Angola State Prison Rodeo …. A Retrospective

It’s Sunday, October 14th, 2008 when we arrive at Angola State Prison, Angola, Louisiana. The Warning reads: “You are about to enter a penal institution…” The air turns cold.

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In George’s jet eight of us fly to Baton Rouge. From there we drive in a white van across 51 miles of desolate Delta landscape littered with dilapidated mobile homes and hulks of rusted-out cars. Two hours later we enter gates guarded by razor-sharp concertina wire. It’s Angola State Prison, where the rodeo theme is “Guts and Glory.”

A massive black sign with the smiling face of Warden Burl Cain welcomes us. A stark warning comes with it: “If you wish to leave the premises, all guns, knives, alcohol and contraband should be surrendered at once.” We donate our knives and hand over the bucket of KFC, bones and all.

The stark prison stands stoically, nestled silently amid the lush green Delta pastures. Livestock grazes peacefully, framed by miles of white rail fences. Small lakes filled with white pond birds break the tranquil symmetry of the fields. But the serenity disguises the reality of the treacherous institution where death-row and hopelessness co-exist. Surreal and unnatural, like an intruder in the distorted reality of a Salvatore Dali landscape.

The scene inside is chaotic. Multitudes of hefty flesh press together alongside rows of low tables filled with fried swine delicacies: chittlins, cracklins and pigtails. The cooking caldrons crackle and spit as pig fat hits the boiling grease. As each hot batch is dumped onto the tables, a new crowd shoves its bodily mass into the fray. Gnats and flies swarm and buzz in the wild ecstasy of the feeding frenzy.

Beyond, throngs of frenetic shoppers mingle among the cramped booths of itinerant vendors and petty hustlers hawking cheap trinkets and prison memorabilia. It is a monument to human ugliness!

Inside the arena the air swirls with excitement. About 10,000 ‘locals’ roar and cheer. Groups of brawny men and Harley has-beens huddle in tight circles, speaking in guttural utterances. The crowd bares a remarkable atavistic resemblance to the inmates….unnerving.

But here things can turn violent in a hurry. A thick air of tension permeates the tight enclosure. The arena’s plowed dirt is infused with the rancid odor of excrement, urine and fear. Only a 9-foot fence separates prisoners, bulls and spectators.

The inmates, now ‘cowboys,’ are corralled in a wire cage beneath the hospitality suite. From there Warden Cain’s prominent invitees can make sport of this absurdity. When things get boring they can poke the prisoners with sharp sticks to keep them attentive. One wonders what the incentive for volunteerism is!

Such lurid events originated with Caligula. Death is the only win for the participants… a hellish, psychological price to pay. But, this is Louisiana, where a hole in the wall of the State Capital, created by the bullet that killed Huey P. Long, is still enshrined. Carloads of Cajuns worship it.

In one event four ‘cowboys’ play cards at a red table. An 1,800 pound bull charges the table. Bodies fly through the air, landing with sickening thuds in the soft moist dirt. They leave on stretchers. Two remain. The bull charges again, narrowly missing the two who are frozen by fear. The 20-second buzzer sounds. Time’s up. These two share the $200 purse. Meanwhile, the music plays on: “Dum, dum, dum, another one bites the dust…dum, dum, dum….”

Despite this brutish display, the crowd shows a felicitous empathy for the ‘cowboys.’ The only break in the tense drama occurs when a clown in a shiny red Elvis outfit brings out 3 sheep dogs. Tiny monkeys ride on their backs, chasing a pack of wild goats. The laughter is almost too much to bear. Some become incontinent in the constrained effort of containment.

The spectacle finally concludes. The crowd makes its slow retreat into the humid dusk of a declining Delta day. Joining the exodus, we wonder: “What was this all about?”

We conclude everyone has at least one thing in common: A longing to grab excitement in this short life. So, for a few hours our lives and voices fuse into one, as we participate in this wild, unpredictable Spectacle of Life called a prison rodeo.

As we leave I glance backwards. There, inside the barbed wire, the cowboys are prisoners again, shuffling in slow motion in a single file line. They board buses for a short trip to lock-up, their ‘home.’

Suddenly the sky explodes with hundreds of white pond birds. In the gathering gloom of a Delta sunset they begin a slow flight south to their home. As darkness falls, the wind stirs the leaves of the changing season. Veiled yellowed windows of dimly-lit houses pop out of the dark woods. Ghostly shapes move slowly about inside, casting eerie shadows. Our white van lurches forward, roaring through the night with the singular purpose of going home.

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The day’s events distill in sleep. In dreams I see flocks of white pond birds floating silently overhead, heading homeward, seeking the allusive and ephemeral sense of freedom.


Bud Hearn
October 10, 2014