Today is the opening of Medellin’s annual flower fair, when cowboys from all over the region ride into town to display their mares to the city. “It’s the biggest horse show in the world!” they say, begging me to come. We transport the entire living room to the roadside, along with the rest of the city, to watch the thousands of fine stallions pass by. It is the city’s show of gratitude for those who supply the food they eat.
On the way, the cowboys scoop up the city’s finest women onto their horses. Their red silicone lips and coconut-cup breasts defy the gravity of the horses’ trot, and the make up starts to stream down their faces. The poor mares don’t react well to being stabbed in the side with stilettos, but the cowboys love the city’s plastic glamour.
”The fine ladies of Medellin are the finest in Colombia!” they shout as they swig down aguaardiente.
We sit on the sidelines swigging it down too. The politeness dissolves, the groping begins and we dance to the Vallenatos until the sun goes down. At night the crowds drift away and all that remains are dead horses lying on the road.
We head for a bar nearby to catch the preliminary World Cup match between Argentina and Colombia. Nobody seems to be bothered that you can hardly distinguish the players from the fuzz on the tiny TV screen. We order rum and aguaardiente and cheer and jeer blindly at the pin-size players scrambling on the distant screen. By half time the game has disappeared into insignificance. The audience orders the Vallenatos to be turned up, people climb over tables and couples begin to dance, blocking what little view we had of the game.
Not even the projectile vomit of one woman, which travels over several people, spoils the proceedings. When the final whistle blows, the national pride which had been so heartily sung has evaporated into general drunkenness. Miniskirts are being tugged, breasts and buttocks grabbed (neither are under much protection) to the delight of all parties, and nobody cares whether Colombia won the match. They are living.
Eventually we find ourselves climbing up the hill, singing our way home. Through the night we can hear the drunken shouts of horsemen flogging their horses up the hill. Cars come speeding down and swerve to avoid them. The drivers hurl abuse at them, and tell them if they don’t move they’ll get themselves killed. They don’t care. “No better way to go!” they scream back, laughing, as they gallop off into the night.
