The Spirit of Tequila by Joel Salcido

Author:Joel Salcido
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781595348241
Publisher: Trinity University Press
Published: 2017-11-18T05:00:00+00:00

SPIRIT

At sunrise, light came calling. I set out from Atotonilco el Alto, in Jalisco, en route to the most Mexican of towns—Arandas. Fields of blue agave flanked the road as if standing guard over the spirit that once fueled the Mexican Revolution. The morning was crisp, and the sun hid behind a mountainside.

A day or two earlier I had studied the landscape, and I knew I could make some compelling images if the light was good.

The rows of agave were symmetrical, as they had been for the past six to eight years and would remain until the harvester, the jimador, came calling. The jimador must be a master of his craft; the sharp daggers of the agave are merciless and unforgiving. They demand respect.

As my eyes scanned the hills, I saw movement. (Movement will always stop a hunter as well as a photographer, likely because reportage photography is half hunt and half art.) A speck of red at the top of the hill stirred my interest. It was a courageous horse named Carablanca, an Iberian import that has toiled the land for centuries.

Uphill and down, row after row, this workhorse carved the earth. When plow hit stone, Carablanca stalled at the anchored rock. The horse caught its breath, regained its footing, and continued along the millennial path that is too well known to man and beast.

Since childhood I have loved horses, and Carablanca was no exception. I could sense the horse’s strength as he pulled the weight of the plow, the exhaustion in the white stare of his eyes.

Echoes of the horse’s neighing triggered a challenge for me fueled by pure adrenalin. My climb to the top of the hill was strenuous, but the majestic view made it worthwhile. I could now see that there were two horses, not one. They were being driven by a father-and-son team—a master and his young, unwilling apprentice. How often the sweat of one’s brow is inherited and not chosen.

I’ve been a photographer many years, and I am still overwhelmed by a feeling of great respect for my subjects. Sometimes they welcome me into their world with blind trust, and other times they turn me away.

I began to take photographs amid this beautiful backdrop. I scrambled to keep up with the horses and their humans, to frame, compose, catch my breath—and defend myself from the painful stabs of the agave. I struggled to keep up, but finally my shoes were destroyed, hopelessly damaged by a single morning trekking with people who were born into a life so distant from mine. I watched the horse strain each time the plow hit stone, yet both man and beast continued the task of the hour, of the day, of a lifetime.

Later in the day, my aching back forced me to plunk down onto the floor. The cool tile provided relief from the heat of the afternoon. I glanced to my left and saw Rafael, a semiretired jimador. He sat in silence. His face reminded me of a long-lost cousin on my father’s side.

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