FIESTA IN NOGALES

FROM THE BRAVE BULLS

"The trumpet player tilts the horn high over the rim of the plaza up there in the sun and the notes he makes come from far beyond a humble trumpeter of Cuenca. They arch out into the air like hope, clear and sweet, to climb and turn and fall at last into the quietness encircled by the big curved wall. "You do not escape the portent says the trumpet. There is no way I know of walking past the end of the road or singing past the final silence. There's only the way to walk while the light lasts and the road lasts and the song lasts. Walking bravely is the glory. The black shape itself may be a glory when a man is not afraid and can let his heart reach up and up with the trumpet until it reaches the last highest and clearest long note, clean and perfect above the bullring of Cuenca, above the rim of the Sierras. "And the trumpet having spoken, the music takes up the steps of the man walking out to meet a challenge straight and proud on the road still lit with sunlight, the challenge yet unmet, the footfalls unfinished in the final measure of the song of 'La Virgen de la Macarena'."

"THE BRAVE BULLS," BY TOM LEA, ONE OF THE CLASSIC NOVELS OF THE BULLRING, WAS PUBLISHED BY LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY, 1949.

PHOTOGRAPHS BY WESTERN WAYS Early in the morning, so early dawn has still not made its sleepy way in the streets, there is the sound of marching feet and the roll of drums. The drum and bugle corps of the militar is marching to the plaza. Today is the Fifth of May and, of course, you are in Nogales, Sonora. Last OPPOSITE PAGE Photograph by Ray Manley "Out of the sunlight into the shadow they cross the ring straight toward you. A step from the barrera the matadors stop, the parade halts. The bullfighters make their bows to the Judge, inclining their heads forward gravely, touching their hats before they straighten up . . ." From "The Brave Bulls," by Tom Lea.

night the queen was crowned and there was a concert and a patriotic oration. The colored bunting which decorated the platform came loose during the night and now flutters in the wind of morning that comes down the canyon. When the sun looks over the hill the bugles sound clearly in the plaza and the town begins to come to life, slowly and leisurely as one starts the day in Mexico. Shutters soon are being removed from store fronts for today the shopowners get an early start. There will be many, many Americans coming from across the line and business will be good. The parade is scheduled for ten o'clock, but strangely the sidewalks are not yet crowded. Then you realize the parade is always late so you do not hurry to find a good place to see it. Around eleven, though, many people are lining the sidewalks and from the excitement of the people you can tell the parade will soon begin. The people are as much fun as anything in the fiesta and even though it is just a little parade in a little town, the excitement about you is contagious and you get excited, too. Mexicans have the supreme capacity of being able to enjoy themselves. After all, a parade that comes but once a year is something to get excited about.

When you hear the music up the street you know the parade is on its way. There is the official car with the governor and the mayor and then other cars with dignitaries of two states and two countries. There are floats and pretty señoritas and bands of all types and descriptions. The music fills the streets like a wave of sound that drowns out even the applause of the people. Everything-the people, the music, the señoritas, the decorations-everything is very gay. After the parade all the cafes are filled and the mariachis, the wandering musicians of Mexico, play louder and louder. The talk is mostly about the bullfight to be held that afternoon in the big, new bullring of Nogales, Sonora. The waiter tells you if you haven't your ticket you should get one at once because his cousin, who drives the taxi, says they are selling out fast. Toward mid-afternoon everyone, it seems, starts for the bullring. The streets are jammed with traffic. Long lines of people are at the entrances of the bullring or at the ticket counters. Then the bullring is filled and at four o'clock a trumpet sounds and then begins the pageantry and conflict which are found only in the bullring. If this is your first visit to the plaza de los toros, you will not enjoy the bullfight. You will enjoy the color, the music, the strong trumpet, the crowd-but you will not enjoy the bullfight. There in the ring is death-some to the horses, sometimes to the bullfighter, always to thebig, black, brave bulls. Only with understanding comes any sort of appreciation for a sport that has been a national tradition of Spain long, long before there was ever an America.

If it is a good afternoon (and many afternoons are good afternoons in Nogales because some of the very best are brought in to put on the show) the voices of the crowd with their Oles make a frenzied noise that overflows the bullring and fills the canyon where the town has been built.

As the afternoon grows older the shadows fill all of the bullring so that there is no sombra or no sol, neither shade nor sun but only shade and the figures in the bullring, and then it is all over and you feel weak with the letdown after the gran emoción. Then there is the hurry of thousands to the exits and the narrow streets are filled again with the congested traffic but there is no impatience because it would be bad manners to show impatience on the afternoon of the fiesta.

In the evening the cafes are crowded and the streets are crowded as if no one wanted to go home, feeling that something might be missed if one went home.

Never have you heard such music. Good music, bad music, but always music that is loud. And the music on this