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Ambushed aboard the Pony Express
A Wild West encounter in Mnisek pod Brdy takes a disturbing turn
For The Prague Post (October 2, 2002) When we lived in Prague, my wife, Eva, and I spent most weekends at my in-laws' cottage (chata) in Mnisek pod Brdy, some 30 kilometers (almost 20 miles) south of Prague. Besides providing free accommodation, the chata was situated next to the Brdy forest, which offered clean air and good hiking. It was there, one glorious Saturday in September 1992, that Eva asked if I wanted to see the Pony Express. I thought at first that she was talking about some obscure Western movie. But she quickly explained that the Pony Express was an annual festival held in the nearby village of Stribrna Lhotka to celebrate the anniversary of the first ride of that legendary mail service of the American frontier. The thought of a bunch of Czechs celebrating the lore of the American West struck me as so odd that I had to see it for myself. We arrived after dark at a field at the edge of the village, where we found well over 200 people dressed in elaborately detailed Western costumes. Campfires flickered against an array of wooden facades that simulated a frontier town square in the old American West. At the far end of the clearing we found a small circle of teepees, where Czechs costumed as Native Americans (they called themselves Indians) sat exchanging jokes. A corral offered pony rides for the kids. Many of the cowboys carried authentic-looking six-shooters in their holsters. Without reason or warning, they would occasionally fire these guns into the air while yelling "Yeehaaa!" The town "saloon" served Czech beer, rum and Becherovka, and by the time we got there, much had already been imbibed. The combination of booze and guns added to the authenticity, I suppose, but it was unnerving nevertheless. Bursts of gunfire exploded from time to time and with increasing frequency as the liquor flowed. But my fears seemed to ease with each beer that I downed, and eventually I felt confident enough to ask one bearded cowpoke, in my still-nascent Czech, if his replica Colt .45-caliber revolver really worked. The bearded fellow tilted back his 10-gallon hat and swayed drunkenly while looking at me with an injured stare. "Ano, pane, to funguje," he said gravely. "Yes, sir, it works." He drew his pistol from his holster and fired several rounds into the air. The breech flash singed my cheek. My ears hummed. Please, let those be blanks, I thought. I quickly grew convinced that Eva and I needed to get out of there. After witnessing the midnight arrival of the Pony Express -- a group on horseback that rode from another village -- and experiencing another fusillade of small-arms fire and drunken shouts, I grabbed Eva and led her back to our Skoda. The sound of gunfire faded as we drove back to Mnisek. Wells Fargo in Mnisek It was quite by happenstance that, during a recent visit, I met the founder of that Wild West experience. We stopped at the Wells Fargo pub, a small beer hall located in a building that used to house the Mnisek pod Brdy police department. A cutout picture of John Wayne propped the door open, and the walls inside were decorated with rugged Wild West-style artifacts. An assortment of country-western tunes played on a rustic stereo. The proprietor of this establishment was a bearded fellow in dusty boots and a black vest named Jindrich Bilek -- or Jindra, as he insisted we call him. Upon hearing that we now lived in America, he sat down and began to tell us about some difficulty he'd been having. Back in 1985, Jindra had founded the Pony Express Club, which was the driving force behind the annual festival in Lhotka. He was proud that the communists had never liked his group and that the organization had played some role in the 1980s counterculture movement that helped people lose their fear of the regime. But the Pony Express Club had fallen on hard times in the 10 years since I'd attended the festival. The town of Lhotka had long since booted the cowboys out (something to do with discharging firearms in public). However, Jindra was not one to be easily frustrated. He stayed active, trying to organize other Pony Express events here and there. Not too long ago he hit on the idea of organizing an event in the United States in which Czech riders would commemorate the 150th anniversary of the Pony Express by riding along the original route, which stretched from St. Joseph, Missouri, to Sacramento, California. Like most Czechs, Jindra is a resourceful fellow. Though he does not speak a word of English, he'd gone to California and, using an acquaintance as an interpreter, approached Wells Fargo Bank about sponsoring his event. The initial reaction had been promising. But when word reached the bank's legal department that some Czech guy was using the Wells Fargo name for his pub, litigation was threatened. This puzzled Jindra and made him a little bit indignant. I tried to assure him it would probably be no big deal. At the same time, though, I noted that American firms tend to be touchy about the use of their trademarks, so I suggested Jindra speak with a local lawyer who knew something about international patent law. He didn't press the question any further. The Jewish question The beer continued to pour and the conversation soon turned to other subjects, such as Sept. 11 and the war in Afghanistan. By and by, Jindra asked me what I thought of the Zidovska otazka (the Jewish question). The atmosphere in the room seemed to undergo a sudden transformation. A little nervously, I stammered that I wasn't aware of any Jewish question. Jindra pressed on. "I mean," he said, "isn't it true that Jews control the government in America?" I did my best to politely explain why his assumption could not be correct: American Jews broadly tend to vote to the left of many other Americans. So if Jews somehow controlled the government, it was an odd conspiracy indeed that had placed George W. Bush in the White House. "But that just goes to show how clever they are," he said. I searched his face for some indication that he was joking. But his expression was self-assured, almost triumphant, as if he felt he'd just laid down his trump card. There was nothing I could say to this. How does one argue with such a tenet of faith? Nonetheless, I lamely repeated my political analysis. The conversation had reached a dead end. I gazed around the room at the Pony Express memorabilia on the walls: old posters, photographs of people in Western garb on horseback. I wondered how it was that someone with the ability to bring such nostalgic charm into the world could also be possessed by such a dark racial conspiracy theory. When we said our goodbyes, I told Jindra I would return the next day to photograph him in his full cowboy regalia, as he'd asked me to do earlier in the evening. Somehow, though, I couldn't bring myself to return -- at least, not that soon.
Brant Hadaway is a Miami lawyer who lived in Prague from 1992 to 1997.
Brant Hadaway can be reached at features@praguepost.com |
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