We arrived at the secure gate of the Hacienda on September 15, 1973 with great expectations. The gate was opened by an armed guard who led us to a lush garden courtyard where our handsome, graying host lounged with a group of people, a drink in one hand, cigar in the other. He rose smiling, cordially greeted us with abrazos, then introduced us around.
Thus it was that we were propelled into a spectacular, somewhat scary, adventure. After cena, we gathered in the TV room to watch the grito in Mexico City, the oft-repeated cry that launched the revolution. The dogs were dozing near Cristobal when suddenly they became alert, ears forward, growling low. Cristobal and his brother, Pepe, jumped into action so fast I could hardly blink. Drawn pistols, backs to the wall, they signaled all to be quiet. We waited. Nothing happened, the dogs relaxed. The party continued. A lover of drama, Cristobal stripped off his shirt to show the ladies his several bullet wound scars from previous encounters. Coyly he resisted dropping his pants. It was then that I remembered being told that he had been recently released from prison where he was detained for the shooting death of his American wife. He was a man brimming with macho mischief and more.
The following morning, THE day, was as though a carnival were setting up. Everyone everywhere was busy, busy. Men were constructing what looked like movie sets in the adjacent field. Fireworks were being strung up. Polo ponies, all thoroughbreds with roached manes, were being groomed in the stables. Which mount did I want to ride, Cristobal asked. A gray gelding named Moneda stood out as different. He was charro-trained, high spirited. Prince Philip had ridden him two months earlier. No, that was the only horse I couldn't ride. The groom would ride him in the parade; take some of the spunk out of him.
Parade and pandemonium ran a close race. I rode in the charging brigade, my wild-eyed horse more in the air than touching ground as we leaped over exploding mock structures. We rode the horses right into the battle. Fusillades of gunfire all around, shacks going up in fire. In some cases hand-to-hand fighting. Padre Hidalgo was there too in black cassock exhorting the people. Cristobal had cast my husband, Jim, and me on opposite sides. I was surprised and alarmed to see him on the ground fighting with a long stick that scared Cristobal's mount. The horse reared and almost unseated the patron! Jim sidestepped the charging horse and the tense moment eased.
But did it? Later, when we were all catching our breath, Cristobal suggested "a little race" of some six of us. "Over there in the soccer field. Oh yes, Jim will need a horse. Moneda will be fine for him." The groom rode the lathered, nervous horse over to Jim, dismounted, and gave him the reins with a little smug smile. Mounting was skittery but soon we were at the soccer field.
On count three we took off, Cristobal winning, of course, and the group reined to a stop. But Jim kept going and going...out of sight. "Well, I guess he's going to La Piedad," said Cristobal, with a great grin. Then, on the horizon we saw a speck that grew and grew. It was Jim flying back, full out. Barbed wire loomed and he already had one foot out of the stirrup ready to jump. However, the wild horse did a sweeping turn and stopped. Jim dismounted with dignity saying through his perspiration, "Boy, that was fun!"
As we left the Hacienda, the guard smiled friendly-like, saying, "Felicidades! Que les vaya muy bien." Then we began thoughtfully to drive the 170 kilometros back home and a different reality.
