OUTLOOK, Wash. -- There is no bull for Pancho today but he won't leave his corner under the stage with the other riders.

In this crowded space -- next to the corral and away from the burning sun -- Francisco "Pancho" Martinez leans over a younger man's boots to knot those spurs brought all the way from Mexico.

Through the openings between bodies and metal fence rails, Pancho can watch enviously as another rider clutches his angry bull with tight fists as hundreds cheers from the stands.

"They didn't have a bull for me," says Pancho, 37, "but just wait. When they're not looking, I'll hop on one and ride anyway."

From the soft brown scapular hanging over his open-neck shirt to the accordion player belting catchy love songs on the stage above, everything about this moment in this Outlook arena cries for the patria, or homeland.

The obvious bits are these: those flags emblazoned with a mythical eagle clenching a snake; couples dancing to the live banda music that blares from speakers around the arena; and the shiny snakeskin boots and belts on men, women and red-cheeked children here for a Sunday evening's entertainment.

But then there's the con artist with a faux-hawk who shuffles a deck of cards as he winds his way through the crowd, hoping to make a buck. Those mustachioed horseback riders holding cans of Modelo or Tecate as they make the beasts dance and bow. And the wives who bite their lips and make the sign of the cross when their men lower themselves onto awaiting bulls in the corral.

One Sunday a month, sometimes more often, the rural Mexico so many immigrants left behind for the Yakima Valley comes to life in a very casual jaripeo, or rodeo.

Welcome to La Centinela, where a construction worker becomes the afternoon's hero when he stays on his bull -- and where it's OK to nudge the man nursing a bull-inflicted injury off a Coleman cooler if it's got your beer inside.

"You pretty much ride at your own risk, but most of our bulls aren't aggressive," says Aurelio "Niño" Preciado, the jovial 25-year-old whose father, Aureliano, owns the arena. "Everything you see here, we pretty much built it with our sweat and labor."

His family opened this outdoor dirt arena two years ago, only a few hundred yards from Interstate 82.

Niño -- who prefers playing rodeo clown or wrangler to a more flashy, my-dad-owns-the-place gig -- says he hopes to one day expand the rodeo and build a stadium cover over it.

On a good evening -- good means at least a few eight-piece bands are part of the draw -- more than 800 people might pay $10 or more for a place in the bowl of concrete bleachers that surrounds the arena.

While the big events require colorful advertisements posted in nearby towns, more often La Centinela is an informal gathering place for several dozen friends who share a passion for flashy horses and bull riding.

But its very informality might spell an end to this BYOB enterprise.

"I can't tell you whether the operation would be shut down," says Yakima County permits supervisor Dave Saunders, who listed the rodeo's lack of liquor and food-handling licenses, as well as possible noise and land-use violations among various agencies' problems with La Centinela.

"Out of compliance with the regulations, it becomes a damaging thing to the community: Noise, dust, basically activity that is out of line with what we'd want to have happening around our families."

Aureliano Preciado knows he's not in Mexico -- and that he can't run the rodeo as informally as he might there. The owner says he wants to follow all the rules and has applied for a liquor license.

But he thinks he's doing a good thing for the community.

"They're complaining about six hours of noise every two weeks?" says Aureliano. "I'm bringing entire families together -- from the dad to the smallest child.

"Us Mexicans come here to work, five, six, seven days a week. Don't we have a right to enjoy ourselves and clear our minds before going back to work the next day?"

On a recent Sunday -- just hours before noise violations closed it down early for the night -- La Centinela was alive with excitement.

"This is great," says Martha Castañeda in the stands. The longtime Yakima resident eyes her husband, who prances his horse around the arena. "I'm enjoying myself and people seem to be having fun."

At a taco and juice stand, a young man smiles at thirsty patrons as he ladles out $3.50 cups of horchata -- the favorite milky drink of ground almonds and cinnamon.

In a seemingly natural model's pose, a copper-skinned woman in tight jeans and an electric yellow halter top grins as she watches the spectacle with her daughter, a toddler, at her side.

And Pancho's wife Leticia Martinez cuddles with her two sons in the arena's front row as she laughs at the irony of her marriage.

"To be honest, I really didn't like jaripeos very much growing up," says the Yakima resident, glancing at the dark space under the stage where her husband ties spurs onto another rider's boots. "Just looking at the bulls scares me, but now, look, I married this guy."

Several yards away, the rider hurt earlier in the day says the pain has subsided.

"Riding is risky, like playing cards. Not everybody can do it," says José Antonio Gomes Valdez, a 25-year-old who lives in Seattle. "But the truth is, it's exciting and we energize the crowd."

Now Pancho is nodding happily to the owner's son near the corral. It's time for the final bull ride of the night, and for some reason the spurs are on Pancho's boots. He's next.

* Melissa Sánchez can be reached at 509-577-7675 or msanchez@yakimaherald.com.