The day before arriving in Mexico City I was in touch with
the Aussie gonzo journalist Matt whom I’d just recently hung out with in Mazatlán. He inquired whether I was interested in
attending a bull fight in Plaza Mexico the biggest bullfighting ring in Mexico
with his university buddy Rodrigo, who lives in Mexico City. Hmmm…I never thought I’d want to attend one
of these supposed barbaric events but when in Rome…. One has to make an opinion for one’s self.
I’ve never been interested in bullfighting and perhaps I've
heard too much from the anti-bullfight side but it does seem somewhat cruel in
how the bull seems to endure the multiple stabs in the back while being taunted
by the matador and the crowd. But I try
to keep an open mind about things until I’ve tried it, at least once, except
for a few things, like maybe incest or infanticide. Back in the cafeteria in boarding school I
witnessed my best friend putting not just syrup on his French toast but ketchup
as well. I love ketchup probably more
than the average guy but it just didn't seem right here. It was crossing some kind of condiment
boundary. But Slick wisely said to me,
don’t knock it until you try it. Valid
advice. I took a bite, and then I
knocked the shit out of it. But it
taught me that valuable lesson to not talk shit about something until you’re
actually sure what you’re talking shit about.
Okay, wait, this was about bullfighting not breakfast.
So my vague directions were to meet Matt and Rodrigo at the
ticket sales booth at the Plaza Mexico, also known as the Plaza del Toro. Well that shouldn't be hard, it only seat
about 30,000 people. To add to the
difficulty of locating them, I’d just ran out of Internet connectivity on my
phone (thanks to the con man).
Smartphones almost feel like a cheater tool for travelers. Just put in where you want to go and you've
instantly got directions on how to get there.
In a way, it kinda takes a bit of the sport out of travelling. You no longer have to ask any one for help.
The entrance to Plaza Mexico:
Okay, back to the bull stuff (bullshit?!?). So amazingly we found each other outside
Puerta 1. We lined up for our tickets
and even though the event commences at 4:30pm, you pay a premium to have a seat
in the shade. We ended up with seats
about midway up the 80-100 or so rows and that was perfect. Far enough away to still feel in the action
and see the whole environment yet far enough up to not see the gore up close.
Bullfighting Aficionado Matt:
I really don't know what I've gotten myself into:
Matt and Rodrigo:
The evening was to consist of 6 bulls in action. There’s a lot of pomp and circumstance with
bullfighting that dates back hundreds of years.
Surprisingly Matt is a bit of a bullfighting expert and almost made me
want to ridicule Rodrigo for having an Aussie out do him at his own game. So I soon learned the progression of each
bull’s fight. The bull would careen into
the ring with a few little spears or daggers in the back that you could hardly
see protruding out apart from the ribbons hung from it. This was to test the bull’s ferocity. A good bull would race around the ring aiming
at the matadors or assistant matadors waving their large pink and yellow
capes. All matadors sported long tight and
bright pink knee socks, so I instinctively asked Matt if they were supporting
the breast cancer fundraising…but no, It was just tradition. I thought it was a bit cheating as in four or
five spots around the ring there was a six foot piece of wall in front of the
main ring that gave the fighters (I use this term loosely) protection.
Tonight's competitors:
The opening ceremonies:
Then after a bit of taunting by the matador with a cape two
riders on horses cladded in a bright yellow and polka dotted padding, known as the
picador, would enter. The rider had a
large wooden spear and his job was to inflict some damage on the bull. In one fight the shaft of the spear split in
two which Matt had never seen before (of course, nor had I). The bull would sometimes charge the side of
the horse, who would hold his ground but I felt sorry for the equines. Matt did tell me that in earlier times the
horse were not afforded any protection so they often were gored and even
disemboweled.
Ole!
The Picadores:
Next is the “Tercio de Banderillas” where there were three
pairs of barbed “sticks” placed in the bull’s shoulders by different
matadors. Then the matador of the match
would come out with his proper red cape with a sword. But this was his little, light sword known as
an “estoque simulado”. He would continue
to dance with the bull and perhaps place the sword flatwise across its forehead
or ring it on the horns. And finally
he’d get the killer sword or “estoque de verdad” (real sword) for the “Tercio
de Muerte” and finish off in a last bit of flurry by plunging the epee deep
into the back of the bull, hoping to hit the spinal column or heart.
The first fight was supposed to be the top matador but he
decided to bequeath the round to his padawan, his student, his understudy. According to Matt, the bull wasn’t that
exciting but this young guy did a great job and at the end he looked up to the
bullfight president’s box, part of the tradition. El jefe (the boss) was happy enough with the
effort and the signal for the young matador to keep one ear from the bull was
given. What?? He’s allowed to keep the ear? And better, what’s he going to do with
it? He did get to parade around the
perimeter of the ring with hats, a few roses and strangely jackets or vests
being tossed out to him. His juniors
picked up the jacket and some of the hats and chucked them back into the crowd.
The next three guys weren’t too exciting and sadly during
their display I was almost hoping for a goring, almost like hoping to see a car
crash. Well the fifth guy at least
quenched my thirst a bit by getting tossed up in the air by the bull, but
skillfully, or at least luckily not touching the horns.
Nearing the end of this bull:
A View to a Kill...almost:
Between bulls a bunch of guys dress in funny looking suits, most of them with red pants and jackets, a white shirt and a funny hat would run out to prepare the field for the next fight by sweeping or spreading dirt about. One guy would walk around two circles, about 10 feet in difference in diameter, with a bucket that splashed some kind of white powder onto the field. Matt joked that they were the Oompa Loompas and after that comment I could think of nothing but.
The Oompa Loompas:
We thought it was over by the death of the sixth bull and
many people in the stands started to head home but since most of the bulls from
this one breeder had proved to be a bit disappointing, the matadors had pitched
in, or at least one of them had purchased another bull. Hey, it’s probably only about $5000 for it.
The view from the top row:
The seventh matador out was the senior guy, the one who step
aside to give his apprentice a crack at the big times in the first contest and this
dude was incredible. He’d have but two
inches between the bull’s horns and his shins while he waved his cape behind
him. He also tapped the bull on the
horns a number of times with his sword.
When he finally plunged in the final blow the crowd erupted. Even though I was a bullfighting virgin until
this evening, I could tell that this guy was miles ahead of the rest.
Ole...the main man in action:
So we thought it was all over but yet one more bull, the
eighth of the night came out. They
should have stopped at seven. This bull
was pretty pathetic, not interested in a fight and the matador had to do him in
pretty quickly. If the matador did have
to buy the bull for five grand, that was a bit of a waste of money.
It was definitely an interesting experience. I think I can see why those who attend the
sport attend the sport, whom were primarily white Mexicans, probably of Spanish
descent, and especially since many start to watch as kids (I saw many families
there) but I can also see the other side of the coin, the cruel side of the drawn
out death. Matt’s argument is to look at
the gruesomeness of an abattoir. At
least there’s some beauty in the whole act here. If you are a beef eater, which I am, you
can’t really throw any stones.
After the fight we headed to the south of the city to catch up with some friends of Matt who were watching some NFL football in an American chain restaurant...I just love this photo if you look closely in the rear view mirror:
At the end of it all, I have to say that my Aussie friend
Matt sure know his “bull shit”. And I
thank him for that.
Ole!
Ole!
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