SPURS OF THE MOMENT

More elegant than rodeo, Mexico's charreria is a growing sport north of the border

Saturday, October 15, 2011

Growing up in Zacatecas, Mexico, Martín Alamillo dreamed of becoming a charro. Sure, he lived and worked on a ranch, but being a charro isn’t just about riding horses and roping cattle. It’s about the elegance, grace and poise required to wear the ornate charro suit. It’s about owning a nice horse — not just a good horse — that is all yours. It’s about the finesse of the lasso and the precision of the horse’s footwork. A charro is much more than a common cowboy. He is a living piece of Mexico’s history and the embodiment of a refined tradition.

But being a charro takes money, and the Alamillos didn’t have much of that. The state of Zacatecas has a long tradition of sending its sons (and, increasingly, its daughters) north of the border to find work, and Martín’s family was no exception. His father had been traveling back and forth between the U.S. and Mexico for many years, and while Martín knew that this lifestyle was an economic necessity, he didn’t like to see his mother and his brothers and sisters left alone for months at a time. As the eldest son of 15 children, he began pressing his father to allow him to be the one to make the journey when he was a young teenager. His father finally consented when Martín was 15 years old.

When Martín arrived in Los Angeles, however, no one would — or could — hire him, because he was so young. So he performed odd jobs for tips at a car wash where his father had worked. A few months later, he was hired as a gardener. A few years after that, he started his own gardening business. And as soon as he could, he bought a horse. Now, 20 years later, he owns five. Not only is he an officially federated charro and captain of his team, but he, along with his Mexican-American wife Susana Contreras, has introduced his two American-born sons to the sport. The younger one is just five years old and still needs to be buckled into the saddle.

Charrería is often called Mexican rodeo, and while some events are similar to those practiced in American rodeo, the name doesn’t do the tradition justice. In Mexico, charrería has the prestige — and the exaggerated elitism — of polo. It harkens back to the elegant haciendas of colonial Mexico, while celebrating and preserving the skills that generations of men honed while working on the ranches. When the Mexican Revolution put an end to the hacienda system in the early 20th century, charrería became an organized sport.

A single charreada consists of nine events for men and one for women. The horse is the centerpiece of several of them, most notably the cala de caballo, in which the charro slides and turns his horse with only the slightest movement of the reins.

In other events, charros, on horseback or on foot, perform intricate tricks with their lassos before roping wild mares and steers. Unlike in American rodeo, the scoring system at a charreada is based on technique and finesse as well as speed and force. For example, American cowboys competing in bull riding must stay on the bucking bull for eight seconds, while in the similar jineteo de toro event at a charreada, the charro must stay mounted until the bull stops bucking and he can dismount gracefully. Perhaps the most dramatic event at a charreada is el paso de la muerte, or the pass of death, in which the charro leaps from his own horse onto the back of a wild mare while galloping at full speed around the ring.

Being a charro, then, is as much about style as it is about skill. During competition, charros, ranging from preschoolers to those in late middle age, wear tight fitting three-piece suits that resemble those worn by mariachis, plus chaps and spurs. The required sombrero alone can cost hundreds or even thousands of dollars. Women competing in the escaramuza, or skirmish, event, which consists of coordinated movements done on horseback at full gallop, wear the high-collared dresses, petticoats, and bloomers of 19th-century Mexico. They must always ride sidesaddle, and points are docked if their petticoats aren’t sufficiently starched. While the escaramuza is a relatively new event in official competition, it draws on the tradition of the Adelitas, the women who fought in the Mexican Revolution.

While charrería is intimately tied to Mexican history, its popularity is surging in the United States. When Martín bought his first horse in 1990, there were 20 teams in Southern California. Now there are more than 60. As of 2008, there were over 200 registered men’s teams in 12 U.S. states — and those numbers don’t include the numerous teams that compete in unofficial events across the country. Susana, an elementary school teacher, believes her own family’s story provides a clue to the sport’s rapid growth north of the border.

Her grandfather had been a charro in the Mexican state of Jalisco, but her parents did not have the means to continue the tradition when they moved to Southern California in the early 1970s. But now that many members of the Mexican and Mexican-American communities in the U.S. are more financially stable than her parents once were, they are able to make charrería a priority. And unlike in Mexico, where charrería is primarily an upper class activity, in the U.S. it is accessible to the middle class. “In Mexico, it’s a luxury to be in the sport, whereas here anybody that works and has a stable job can own a horse,” Susana said.

Indeed, for Martín and many like him, becoming a charro was part and parcel of the American dream. But the growth of the sport north of the border has created some tension in its country of origin. Susana, who was a member of the first women’s team invited to compete in the national championships in Mexico, remembers encountering a paradox that children of immigrants who travel to their parents’ countries of origin may find familiar: “We feel Mexican, but we’re not Mexican enough” — at least not according to some of the other competitors. At the same time, her and her family’s devotion to their heritage can result in them being labeled “not American enough” in the U.S.

But despite the difficulties, Martín is proud that he has been able to fulfill his childhood dream of becoming a charro, even though it took crossing a border to do so. He hopes his sons will continue the tradition and even pass it along to the next generation. “If they don’t like it when they get older, it’s their decision,” he said in Spanish. “But I taught them my roots.”