|
Sartiglia!
Grandioso! Fantastico! Magnifico! The Sartiglia, with its atmosphere of unbridled, riotous pandemonium, was the most excitement I'd witnessed in a long time. It took place on downtown Oristano's main street. A bird's-eye view would have shown a bale-lined backwards-J route covered in six inches of dirt. In total, one hundred twenty horses would race through the dirt-covered street. We stood where the avenue drifted into its lazy left-hand curve. A drum roll reached its crescendo, and three gaily decorated stallions thundered down the track straight towards us. The riders, clad in elaborate colourful matching costumes - faces hidden by featureless ceramic masks - performed acrobatic stunts while their steeds charged wildly out-of-control. Fearlessly, each threesome rose out of their saddles and stood on the rear of their mounts. Upon succeeding, they hurtled along, waving nonchalantly to spectators, eyeholes of their masks askew. Other horsemen, not satisfied with the degree of difficulty displayed by merely standing upright at full speed, stood on their horses rear ends, turned backwards, and bowed to the cheering throngs as they tore past. Still others, more creatively-minded I suppose, dispensed with holding the reins in the normal manner, and instead shoved them between their teeth. That alternative allowed them to exuberantly throw their arms out - ta-da! Unbelievably, one trio performed simultaneous headstands on the rears of their mounts while travelling at breakneck speed. The crowd loved it! Cheering, clapping, whistling, and shouts of Bravo! Bravo! Bravo! filled the electrified air. My skin tingled, and my eyes teared. The most daring displays were those executed by a few of the most-extraordinary middle horsemen. They allowed themselves to be suspended upside-down - held by their ankles by two standing compadres - while racing down the track at full throttle! It was heart-stopping to watch. But the crowd loved it! As a roar of approval erupted from the observers, I understood why the townsfolk hadn't comprehended when I had asked them: "What time does the parade start?" A Sartiglia is not some parade with floats and curbside kiddies catching candies. No! A Sartiglia rather, is more akin to a bizarre spectacle that rolls Halloween, Mardi Gras, and the Calgary Stampede, all into one! Part of the excitement, no doubt, was from the inherent dangers of the sport. That is to say: dust and clods of dirt were not the only things to fly through the air. Many horrific falls occurred. Even with the equestrians' remarkable abilities, rider after unlucky rider toppled from their mounts; "lucky" riders crashed into straw barriers; others, not as lucky, fell upon less forgiving surfaces. Occasionally, whole teams tumbled earthward and landed in a bone-crunching, dizzying entanglement of limbs. "That's gotta hurt," Sharon observed ruefully after one particularly brutal pileup. In one horror, a rider fell off his mount as he tried to stand. His boot lodged in his stirrup. He was dragged terrifyingly, head down, the entire length of the track. I looked at the dirt track and was certain the poor sod's head had plowed a furrow suitable for planting corn. In still another fright, one unlucky chap had the misfortune to fall headfirst over the front of his horse. He was trampled beneath hundreds of pounds of charging quadrupeds. Heavens! He didn't get up. His small crumpled form lay very still in the dirt. As the medics rushed to him with a stretcher, I was beginning to get the distinct impression there were no old Sartiglia riders. Doctors at ringside worked nonstop, treating a steady stream of new customers. Two ambulances constantly shuttled contestants between Sartiglia and hospital emergency ward. Business was so good in fact, that the ambulance barely had time to stop before it was transporting its next victim. Shocked, I asked a police officer standing nearby if that number of injuries were normal. "Oh, yes," he replied casually. "Some years more." No one (other than Sharon and me) seemed overly concerned about the carnage. The ambulance siren wailed yet again, and I was glad I had heeded my mother's advice: "Son, partake in no sports that have ambulances waiting." |
Book Info