The Huaso
"The Huaso is a centaur. He rides as other men eat. The horse is as much a necessary of existence to him as the half-quartern loaf to the English agriculturist.…
From: 1890 C.E. To: 1891 C.E.
Location: Chile
Note: This article has been excerpted from a larger work in the public domain and shared here due to its historical value. It may contain outdated ideas and language that do not reflect TOTA’s opinions and beliefs.
“Cosas de Chile—The Huaso,” from The Saturday Review, Volume 72, Sept. 12, 1891.
The Huaso is a centaur. He rides as other men eat. The horse is as much a necessary of existence to him as the half-quartern loaf to the English agriculturist. Under Providence he will dispel, on a mind not above the reception of impressions, the innate insular notion that no people know how to rightly handle that animal save ourselves.
Yet he rides Chilian fashion, which is not that of Captain Robert Weir. He and his horse are both suited and equipped for the work they have to do. If absurd in European eyes, it is the outcome of experience. He has to pass day after day in the saddle, so that saddle is short, deep, and high-peaked, giving support before and behind. The rider should fit into it like a foot into a boot. Hence he chooses it with care. A huaso will lend his horse, and even at pinch his pacing mule, but draws the line at his saddle, sauf force majeure, he has often to camp out at night. Hence under the saddle six, eight, or ten layers of sheepskins, cut square, are packed, so that he sits almost on a level with his horse's head. These serve as bed and coverlet.
He has to crush in and out of herds of cattle and scattered timber, and to skirt walls of rock and palisades of tree-trunks at full gallop. Hence he protects his feet with stirrups that are hollowed-out blocks of wood. His massive bit will check his mount at the edge of a precipice or jerk it out of the line of charge of an angry bull. His reins of plaited leather or twisted horsehair, with silver ornaments, terminate in a kind of long bell-pull, serving to tether his horse or to urge it to speed when brought down with a smack across its quarter. They are slack, save when needed to check the animal or to turn it by a touch on the neck.
His spurs, with rowels four inches across, are less cruel than they look. The blunt points serve rather to guide than wound, for he rides as much with his legs as with his bridle. "He has no hands for that," sneers the Englishman. But his hands are wanted for the lasso, coiled up and slung behind his right thigh. He really guides his mount by his will. The horse is at one with its rider. It knows exactly what he wants it to do, like a well-broken dog in the field. "It will not jump," is another English complaint. It is not wanted to, for there is nothing for it to jump over. But it will go on till it drops, without rest, food, or water, and will scramble up and down precipices as if it had claws in its hoofs. The rider will find his way from point to point without a compass, and lift a trail like a bloodhound, and is full of odd lore and half-Indian superstitions concerning every work of nature around him.
The huaso has a hierarchy of his own. To the initiated his position in this is indicated by his garb. He wears the omni-present striped poncho, but the colour of the stripes, and above all the predominance of red, have their significance, like the regalia of Oddfellows and Good Templars. A red border implies considerable importance. To the hat of Guayaquil grass, masquerading under the name of Panama, of the roto he prefers a true sombrero — a shade hat — of stiff grey felt, with shallow, rounded crown and down-curving brim, ornamented with devices in stamped leather. Many-buckled leather gaiters reach to his thighs.
The huaso is seen in his glory at a rodeo. Hundreds of thousands of cattle graze at large in charge of him and his fellows on the plains and the lower Andean slopes, and, despite his care, the scattered herds get mixed. So it is customary once a year to surround and drive them to some common centre, where strays are sorted out, drafts made, and yearlings branded. Camps are formed for this purpose, and to them flock the huasos from scores of miles around, often with their women-folk perched up behind them on the crupper, or drawn along in bullock carts.
The great hacienderos, owners of thousands on thousands of cattle, are there at the head of their followings, amongst whom yet linger traces of an almost feudal devotion. A fine sight it is to see one of these escorted by thirty or forty wild horsemen, one and all galloping as if for dear life, with their long locks streaming and their ponchos floating out behind them. Young bloods from town and country on high-bred horses also join in for the sake of the sport and merriment. For when the day's work is done, drinking, gambling, and the eternal zamacueca, with its shuffling steps and licentious verses, goes on all through the night. It is only considered natural that a rodeo should end like Burns's "Holy Fair."
The lassoing or roping of cattle is much the same all the world over. But the work done at the rodeo has its sportive side. A couple of huasos will undertake to fetch any individual beast selected out of the thick of the crowding, plunging, bellowing herd, without a yard of rope. They will literally drive their horses into the densely packed mass of cattle, and worm their way onward till they reach the one chosen. Then there is more bellowing, roaring, and scuffling till he bursts out with them after him. Or they will artfully run the mob in a circle till the victim is worked to the outside, and then dash in and cut him off.
But this is not all. They must now show their dexterity in heading, checking, and turning the beast in different directions. The well-trained horses work like greyhounds after a hare. Each lies close alongside, to right and left, till suddenly one draws forward to the shoulder and the other drops back to the flank and, presto, the beast is shot off at a right angle to its former course. Every move of this game must be played by rule, and a failure in one of these calls forth yells and laughter from the experts looking on. Moreover, there is the chance of being gored or bowled over by an unexpected turn of the maddened beast, an incident vastly enhancing the delight of the spectators, who have all the Chilian love of bloodshed. There is generally a fair sprinkling of such incidents at a rodeo; but the huaso takes a great deal of killing.
Chili has its national pastime, at which the huaso excels. It is the game of barro. Outside almost every wayside drinking shop of mud and reeds, and of more pretentious adobe brick and red tiles, is a range of posts supporting a long rail for tethering horses to. A knot of horses may be gathered about the door. On a wager for drinks sides are chosen. Ramon puts his horse's chest to the rail, about its centre. Jose draws up close by his side. Ignacio, Pedro, Miguel, range themselves beyond Ramon, each with his horse's chest well up to the bar. Santiago, Juan, and Andres back up Jose in like fashion.
Then the game begins. The object of each side is to force its way along to the further end of the bars, despite the efforts of the opposite party. Each closes in sideways with all its power. The big rowels are worked to keep the horses' chests fast against the rail till their sides drip blood, and the cruel bits jerked till the foam from their tortured mouths flies far and wide. The riders yell like demons with excitement, and screech out oaths of rage and pain as the pressure increases and their legs are crushed against those of their neighbours. The spectators madden in turn. Manuel and Tomas add their strength to one side, Carlos and Domingo to the other. Meanwhile Ramon and Jose have been putting into play every resource of horsemanship. Each strives to wedge bis way in front of the other, and their well-trained mounts second them with an intelligence scarcely credible. They lower their heads, and, with sideward twist, seek to bring them up under the jaw of their rival and so oust him from his position. Sometimes this is achieved, and a corresponding advance along the bar won.
A good horse dexterously handled will work thus the whole distance. But at big set matches, with perhaps thirty or forty picked players a side, a whole day may be thus spent without the contest being decided. Limbs of both men and horses are crushed and broken, and when, at the close of the struggle, riders are helped from their saddles, it is often found necessary to cut away the trousers from the swollen flesh beneath. But the huaso is tough, and a day or two on his back and pure olive oil restore him to strength and suppleness.
“Cosas de Chile—The Huaso.” The Saturday Review. Volume 72. Sept. 12, 1891. pp 297-98.
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