Angola Prison Rodeo…an Adventure

It was a late-summer Sunday when eight of us pulled up to the gates of Angola State Prison, Angola, Louisiana. The notice read: “You are entering a penal institution,” a wakeup call for nerves. We were here to witness the annual Angola Prison Rodeo.

For over fifty years the prison has staged this rodeo. It’s sanctioned by the state and the ‘cowboys’ are the prisoners. It’s called, “Guts and Glory.” It promised to satisfy our lust for a break from the late-summer island doldrums.

We leave Baton Rouge in a white van and roll across 51 miles of desolate Delta landscape littered with dilapidated mobile homes and hulks of rusted-out cars. Two hours later we enter the gates of Angola Prison, gates laced with razor-sharp concertina wire.

A black sign with the smiling face of Warden Burl Cain welcomes us with these words: “If you wish to leave the premises, surrender all guns, knives, alcohol and contraband now.” We take no chances and tender the remains of the bucket of KFC, bones and all.

The prison is surrounded by lush green pastures of the Delta. Livestock graze peacefully, framed by miles of white rail fences. Small lakes filled with white pond birds complete the tranquil symmetry of the fields. The serenity disguises the reality of the treacherous institution where death-row and hopelessness co-exist inside. So surreal, like being an intruder in a Salvatore Dali landscape.

Inside the scene is chaotic. We’re greeted by what could be described as a prison bazaar. Long tables are filled with fried pig delicacies: Chittlins, cracklins and pigtails. A hungry crowd pushes and shoves its way into a wild ecstasy of feeding frenzy. Beyond, throngs of souvenir shoppers mingle among the cramped booths of itinerant vendors and petty hustlers hawking cheap trinkets and prison memorabilia.

Inside the arena the excitement is electric. A thick air of tension permeates the tight enclosure of plowed dirt. A 9-foot fence separates the prisoners, bulls and spectators. About 10,000 spectators roar and cheer while groups of Harley has-beens huddle in tight circles engaging in unintelligible utterances. The crowd bears a remarkable resemblance to the inmates. A bit unnerving.

Today’s ‘cowboys’ are corralled in a wire cage beneath the hospitality suite where prominent invitees and VIP’s of Warden Cain enjoy the absurdity. One wonders what it takes to ‘encourage’ volunteerism for these events. But this is Louisiana, where Huey P. Long is still worshipped by devout Cajuns.

This is no milquetoast rodeo. It’s the real thing. Inmates clothed in jeans and black and white striped jackets ride bulls, bucking broncs and barrel race bareback on wild ponies. There are no ‘winners’ here, only survivors.

The signature event finds four ‘cowboys’ seated at a card table all painted red, playing poker. An 1,800-pound bull with red horns impatiently waits in a cage about twenty feet away. The gate opens, the bull charges the table. Two bodies go airborne, landing with loud thuds in the soft, moist dirt. Two others sit there, frozen by fear. The bull snorts, charges again, but hits only the table. The buzzer rings, time’s up. The two remaining ‘cowboys’ share the $200 purse.

In another event a red poker chip is pasted to the head of a bull. A dozen or so ‘cowboys’ enter the ring. The object is to retrieve the poker chip from the head of the bull. Winner gets $200, a paltry sum for such a dangerous undertaking. One would wonder if spending a few weeks in the infirmary would be a good reason for volunteering for this spectacle.

The weirdest event is when three untamed broncs are roped together and six ‘cowboys’ attempt to ride them. It is a scene of indescribable delirium as men and horses run wild in wide maddening circles with no chance of success.

Despite all the brutish display called a rodeo, the crowd shows a felicitous empathy for the safety and success of the ‘cowboys.’ The only break in the drama occurs when a fellow in a red Elvis outfit brings out three sheep dogs ridden by tiny monkeys wearing cowboy outfits and chasing wild goats. The laughter is too much to bear.

The rodeo finally ends. The ‘cowboys’ are transformed into prisoners again while we depart in the humid dusk of a declining Delta day. But for a few hours our lives and voices intertwined and fused into one as we all participated in this wild, unpredictable spectacle of life called a rodeo.

Bud Hearn
May 17, 2019
All Rights Reserved