The Spanish Cowboy

This story is about George, the Spanish Cowboy who I met while living in Spain.

The Spanish Cowboy

 

            I considered myself outside my element as an American living in Spain but not as outside his element as George Bullock appeared. As well, George was an American citizen living in Spain with his Spanish wife Alfee and their two children, but the difference between us was that George could claim of being a real American cowboy.

            I first met George during a rodeo at the Torrejon Air Base Rodeo Club where we spent much of our time because my wife loves horses. George, I found, rode the bronco and bull-riding events and was always the center of attraction. Rodeo is notoriously a great spectator sport, but a hellish sport to participate in. George was the best out there and took the punishment like his cowboy kind�"stoic and stalwart. The military men at the club were cowboy wannabes or as some call them, urban cowboys. To them, George was the honest-to-goodness cowboy icon of the old west�"a hero, a big brother, and mentor at times, but to my wife and me, George was a friend.

            George Bullock stood tall and lean, embodying the image of the Marlboro man. A cowboy in every sense, his appearance, skills, and demeanor were unmistakably cowboy. George exhibited his long and arduous time in the saddle with a well-weathered face and well-worn hands from tying and throwing ropes, handling horses and cattle, and using the tools of his trade, leather horse tack. His warm brown eyes, sandy-brown hair and thick mustache over his friendly, easy smile made him instantly likeable. His mild-mannered demeanor gave him an easy-going attitude about everything relating to handling horses and cattle to other cowboy tasks. Always attired in his trusty and well-worn cowboy hat, western shirt with pearl buttons, and Wrangler jeans, his heavy scarred leather belt was fastened with the pride of real cowboys�"the awarded rodeo buckle. Huge, gold and silver gleaming, the trophy authenticates prowess in rodeo. However, George had made some adaptations to Spanish life that were cowboy atypical.

            George’s mode of wheeled transportation for one. He preferred horseback to wheeled conveyance, but his daily mode of transportation was a Seat panel truck. Tiny and rattly, George couldn’t sit up straight in the vehicle designed for short-stature Spaniards. We were always surprised at the gear he loaded in that little truck such as horse hay and feed, saddles, and horse shoeing tools. He always wore his spurs even when driving the truck and so wore a hole in the floorboards. As I rode with him, I remember watching the Spanish road stream inches under his spur-mounted, cowboy-booted heel.   

            The scheduled rodeos at the club were always big events. I helped with scoring and announcing so had a bird’s-eye view of the action. Bull riding proved brutal. The cowboys rode the huge, mean bovine animals that didn’t want to be ridden that could crush a man without trying. Trouble was they often tried. Bronco riding was faster, quicker, and more erratic on the spinning, bucking, and rearing ‘wild’ horses called broncs. Herded into tight staging chutes, the broncs would snort and kick out against the enclosing panels, the noise echoing through the arena as the cowboys prepared to ride. The cowboy wannabes would nervously sit down on the bouncing bronc, then bail off when the horse kicked or reared often taking several tries before being released for the short punishing ride. George, in contrast, would reach down over the gyrating bronc, tie his hand into the single rope they used to hang on with, and slowly lower himself down�"once�"no second tries. With one hand roped to the bronc, a split-second bit of finessing, a lift of his free arm above his head, and giving a nod, the bronc with George astride would erupt from the opened chute.

            George had perfected the technique of bronc riding in the states. During his ride, his free arm whipped in the air while and his other hand gripped to stay on the spring-boarding horse. He would somehow manage in the melee to move his thrashing legs in arcs to purposely find their scoring marks and spur the broncs on to higher and wilder jumps. The wilder the bronc, the higher the score. Watching George was like watching a professional rider stateside, he and would most often ride the full eight seconds. The next day, George bore witness to the abuse his body took during the event, moving slowly and painfully. He’d be quick to remind us that those rodeo events were trifling compared to the ones in the states. Not all cowboy and rodeos, George proved downright amusing.

            Once, George agreed to baby sit our fat, little dachshund, Rosie. George and Rosie were pals, and he would always scoop her up so she could sit in his lap as we played cards or ate a meal. We found out when we returned that every evening dog sitting George would walk Rosie down to the local Spanish bar. There he would drink a couple beers and feed Rosie peanuts who sat on a barstool sporting a small cowboy hat. Who’d expect that? Apparently, the local Spaniards loved the unlikely pair. George, also a mischievous little kid.

            We all went out for a New Year’s Eve party, though Rosie stayed home along with George’s cowboy hat, though the rest of his gear remained. Clean jeans, western shirt, rodeo belt, and cowboy boots was his attire, but on that night he was just another partier dancing to Spanish disco and drinking European champagne�"an indelible recollection.

            After a couple beers, he often talked about the life he left behind in the states. He missed the roundups and cattle driving, not to mention the big rodeo events, but moved to Spain for his wife Alfee, who he affectionately called ‘baby.’ He spoke of working cattle in Louisiana and East Texas and often dreamt aloud of going to Australia’s unspoiled outback. He called himself a Cajun Cowboy, but was all about the wide-open ranges of the American prairies, the real cowboy work of a bygone era. George’s kinship numbers and prairie lands are dwindling.

            There is still some open rangeland in the U.S., but suburban sprawl advanced 3.2 million acres each year or about 50 acres an hour over the disappearing rangeland. Only 1.6 percent of Americans can claim their occupation as farming, and of that, only a small fraction of that number can claim to be a cowboy. Spain doesn’t have cowboys, cattle rangelands (sheep grazing lands instead) or suburban sprawl. Nevertheless, the Spanish love the mystique of the America cowboy.

            This cowboy love landed George a spot in a Spanish television commercial. After a quick pan-in shot of George wearing his cowboy garb riding his horse, he throws down his austere bedroll at a campfire followed by the camera directing us to a modern Spanish family setting up camp with gear from a large chain store. The American cowboy is a tough and internationally recognized icon, and George fits the bill. 

            Spain does have a historic link with the American cowboy with nineteenth century Mexican horsemen migrating into the U.S. and sharing their horse handling skills, gear, and names to go with the trade such as ranch, lariat, and chaps. George ending up as a Spanish cowboy is a bit ironic.

            George does his best to make a living plying his cowboy skills of riding, outfitting, and shoeing horses, whether at the Air Base Rodeo Club or his little finca. He often rides his horse out alone into the long, dusty trails of the Spanish countryside that lead to the distant rustic hills to the north. As the sun sinks below the Spanish horizon out there, George finds solitude and dreams of the Old American West. That is how I remember my old friend George Bullock, the Spanish Cowboy, riding into the sunset.       

Reviews

[DanielB]

Very nice. Good memories of George. As an update, he built a new Finca in a different part of the area outside Madrid. I am not sure, but I believe he is considering moving back to the U.S. since his own horse died recently. My sister and I rode with him for several years - George taught us all we know about riding, grooming, and caring for horses. Though I have not had the chance to speak with him myself for about 30 years, I still consider George and Alfie good friends and I have fond memories. We rode in a number of rodeos - maybe we met you at some time. She has been back to Spain in recent years at least once and has spent time visiting George and Alfie after all these years.