There's a territory between the Colombian and Venezuelan border called 'Ipapure'. It's where a group of natives called guajiros used to live before they were affected by modernization and migrated to the cities for work. These are my mother's people. My people.
'La Guajira' is a wild territory, yet gentle like its people. You may find yourself stuck in its desert, but sleep under a brightly starred sky. It's the land of cacti and the sea. It's a beautiful desert landscape dotted with cujíes as well as cacti. You find rattlesnakes, used to make a potent liquor, and mapanares, the deadliest snake around these parts. And on this particular day, you would find the fastest horses of 'la guajira' lined up for the biggest race of the year. They will race from one end of the sierra, around the territory and to the ocean.
The ceremonial drums are beating in anticipation. Cows and goats are being slaughtered in the noon sun for the evening's celebratory feast and the onlookers are swinging in their chinchorros drinking whiskey and fanning themselves waiting for the send off. I'm sitting on my horse, Tapa-Tapa, against my father, chief Yahaira's, wishes. I'm only a thirteen-year-old boy, but my size and thin frame are the same as a professional jockey. This is the first time we race, but no one else can ride him - he's too fast, wild, and unpredictable. But I understand him. He talks to me by tapping his hooves; that's how he got his name.
The drums beat faster. Tapa-tapa's nostrils flare and he shifts anxiously. He knows he's going to win. We get the signal and I close my eyes against the cloud of fine sand being lifted. When I open them, there is nothing ahead of us except the first challenge. A forest of cujíes. These short trees grow to be about twice the height of the tallest man in our Apshana caste. We are proud to be the caste of vultures because they are the only bird that has no predators. The sand gives way to thin trunks which produce thinner branches that fan out flat on top. The ends of their branches are so sharp they've been known to slice off fingers and puncture eye balls at high speeds. Tapa-tapa gingerly weaves away from the most menacing of branches and I crouch as close to him as my saddle allows; our scratches are very superficial. I look behind me in time to see the next horse stand on his hind legs in protest – refusing to go on. I can't help the smirk that comes across my face.
As I turn back around, I can see the ocean ahead and for a moment I enjoy the sun warming my face and the loudness of the wind rushing past me. This is what I love about riding – going so fast I feel like I'm flying. And that's exactly what we need to do to overcome the second challenge. This time of year you find a lot of snakes nesting in this particular area. The sand, the color of brown sugar, camouflages them well. The cacti around me are growing a colorful flower called yosuzi. The sun has dropped and has tinged the sky orange and pink and a flock of red ibis are flying back from the ocean. I am so absorbed in my meditation of the sky, I forget we are racing and as I focus back, a mapanare springs into the air in front of us ready to strike. I have just enough time to draw my gun from my holster and shoot its head off, crashing limply against Tapa-tapa's chest.
Without hesitation, Tapa-tapa plunges into our final challenge. He picks an excellent path down the sandy cliff and we slide most of the way down. At an angle where I'm forced to lay back against my horse, this steep obstacle is the only way to reach the ocean. Once at the bottom, the high winds that rarely subside carry the thick granules of sand that whip at your ankles like thousands of angry, biting ants attacking all at once. We cross the finish line and I notice my father's stoic pride. All the other families hire the best riders for their horses and where are they now? Not in first place.
The ceremonial drums are beating in anticipation. Cows and goats are being slaughtered in the noon sun for the evening's celebratory feast and the onlookers are swinging in their chinchorros drinking whiskey and fanning themselves waiting for the send off. I'm sitting on my horse, Tapa-Tapa, against my father, chief Yahaira's, wishes. I'm only a thirteen-year-old boy, but my size and thin frame are the same as a professional jockey. This is the first time we race, but no one else can ride him - he's too fast, wild, and unpredictable. But I understand him. He talks to me by tapping his hooves; that's how he got his name.
The drums beat faster. Tapa-tapa's nostrils flare and he shifts anxiously. He knows he's going to win. We get the signal and I close my eyes against the cloud of fine sand being lifted. When I open them, there is nothing ahead of us except the first challenge. A forest of cujíes. These short trees grow to be about twice the height of the tallest man in our Apshana caste. We are proud to be the caste of vultures because they are the only bird that has no predators. The sand gives way to thin trunks which produce thinner branches that fan out flat on top. The ends of their branches are so sharp they've been known to slice off fingers and puncture eye balls at high speeds. Tapa-tapa gingerly weaves away from the most menacing of branches and I crouch as close to him as my saddle allows; our scratches are very superficial. I look behind me in time to see the next horse stand on his hind legs in protest – refusing to go on. I can't help the smirk that comes across my face.
As I turn back around, I can see the ocean ahead and for a moment I enjoy the sun warming my face and the loudness of the wind rushing past me. This is what I love about riding – going so fast I feel like I'm flying. And that's exactly what we need to do to overcome the second challenge. This time of year you find a lot of snakes nesting in this particular area. The sand, the color of brown sugar, camouflages them well. The cacti around me are growing a colorful flower called yosuzi. The sun has dropped and has tinged the sky orange and pink and a flock of red ibis are flying back from the ocean. I am so absorbed in my meditation of the sky, I forget we are racing and as I focus back, a mapanare springs into the air in front of us ready to strike. I have just enough time to draw my gun from my holster and shoot its head off, crashing limply against Tapa-tapa's chest.
Without hesitation, Tapa-tapa plunges into our final challenge. He picks an excellent path down the sandy cliff and we slide most of the way down. At an angle where I'm forced to lay back against my horse, this steep obstacle is the only way to reach the ocean. Once at the bottom, the high winds that rarely subside carry the thick granules of sand that whip at your ankles like thousands of angry, biting ants attacking all at once. We cross the finish line and I notice my father's stoic pride. All the other families hire the best riders for their horses and where are they now? Not in first place.
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