30 PM – as fast as possible, change from my riding clothes into a swimsuit and run straight to the pool to jump in. Spend the afternoon laying out, reading a book, drinking a beer.

5:30 PM – Siesta.

8:00 PM – set the dinner table and eat dinner w/ the guests.

9:15 PM – finish dinner up, walk to Miguel’s for a couple after work brews.

11:30 PM – in bed, ready for another day.

I eat dinner w/ the guests three days a week, that’s it. The rest of the days, I am finished with work at 3:30 and spend the afternoons at the beach, down at the bar, shopping in Barbate or if I had a considerably rough evening at Miguel’s the night before, a REALLY long siesta.

I have Wednesday’s off. That means sleeping in, laying out all day, doing basically nothing.

Thursday’s, when the guests are in Jerez, I feed the horses in the morning, ride out for an hour or two  if I feel like it, help Rhiannon clean rooms if she needs it (which she generally does not) and feed the horses again in the afternoon.  Same on Sunday when one group of guests leaves and the other returns. I have so much free time, it’s ridiculous. I read the entire twilight series in 10 days. I’ve seen more movies in the past 3 months than I have in 3 years. I study Spanish, I go to the beach, I sew clothes, I’m redesigning the Los Alamos website. I have so much time to think about what I ACTUALLY want to do that I’m getting spoiled on always doing what I want to, when I want to.

But I don’t care. Because now I know that this is possible, so I refuse to ever work a job where I am not happy 95% of the time ever again.