Also, attending a Mexican rodeo*.
I grew up in Central and Southern California, so to me things like tortillas and tamales are as American as apple pie. In fact, tortillas are the number one thing I miss in Africa. I have to make Texas tortillas (myself instead of asking the lady who sells tamales door to door to bring some with her next time), which are kind of puffy and more like na'an bread. But I miss the silky smoothness of a real tortilla made with shortening. Not to mention enchiladas, which I can't make with Texas tortillas.
I did find shortening in the Melissa market, but it cost the equivalent of US $20. The shock and horror of seeing Crisco more expensive than a gallon of gas nearly caused a cardiac arrest - which is the height of irony when you think about it. I mean, yes, shortening is supposed to cause heart issues. But not that way.
Anyway, being raised in any Latino-heavy area makes you very comfortable with the culture. It's not just a food thing, either. I long ago stopped having to translate in my head when someone speaks to me in Spanglish. When you hear George Lopez's routine about a generation of white kids raised with brown hearts, he was talking about me and my siblings.
I have so missed the Latino culture. I miss the food, for sure. I miss the music - the awesome velvet jackets (in 80 degree heat) with extensive embroidery and the upbeat always perk me up. I miss the parties, too. Wow - those get loud. And fun. And loud.
We got to the rodeo as the cowboys were being introduced, and I immediately knew I had come home. The bull riders filed into the ring and a slew of rapid Spanish came through the speakers, with hatted and chapped cowboys stepping forward to applause at the end of each phrase. My favorite is always when the bilingual announcer fires off the introduction in Spanish and then switches to a perfect California-American accent for the name, "Colby Jones!" or whatever it happens to be.
To further add to my delight, the announced proved to be one of those fully engaged speakers who used his hands in huge gestures and would go from baritone to falsetto in his storytelling as voices were required.
A quick glance around and we saw a sign warning of the dangers of being a cowboy. You could sustain serious injury and even loss of life, this sign informed everyone (but only in English). There were quite a few injuries on display attesting to the truth the sign was expounding.
In fact, we also saw a bull rider get stomped on when he was thrown from his bull, so the danger is never far away.
We hadn't originally planned to attend a rodeo - in fact, we were at a Barnes and Noble getting travel books for Spain and France when the call came about the rodeo being held that day. Without time to go home and change, I ended up attending the dusty, poopy, muddy event at an outdoor venue dressed in a black skirt, polka dot top, and polka dot Kate Spade bag.
Had it been any other rodeo, I would have missed it rather than show up in anything but my jeans and boots with a huge belt buckle.
But this was a Mexican rodeo*, and let me tell you, I fit right in. In fact, compared to some of the ladies (not the ones in the booty shorts), I was completely underdressed.
Have I mentioned the clowns? Always a highlight. Especially when the pain-in-the-ass bull wanted to be petted after the event. The clown obliged. Of course.
Being a rodeo clown is a dangerous job. They're good at making us laugh while they distract the bulls from the thrown riders, but every so often when you see one getting chased you are reminded that there is a reason that they pay exponentially higher insurance rates than the rest of us.
I haven't seen or heard anything about rodeos in Africa, although I've seen polo events, marathons, and other sporting competitions. I do have to wonder how a thing such as bull riding would go over. I couldn't figure out if it would be greeted with a head-shaking but somewhat fascinated, "Crazy Americans!" or something more akin to, "What the hell is wrong with these people?"
With something approaching regularity, we come across people at the mall while we are in Africa who have never ridden an escalator and regard it almost as something that is just waiting to bite off feet and hands (and far be it for me to deny this, as a person who barely escaped with half a shoelace on a JC Penney escalator once as a teenager). It is the reaction of those people to rodeo I'd most like to see.
I'm sure it is with the same amusement that they watch me try to drive on the left (wrong) side of the road. After all, that is the *correct* way to drive. Right? Or with the amusement of one born into a culture of bargaining watching the American Mzungu get fleeced by the guy who carves the mini Noah's Arks.
* This was the term used, by Latinos no less. And I'm not about to argue with however they've chosen to designate their own sporting event.
