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  The night air is cool and filled with drumming and gamelan. One by one about a dozen men come into the arena with their horses. They prance and move in such a way you soon forget the horses are made of bamboo and have conch-shells for eyes. There is magic in the air. And dust. The riders have leather shin-guards covered in bells. Their colourful costumes add to the dizzying swirls of horse’ tails and wild manes. Soon the whole place takes off like a firebomb. Another rider, who cracks his whip around, keeps the frenzied dancers at a distance. As the music reaches a climax, the dancers fall on their faces, exhausted. The horses’ eyes seem to roll upwards, in distress. One by one, the riders are taken to the man with the whip that now holds his own black horse in the air and dips its head towards the unconscious rider. 
TO ENQUIRE ABOUT THE FULL TEXT OF THIS STORY, PLEASE CONTACT THE AUTHOR, MARIA VISCONTI
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