“Suulee” he rolls the words. “And where you from Suulee?”

“I’m Australian.”

“Really.”

This takes him by surprise. His horse trots back a few paces. He quickly pats it on the neck. He is staring at me beneath his cowboy hat. He has dark hair, a moustache and is smiling.

It is 3.30 in the afternoon. There are teenagers rustling bulls behind me. There are two old Mexican guys drinking beer fifty metres away at a makeshift bar. Behind them is a mysterious white roof-less concrete structure – built as if someone had decided on a house and then abandoned it. The arena is a forty minute drive from Stephenville, but it had taken me two hours to find it. I’d come through windy roads and then arrived at a entryway so innocuous, that, after pulling up, I had to ask two Mexican kids if I was in the right place.

“You ride Mexican or American?” Chino asks.

“American,” I reply, meaning that I hold onto the bull rope with one hand instead of two. The Mexicans ride bulls with both hands. You’d think it would be easier but it is, in fact, far more dangerous. Having been to two Mexican rodeos, I’ve witnessed a few bad wrecks. With both hands strapped, there is nothing to break the impact of crashing into the horns, or worse, being upside down, underneath the bull, while still attached to the rope.

“Do the bull riders get paid?” I ask him.

We begin a friendly tactical exchange. American rodeos employ a capitalistic structure to prize money distribution (winners take all) but Mexican rodeos prefer to be socialist; the event is considered entertainment rather than a competition and everyone gets paid a little.

“I’ll pay you $50 dollars a ride. The rodeo starts at 7.”

It seems like a good deal. I go back to Stephenville, do some stretches, feel nervous, pick up Tom Banner, and then we head back to the Mexican rodeo.

“Park your car near the road,” Tom instructs me on arrival. “I’ve been to a few of these Mexican deals. We might need to make a quick exit.”

I decide not to request an elaboration of his cryptic remark. Tom has a groin injury and is not riding but gets excitable and happy around that unmistakable energy of a rodeo and the smell of bulls.

It’s a cold night and there is a small crowd; maybe eighty in the stands. Cans of beer are sold from the bar for two dollars, and hotdogs go for two fifty. I lug my gear behind the chutes. A group of Mexican men, I guess other bull riders, are chatting in Spanish. Chino greets me.

“Which bull would you like?” he asks, pointing at a group of bulls in a pen.

“You’re giving me the choice?”

“That’s right.”

“What did the other riders choose?”

“They’re waiting for you to decide. We are courteous people.” He winks and adds “we always let the gringo go first.”

I’m staring at the bulls. There doesn’t appear to be any mellow ones. It reminds me of a story a school friend had told me about his dad making him chose the stick to be hit with when he misbehaved.

“I’ll take the white bull,” I declare.

Immediately following my decision, the white bull buries its head and rams the fence.

The first rider is a young Mexican rider who last eight seconds. The second rider gets stomped on and limps away. I’m up. I sit down on the back of my white bull in the chutes. I have a bad feeling. There is extremely loud Spanish music being played by a band dressed in red and black capes. The band takes a break momentarily to introduce me to the crowd. I can feel my heart. I can feel my lungs. I can feel a tingle in my legs. Two Mexican guys are pulling my rope in a strange way; they’re levering the rope around a metal rod rather than pulling it from above the bull. I do not have a good grip on the rope and it is in the wrong place on the bull. My instruction to loosen the rope is somehow interpreted as “please open the gate” and the gate is swung open while I’ve only one leg around the bull. Frantically, I grasp the swinging gate as the bull goes bucking out into the arena.

From the little Spanish I know, I can tell the band are heavily chastising me to the crowd. I can make out my name and the word “cohunes”

“I’ll ride the bull again,” I tell Chino,

Pride is such a silly emotion.

They run the bull through the race and back up the chutes.

“Enough of this bull shit, I‘ll pull your rope” Tom declares, as I lower myself back down again on the spotty white bull.

This time around, I tie my rope off quickly. The less thinking involved in bull riding the better. I move up on the bull and nod my head. They open the gate and, surprisingly, I find myself still centred over the bull after three or four jumps. The buck off comes unexpectedly. Perhaps I was thinking too much or not enough. Whatever the cause, it is not the ideal dismount, and my head connects with the dirt forcefully. I collect my rope, and go back behind the chutes for the rest of my stuff.

Chino pays me 25 dollars for the ride. He‘d promised 50, but there is only about 100 people in the stands and it seems like the right amount.

“Hey man, you coulda made eight,” Tom tells me in the car on the ride home.

“Yeah, how did my riding look?”

“Ok I guess.”

“How did the bull look?”

“Like a son of a bitch.”

I have a sore neck but nothing is broken. Truth is, I’m feeling pretty good, probably the happiest I’ve been since starting this ludicrous quest. In Stephenville, we pull into the car-park of a pub.

“My shout,” I declare, fingering the 25 dollars in my pocket.