My journey into the epicenter of the Brazilian pro bull riding world happened like many things in life – through a random meeting with a friend of a friend of a friend.  Richard Todd, documentary maker, put me on to Ben from the Roar agency, who put me onto Chris from Express Sports Agency , who put me onto Paulo Crimber ( pro Brazilian bull rider who is injured) who introduced me to the other Brazilian riders. 

  I meet Paulo Crimber outside my hotel room.  He has a medium build, brown eyes, honest face.  His English is very good and accented with and pronounced Texan accent.  He wears a cowboy hat, checkered shirt and leather boots – and it is immediately apparent, of course, that I’m shockingly under-dressed in shorts and thongs.   Paulo tells me about his current injuries.  He broke the c1 bone in his neck six months ago.  Before that, he was out for another 6 months because of a broken bone in his neck.

  “So you broke a bone in your neck, came back, and then broke another bone in your neck?” I query, incredulously. 

  “Yep, it happened on my first ride back.”

  “Are you planning to ride bulls again?”

  “Yeah, is looking that way.”

  While speaking, Paulo runs a little metal cross through his fingers.  It does not feel right to question his religious beliefs.

  I follow him to the ranch of his friend Valdiron.  Valdiron de Oliveira is currently ranked 4^th on the PBR World Tour.  (He was leading the ratings earlier in the year but missed 6 events because of an injury.)   Valdiron is one of the most open and inclusive people I’ve ever met.  Immediately following introduction, he gives me a tour of every room in his house.  He actually walks me into the bedroom that he shares with his wife.  Seriously, who does that?    I converse with Valdiron in the broken Portuguese that I’d learnt three years ago when living in Brazil.  Having forgotten many words, my Portuguese is not fluent but he seems to appreciate the effort and speaks some English.  We come to an arrangement; I’ll speak Portuguese and he’ll respond in English. 

  I go horse riding with Valdiron, Paulo Crimber and another bull rider, Paulo Lima.  They promise me a tame horse, and, apart from brushing up against a fence and walking backwards, he’s fairly mellow.   Actually, it feels pretty good to be back on a horse.  While trotting around the yard doing my best not to fall, they’re darting in and out of each like maniacs.   Afterwards, we have lunch at a restaurant in town.  They each order a large margarita.  I decide not to have one – it may be a good bonding maneuver but I’ve resolved to give up drinking and am sticking to it.   

  In the afternoon we go to a bull riding “buckout”.    Essentially, everyone puts in 5 dollars and the winner takes the 500 dollar jackpot.   I sit down on a chipped wooden railing beside two old men with thick Texan accents, and listen to them talk feeling happy.  There is something immensely pleasurable about listening to wise old men speak with a Texas accent.   There is a man selling hotdogs and drinks beside us.  Young white guys, who all seem to look the same with their cowboy hats, bull riding bags slung over their shoulders and smelling of brute deodorant, begin showing up.  Some buy hot dogs from the vendor.    Valdiron decides not to ride (saving himself for the PBR event on the weekend) but Silvano and Paulo will ride and I have a feeling that no amount of hot dogs or youthful abandon will take the money from them.   Sure enough, they finish first and second and split the jackpot.  It is, frankly, unfair.

  They Brazilians leave the way they arrived – joking and laughing with Brazilian country music playing from their car stereo.   Valdiron expresses an interest in learning English and I promise to teach him twice a week.   Meanwhile, I have secured work in exchange for food and board from the man who organized the buckout – Chris.

   I do need buy bull riding equipment pronto, having left what I did have at Gary Leffew’s ranch in California.  Another post coming soon.

  Back in Dallas.  I’m officially giving up drinking at this very moment.  The ban will last until I jump on the plane heading back to Australia.  Partied in Austin last night, have vague recollections of riding on one of those bike taxis (where the bike pushes a carrier).  This is what happened: in a drunk and silly mood, I proposed a deal to the owner of the taxi:  if I rode the bike instead of him, would I get a discount?

  He said yes.  So there I was, weaving through the drunken hoards at 2 am in the morning on 6^TH street in Austin.  I don’t remember how long I rode for.  The memory of all of this came to me like a jolt when I woke up this morning. 

  Anyway, on the straight and narrow tomorrow……will not drink again until flying back to Australia.

This blog entry has the same title as Jack Kerouac’s famous novel about traversing across America.  Having just spent four days driving from L.A. to Dallas, I know things have changed since Sal sped off with Dean in a Chevy.  They had gorged on apple pie, talked to strangers, found work and picked up hitch-hikers.  Now, there are no hitch-hikers left in America.   We wanted hitch-hikers.  Seriously, we would have picked up anyone.

   These thoughts were drifting through my head on the drive; this car does not have insurance.  This car does not have registration.  This car is not mine.  Essentially, life would change if pulled over by the cops.  The car, a blue jeep Larado, had been given to me by my cousin.  I’d bumped into him in a hostel in L.A. three months ago.  Considering that I was unaware that he was in America, let alone in the same hostel in Los Angeles, meeting him was one of those weird, lovely, strange things that the universe throws at you occasionally when it feels you need a break. 

   My travelling companion to Dallas is a twenty one year old Aussie.  I met him in L.A.  This was our first conversation:  “G’day mate, how long have you been in L.A?” “A few weeks, leaving tomorrow.”  “Oh yeah, where are you going?”  “Texas, do you want to come?”  “Yeah, sounds good.”

  So, after knowing me less than 30 seconds, he’d agreed to drive with me for over 1200 miles across America.  Yeeoowww- life of a traveller.   For the first eight hours of our trip the temperature did not drop below forty five degrees.  We drove through a lightening storm in Phoenix, played on stage with a band in Las Cruses, ate steak in Big Spring and partied in Dallas.  We saw disheveled towns where clothes hung on railings and windows were boarded up with ply wood.  We saw rough arid land and mountain ranges and cactus.   In this country there are no limitations.  We saw a sign promoting McDonalds: “How is your fry gauge?” and another for a sex shop: “stop violating vegetables”.  When meeting people, we exaggerated heavily.   We told them the kangaroos were killers and the sharks were harmless.   They liked our accents.  I liked the way they say “y’all”.  Seriously, I will never ever get sick of the way Southern Americans say y’all.  So, anyone who follows these blogs will know that I have neglected to mention anything about bull riding – the sole reason for this journey.  Will be drinking a couple of cold Corona’s tonight in Austin, checking out some bands, exaggerating  more about Australian animals, and then making way to the ranch.  The bull riding will be coming……..

  Peace and love,

  Sully.

  This is it, am leaving to good ol’ Texas today, heart of cowboy country.  The rather audacious plan is to work on a ranch for a few weeks with the best Brazilian riders in the world, and then ride bulls in a couple of Rodeo’s.    My bull riding form may be a tad rusty, having not been anywhere near an animal for the past month.   

  Just on that, sorry to anyone following this blog for the lack of updates, but I’ve just spent time with my girlfriend travelling around America.   My journey into the heart of bull riding will continue in earnest today, and the good news is that, so long as I’m not down and out sleeping on a damp hay bale in a disheveled shed in Texas, or strung up somewhere in traction, I have resolved to blog three times a week.  (I probably will blog even if down and out sleeping on a damp hay bale in Texas).

 For the past week, I’ve been staying at a lively little jaunt on Hollywood blvd called Banana Bungalow.   It’s the full-on communal loud German snoring bunk bed situation.  This is what happened last night:  I returned from a night out and went to jump into my bed and noticed someone was already in it.  Interesting.  Not wanting to cause a scene, I found an empty bed in the room, but, when attempting to climb in it, discovered something auspiciously wet on the sheets.   Still not wanting to cause a fuss, but at the same time, not wanting to sleep in another person’s vomit, I approached reception and told them of my little conundrum.  After twenty minutes of casing other rooms and finding no other spare beds, there was only one option left – to confront the person in my bed.   The hostel worker and I go back to my room, turn on the light and discover that there are, in fact, two people in my bed.   After waking them, they sheepishly get out.   I don’t think the guy was even meant to be staying there and who knows what happened to their bed.  So, I’m now going to sleep and the guy (who was in my bed) starts asking me if I’ve seen his phone charger.

  “Um no,” I reply.

   Five minutes later, he taps me on the shoulder and asks again if I’ve seen his phone charger.  At this point the humour of the situation has waned. 

  “Look mate, I have just found you sleeping with a girl in my bed and have been far more liberal than most.   This is the last time I will tell you:  I have not seen your charger.  Do not ask again.”

  The guy mentions his phone charger again and I think: this is it; I’m seriously going to thump him.  I go through what I have to do in my mind: It will look ridiculous of course, wrestling on the floor in underpants as backpackers try to sleep around us.  

  Anyway, it fizzles out.  While conjuring up an image of banging his head against a bunk bed post, he exits the room.

  So that’s the story.  I’m too old to live in hostels.