Bull Fights and Stage Fright
In Ecuador, August 10th commemorates the first shout of independence from Spain. Though the country has since developed it’s own cultural repertoire, many traces of Spanish society are firmly and interminably imbedded in the Ecuadorian psyche; language being the most prominent example and bull fights (in my opinion) the second.
To celebrate said Independence Day I joined the cavalcade of farmers and visiting ‘city folk’ streaming towards the grazing ground cum bull fighting ring in a neighboring community. Though the Spanish bull fight juxtaposed with the very holiday denouncing Spain struck the author as ironic, a scarce soul could be found to champion jingoism to such extent. In fact, not many spectators had free time to talk at all, so engrossed were they in the bloody affair before them.
Ecuadorians, however, are apparently more sensitive sentient beings than Peruvians. A rural Peruvian bull fight, regardless of how isolated the community, always managed to import bull fighters from across international borders- my personal favorite a Venezuelan who trekked all the way to my 2,000 person village not once but TWICE. He won my heart and prime real estate on bedroom wall for his poster by recognizing me, “Weren’t you here last year?” Birds sang in my ribcage and my cheeks flushed crimson. “Why yes, yes that was me.”
The bullfighter, strikingly normal looking in his street clothes before the spectacle, furrowed his brow. “What are you still doing here?” Oh. Right. While you’ve been globe trotting and slaying beasts I’ve been…telling people to wash their hands and warning teenagers about genital warts. You win.
Regardless of the Venezuelan’s disparaging question, I cheered my vocal chords into utter destruction when he succeeded to stab the bull on the first try, straight through the aorta, rendering the bull…dead. Though some may shout animal cruelty at such vagrant displays of violence, to me it makes no difference how my food dies. Perhaps being given the chance to fight for your life (traditionally a bull that has fought exceedingly well is granted immunity from the final gruesome stabs of the bull fighter’s sword and declared a stud. The bull then finishes his life doing what animals do best, eating and procreating) is a better way to breathe your last breaths than a stun gun in a crowded meat packing factory.
In Ecuador, however, bull fights took a drastic turn in May of this year and no longer end as such. According to a newly passed referendum, Ecuadorians agreed on banning the final killing of the bull that happens in a corrida. Not even 3 centuries of bull fights could topple the animal protection groups and yuppie elitists who likely cast their votes clad in leather with bits of steak somewhere between their duodenums and sigmoids. Thus bulls are afforded the torment and ridicule with no escape into eternal glory once inside the crudely constructed wooden rings. (A conversation had today while cooking lunch with a co-worker:
Maria: Were there a lot of people at the bullfight?
Me: Yes, many people. It was interesting.
Maria: It gets really interesting when there are so many people that the fences fall down and the bulls trample people.
*****
Thus, though the bull fighter is the primary person in danger, the audience members may follow in a close second.
Said Thoreau:
“Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter’s honour.”
At the bull fights yesterday there were many such artists, but little if any brilliance. You see, since the bull is no longer killed, there is no need for a professional torero (or bull fighter). Anyone, and I do mean ANYONE, can climb over the rickety wooden fence that separates life from death. Including me. After 15 minutes of daring my host brother and cousin to pass over the railings and playing the classic child hood game of “No YOU go first,” …someone went first. And the other two followed. Suddenly the three of us were eye level with a raging bull. Luckily there were approximately 30 other people in the same boat. Some waved capes or red t-shirts (useless, bulls are colorblind…the color red is supposedly to mask the incidental stain of the bull’s blood), others just yelled and sprinted across the ring pell-nell, daring the beast to give chase. I deigned to walk to the center of the ring before realizing that I was the ONLY female inside the ring for a reason. (Males are, for the most part, foolish and cavalier, willing to trade life for glory faster than I can squeak “oh my god” as another farmer is gored to his premature death). Then the bull, impossibly large from this close up, suddenly changed direction. “Ruuunnnnnn!!!!” In the melee of limbs I managed to throw myself up and over the same rickety fence I had so bravely descended 2 minutes prior, landing like a cat…that has accidentally become drunk and disoriented from a nap spent inhaling the fumes of a recently painted family room. I staggered a few steps farther away from the flimsy wooden barrier, willing myself to stop shaking.
Then, overcome with emotion and excitement, I turned about face, jumped back onto the fence, and held on as other intrepid souls launched their fearless bones into the ring, testing their fates and fortunes.
Thanks for reading!
