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Spring Break . . . the place where college students yearn to get drunk, get a tan, and get laid (not necessarily in that order). Those thoughts were on my mind during my senior year, but I also wanted to see a bullfight. Hemingway was and is one of favorite writers, and when I read in the Cancun guide book that there were bullfights a few miles from my hotel I had to go.
Returning from my trip I decided to write about the experience for my magazine journalism class at Boston University. What follows is the original manuscript I wrote many years ago. My professor suggested I try to get it published, and I submitted it to several periodicals with no success. But I think it’s still a good read after all these years, and a nice little bit of time traveling:
APRIL 1992
“Out in the center of the ring Romero profiled in front of the bull, drew the sword of from the folds of the muleta, rose on his toes, and sighted along the blade. The bull charged as Romero charged. Romero’s left hand dropped the muleta over the bull’s muzzle to blind him, his left shoulder went forward between the horns as the sword went in, and just for an instant he and the bull were one.”
-Ernest Hemingway, from
“The Sun Also Rises”.
Ever since I read “The Sun Also Rises” I have wanted to attend a bullfight. Being a big fan of Hemingway, I wanted the opportunity to experience this sport that was such an inspiration to him. Sure, there’s always the bull’s side, but what about every steer that is slaughtered in the U.S. At least before the bull got to the butcher’s table he would be taking part in a ritual that has been around since the Seventh Century. But my opinions were formed from reading, and that is why I wanted so desperately to see a bullfight in person. I had to get the same feeling Hemingway did when he witnessed man bull becoming one.
My trip to Cancun was my first to a Spanish speaking country, and thus far my only opportunity to see a bullfight. I was not going to pass it up. Jamie, my traveling partner, was also interested. So when Wednesday rolled around, we pried ourselves off the sand and made our way downtown.
Coming from the hotel zone, the bullring is located to the left at the end of the strip. We were a little early so we stayed to the right and ambled down Tulum Avenue. Neither of us could focus on the people or buildings we passed. We just wanted to see the El Toro. So after grabbing a quick bite to eat and some cervezas, we bought our tickets from a street vendor and headed toward our destination.
As Jamie and I turned the corner and started down Bonampak Avenue, I could see the pale maroon, stucco bullring looming up over the trees and bushes that flanked either side of the structure at the end of the road. Many people streamed toward the bullring. There was a crowd at the entrance.
“It kind of reminds me of walking down Brookline Avenue to Fenway,” I remarked to my friend.
Looking puzzled, the only response Jamie could muster was “Huh?”
But it did feel that way to me. Walking with a large group, in the kind of heat and humidity you’d find on a typical July day in Boston, to watch an event steeped in history and tradition. Except, instead of a homerun sailing over the Green Monster, you’d watch a bull killed. Obviously the two events were different, but being outside the ring created the same type of atmosphere- one of anticipation and excitement.
After traversing through the line the guy took my ticket, or boleto, and I began to get a taste of what it might have been attending a bullfight during Hemingway’s time. The clay walls, the dirt floor, the pungent odor of . . .
“This place reeks of shit,” my friend said with a wide grin.
Although a shoddy attempt at a joke, Jamie was correct- both literally and figuratively. One certainly smelled bull droppings, but not only that, we would soon discover that we had just plummeted into the black hole that engulfs many travelers . . . the tourist trap.
To reach the seats you had to walk through the actual ring where the bull would be killed, and there was only reason why- they wanted you to buy things. Souvenir stands hawking anything from tacky matador hats to the kind of plastic bulls you might find in Epcot’s Spain at Disney World. My vision of Hemingway’s sacred country vanished, replacing it was the reality of American commercialism.
Cancun was a town built solely for the tourist industry, and I shouldn’t have been surprised. But I was. The mystique of the corridas del toros and its roots in Spanish culture were enough for me to think it couldn’t be spoiled . . . that it was sacred and not to be corrupted. My naiveté had sucked me into this vortex, along with the thirty-three American dollars I paid for the ticket. I yearned for the Hemingway adventure, and now I would do my best to achieve it. So I made a conscious decision to ignore the tourist atmosphere and concentrate on the actual bullfight.
It wasn’t easy.
Soon after the souvenir stands were dismantled inside the ring, vendors swarmed into the stands, peddling the same hokey merchandise. To make matters worse we had taken a seat on the first row on the balcony; this was a mistake because the hawkers continuously disturbed our sightline to make their rounds. I still tried to block out the rampant commercialism. The bulls would be coming soon, and I could focus on what mattered in the ring. And besides, the crowd was more that fifty percent Mexican, and if they could tolerate the marketing so could I.
When the opening ceremonies commenced I began to relax. A group of dancers emerged from the tunnels and launched into a routine accompanied by the frantic beating of drums. Clad in elaborate silver and gold costumes, they did a series of flips and spins that the crowd, through their yelling and applause, found entertaining. After their finale a portly man, dressed in cowboy garb and wearing an enormous sombrero, did rope tricks. Big loops to small loops, he repeated the show as he glided around the bullring. From the polite claps the audience obviously preferred the dancers. Or maybe they had become restless, anxiously awaiting the bull’s entrance. They wouldn’t have to wait much longer.
The English translation of corrida de torros is bullfight, but aficionados will tell you that is a misnomer. They feel uncomfortable calling it a fight because it isn’t a pugilistic affair at all. The program I bought outside the ring described it this way: “The bullfight is actually moving art. A man using his courage, risks life to create art.” That account went along with Hemingway, a description I had presumed, and now I would get to witness this artistic expression of courage.
I felt a rush down my spine when the bull bolted out of box without remorse and darted into the center of the ring. He had it all- long horns, expansive hump, and from the haughtiness he displayed by stopping directly in the middle of the spectacle, determination. The audience was pleased. Shouts of “Toro, Toro, Toro” rang down in appreciation. It was almost as if the bull was playing with us when he refused to charge, opting instead for the dramatic pause. We waited anxiously for the beast who would not leave this ring alive.
If you blinked, you would have missed it. With breathless agility, the bull shot at one of the banderlillos- who are the matador’s assistants and play an important part in the latter part of the ceremony. The young man had been yelling at the animal, and wanting to see his next paycheck he quickly hopped over the partition to safety. Never breaking stride, the bull turned as if on skates and charged at another banderillo . . . who followed in his partner’s path.
The crowd loved every minute of this, and I have to admit, I was completely enthralled. The bull had enticed me into his world, and everything else- spring break, girls in bikinis, margaritas on the beach- had receded. The cheap souvenirs had been buried inside my mind, somewhere under the geometry I learned in the eight grade. That is why I was so disturbed by the voice. It came across the speakers and radiated, in English, throughout the ring. It told us the next stage of the event was ready, and then proceeded to explain what would happen next.
I was annoyed, not surprised, that they’d have an announcer to hold the tourist’s hand. For someone who had no clue, it was probably a good thing. But for the person who had done their homework, someone who came to witness “moving art”, the voice was an intrusion. I could only imagine what the Mexicans thought. Maybe they found the announcer amusing. Maybe they didn’t understand him. At this point I didn’t care what other people thought. Blocking out the distractions was effort enough.
So there was the announcer, telling the crowd what was coming next. Because of Hemingway, I already knew. After showcasing the bull, it was now time for the picadors to work on the bull. Riding horseback, the picador’s job is to weaken the bull by jabbing it in the back with a long spear. Their task is vital, for if a bull isn’t slowed down the matador cannot make his exciting passes. In addition to their practical function, the picadors also serve as a test for the bull: one that determines if he has courage.
“If the bull runs from the picador’s stab, he has demonstrated his gentleness,” the program said. “But if he charges the horse and doesn’t retreat, he demonstrates his breeding and courage.”
This bull had courage. The instant the two picadors emerged (one on a white horse and the other on a black one), the bull shot at the light colored stallion. Along with everybody else, I gasped when the bull rammed the unsuspecting into the wall. Reading “The Sun Also Rises” had somewhat prepared me, but deep inside it still hurt.
“Don’t look at the horses after the bull hits them,” was what Jake told Brett in the novel. “Watch the charge and see the picador try and keep the bull off.”
I heeded this advice and inspected the picador’s futile attempt to keep the bull away. But El Toro was intent on knocking the man off the horse, and succeeded in five seconds. This was the only time I was glad it wasn’t like Pamplona in the 1920’s. Because if it was, the horse would be dead. Here, the animals were padded and the horns could not penetrate. Regardless, it was the hardest thing to watch.
When a horse is felled it is the matador’s job to make the bull come at him. In Hemingway’s book, to achieve this the man only had to flick his cape. With this bull it took more. The matador had to maneuver a lot closer and yell. Eventually El Toro, hungry for more damage, rushed at him. Executing a nice veronica pass, the matador lead the bull into the other picador . . . where he could be jabbed properly, But this bull not only had courage, he was also intelligent, and the beast maneuvered himself away the man on the horse. It took several more passes for the bull to tire, and the picador riding the black stallion finally speared him with force. But even though el toro had blood oozing from his hump, he was not broken. He could not capitulate the first round.
The second stage was about to start, and once again Mr. announcer explained it in English. But it was easy to forget about the intrusion here. This was the part I would find the most exciting- the banderillos. The men who participate- who made their debut briefly in the onset- have the task of jabbing two barbed sticks into the bull’s hump. These guys have no weapon of defense, nobody to cover their backs. And the banderillos don’t wait for their enemy to charge- they’re always on the attack. I thought of them as the rodeo clowns of bullfighting, because they entertained and assisted the star, all the while risking their very existence. I admired their reckless, thrill-seeking attitude.
So there was the bull, gigantic and fierce and determined, and the banderillos felt it upon themselves to trump the animal. From the minute it charged, the crowd was behind the bull. The banderillos wanted a reason to root for the matador.
They succeeded.
The first bandillero was the youngest. Lithe in build, with short cropped black hair and a child’s smile, he barreled at El Toro like a special team captain about to tackle a punt returner. The bull seemed to enjoy this, and galloped quickly. It was a classic game of chicken, about as fair as a Toyota versus an eighteen wheeler. Somehow I didn’t shield my eyes. And just as the bull was about to maul his prey, the young man sidestepped and thrust his instruments toward the bull’s hump.
Somewhere in the blur I saw the sticks graze the animal and tumble on the dirt. Looking dejected the bandillero shook his head, jogged to the edge of the ring, and leapt over the wall. Although he failed, the audience clapped for the effort. And the young man seemed to inspire his peers. The next two bandilleros were older and heftier, but each challenged the bull and connected with good placements of the sticks. The momentum had now swung back to the matador.
The third act of this tragedy was set to commence. Any high I got from the banderillos evaporated when I inspected the bull. The black beast, once so full of energy and life, was now weary and listless. His expansive hump was stained red. His mere sight made you desire euthanasia. A wish that would be soon granted.
Except this was what I had been waiting for . . . the matador’s cape work. I so deeply wanted to see if the guy moved in the terrain of the bull, or faked danger by staying in his own. I gazed intently as the matador positioned himself and then proceeded to conduct his passes. I studied carefully, enjoying the fluttering of the red material, but couldn’t feel any emotion for the bull or the matador.
It was kill time, and it felt anti-climatic. I did not feel that the matador was risking his life for artistic expression. As for the bull, I didn’t feel bad because I had accepted his demise from the beginning. The two participants were simply finishing what they started in the kind of manner my high school basketball coach deemed “going though the motions”.
By the time the bugles sounded and the announcer told us it was now “the moment of truth”, I had lost interest. I still yearned to see the matador and bull become one, but I knew it wouldn’t happen here. If bullfighting is indeed an art, then it loses all aesthetics conducted in these surroundings.
When the person in the tight costume drove his sword into the creature it all seemed so contrived. His movement wasn’t smooth, it was over emphasized. The bull staggered for a few seconds, his tongue draped over his mouth, and then collapsed to the cheer of the crowd. Two more bulls would be killed, and not for one second did I see animal and man become one.
Returning from my trip I decided to write about the experience for my magazine journalism class at Boston University. What follows is the original manuscript I wrote many years ago. My professor suggested I try to get it published, and I submitted it to several periodicals with no success. But I think it’s still a good read after all these years, and a nice little bit of time traveling:
APRIL 1992
“Out in the center of the ring Romero profiled in front of the bull, drew the sword of from the folds of the muleta, rose on his toes, and sighted along the blade. The bull charged as Romero charged. Romero’s left hand dropped the muleta over the bull’s muzzle to blind him, his left shoulder went forward between the horns as the sword went in, and just for an instant he and the bull were one.”
-Ernest Hemingway, from
“The Sun Also Rises”.
Ever since I read “The Sun Also Rises” I have wanted to attend a bullfight. Being a big fan of Hemingway, I wanted the opportunity to experience this sport that was such an inspiration to him. Sure, there’s always the bull’s side, but what about every steer that is slaughtered in the U.S. At least before the bull got to the butcher’s table he would be taking part in a ritual that has been around since the Seventh Century. But my opinions were formed from reading, and that is why I wanted so desperately to see a bullfight in person. I had to get the same feeling Hemingway did when he witnessed man bull becoming one.
My trip to Cancun was my first to a Spanish speaking country, and thus far my only opportunity to see a bullfight. I was not going to pass it up. Jamie, my traveling partner, was also interested. So when Wednesday rolled around, we pried ourselves off the sand and made our way downtown.
Coming from the hotel zone, the bullring is located to the left at the end of the strip. We were a little early so we stayed to the right and ambled down Tulum Avenue. Neither of us could focus on the people or buildings we passed. We just wanted to see the El Toro. So after grabbing a quick bite to eat and some cervezas, we bought our tickets from a street vendor and headed toward our destination.
As Jamie and I turned the corner and started down Bonampak Avenue, I could see the pale maroon, stucco bullring looming up over the trees and bushes that flanked either side of the structure at the end of the road. Many people streamed toward the bullring. There was a crowd at the entrance.
“It kind of reminds me of walking down Brookline Avenue to Fenway,” I remarked to my friend.
Looking puzzled, the only response Jamie could muster was “Huh?”
But it did feel that way to me. Walking with a large group, in the kind of heat and humidity you’d find on a typical July day in Boston, to watch an event steeped in history and tradition. Except, instead of a homerun sailing over the Green Monster, you’d watch a bull killed. Obviously the two events were different, but being outside the ring created the same type of atmosphere- one of anticipation and excitement.
After traversing through the line the guy took my ticket, or boleto, and I began to get a taste of what it might have been attending a bullfight during Hemingway’s time. The clay walls, the dirt floor, the pungent odor of . . .
“This place reeks of shit,” my friend said with a wide grin.
Although a shoddy attempt at a joke, Jamie was correct- both literally and figuratively. One certainly smelled bull droppings, but not only that, we would soon discover that we had just plummeted into the black hole that engulfs many travelers . . . the tourist trap.
To reach the seats you had to walk through the actual ring where the bull would be killed, and there was only reason why- they wanted you to buy things. Souvenir stands hawking anything from tacky matador hats to the kind of plastic bulls you might find in Epcot’s Spain at Disney World. My vision of Hemingway’s sacred country vanished, replacing it was the reality of American commercialism.
Cancun was a town built solely for the tourist industry, and I shouldn’t have been surprised. But I was. The mystique of the corridas del toros and its roots in Spanish culture were enough for me to think it couldn’t be spoiled . . . that it was sacred and not to be corrupted. My naiveté had sucked me into this vortex, along with the thirty-three American dollars I paid for the ticket. I yearned for the Hemingway adventure, and now I would do my best to achieve it. So I made a conscious decision to ignore the tourist atmosphere and concentrate on the actual bullfight.
It wasn’t easy.
Soon after the souvenir stands were dismantled inside the ring, vendors swarmed into the stands, peddling the same hokey merchandise. To make matters worse we had taken a seat on the first row on the balcony; this was a mistake because the hawkers continuously disturbed our sightline to make their rounds. I still tried to block out the rampant commercialism. The bulls would be coming soon, and I could focus on what mattered in the ring. And besides, the crowd was more that fifty percent Mexican, and if they could tolerate the marketing so could I.
When the opening ceremonies commenced I began to relax. A group of dancers emerged from the tunnels and launched into a routine accompanied by the frantic beating of drums. Clad in elaborate silver and gold costumes, they did a series of flips and spins that the crowd, through their yelling and applause, found entertaining. After their finale a portly man, dressed in cowboy garb and wearing an enormous sombrero, did rope tricks. Big loops to small loops, he repeated the show as he glided around the bullring. From the polite claps the audience obviously preferred the dancers. Or maybe they had become restless, anxiously awaiting the bull’s entrance. They wouldn’t have to wait much longer.
The English translation of corrida de torros is bullfight, but aficionados will tell you that is a misnomer. They feel uncomfortable calling it a fight because it isn’t a pugilistic affair at all. The program I bought outside the ring described it this way: “The bullfight is actually moving art. A man using his courage, risks life to create art.” That account went along with Hemingway, a description I had presumed, and now I would get to witness this artistic expression of courage.
I felt a rush down my spine when the bull bolted out of box without remorse and darted into the center of the ring. He had it all- long horns, expansive hump, and from the haughtiness he displayed by stopping directly in the middle of the spectacle, determination. The audience was pleased. Shouts of “Toro, Toro, Toro” rang down in appreciation. It was almost as if the bull was playing with us when he refused to charge, opting instead for the dramatic pause. We waited anxiously for the beast who would not leave this ring alive.
If you blinked, you would have missed it. With breathless agility, the bull shot at one of the banderlillos- who are the matador’s assistants and play an important part in the latter part of the ceremony. The young man had been yelling at the animal, and wanting to see his next paycheck he quickly hopped over the partition to safety. Never breaking stride, the bull turned as if on skates and charged at another banderillo . . . who followed in his partner’s path.
The crowd loved every minute of this, and I have to admit, I was completely enthralled. The bull had enticed me into his world, and everything else- spring break, girls in bikinis, margaritas on the beach- had receded. The cheap souvenirs had been buried inside my mind, somewhere under the geometry I learned in the eight grade. That is why I was so disturbed by the voice. It came across the speakers and radiated, in English, throughout the ring. It told us the next stage of the event was ready, and then proceeded to explain what would happen next.
I was annoyed, not surprised, that they’d have an announcer to hold the tourist’s hand. For someone who had no clue, it was probably a good thing. But for the person who had done their homework, someone who came to witness “moving art”, the voice was an intrusion. I could only imagine what the Mexicans thought. Maybe they found the announcer amusing. Maybe they didn’t understand him. At this point I didn’t care what other people thought. Blocking out the distractions was effort enough.
So there was the announcer, telling the crowd what was coming next. Because of Hemingway, I already knew. After showcasing the bull, it was now time for the picadors to work on the bull. Riding horseback, the picador’s job is to weaken the bull by jabbing it in the back with a long spear. Their task is vital, for if a bull isn’t slowed down the matador cannot make his exciting passes. In addition to their practical function, the picadors also serve as a test for the bull: one that determines if he has courage.
“If the bull runs from the picador’s stab, he has demonstrated his gentleness,” the program said. “But if he charges the horse and doesn’t retreat, he demonstrates his breeding and courage.”
This bull had courage. The instant the two picadors emerged (one on a white horse and the other on a black one), the bull shot at the light colored stallion. Along with everybody else, I gasped when the bull rammed the unsuspecting into the wall. Reading “The Sun Also Rises” had somewhat prepared me, but deep inside it still hurt.
“Don’t look at the horses after the bull hits them,” was what Jake told Brett in the novel. “Watch the charge and see the picador try and keep the bull off.”
I heeded this advice and inspected the picador’s futile attempt to keep the bull away. But El Toro was intent on knocking the man off the horse, and succeeded in five seconds. This was the only time I was glad it wasn’t like Pamplona in the 1920’s. Because if it was, the horse would be dead. Here, the animals were padded and the horns could not penetrate. Regardless, it was the hardest thing to watch.
When a horse is felled it is the matador’s job to make the bull come at him. In Hemingway’s book, to achieve this the man only had to flick his cape. With this bull it took more. The matador had to maneuver a lot closer and yell. Eventually El Toro, hungry for more damage, rushed at him. Executing a nice veronica pass, the matador lead the bull into the other picador . . . where he could be jabbed properly, But this bull not only had courage, he was also intelligent, and the beast maneuvered himself away the man on the horse. It took several more passes for the bull to tire, and the picador riding the black stallion finally speared him with force. But even though el toro had blood oozing from his hump, he was not broken. He could not capitulate the first round.
The second stage was about to start, and once again Mr. announcer explained it in English. But it was easy to forget about the intrusion here. This was the part I would find the most exciting- the banderillos. The men who participate- who made their debut briefly in the onset- have the task of jabbing two barbed sticks into the bull’s hump. These guys have no weapon of defense, nobody to cover their backs. And the banderillos don’t wait for their enemy to charge- they’re always on the attack. I thought of them as the rodeo clowns of bullfighting, because they entertained and assisted the star, all the while risking their very existence. I admired their reckless, thrill-seeking attitude.
So there was the bull, gigantic and fierce and determined, and the banderillos felt it upon themselves to trump the animal. From the minute it charged, the crowd was behind the bull. The banderillos wanted a reason to root for the matador.
They succeeded.
The first bandillero was the youngest. Lithe in build, with short cropped black hair and a child’s smile, he barreled at El Toro like a special team captain about to tackle a punt returner. The bull seemed to enjoy this, and galloped quickly. It was a classic game of chicken, about as fair as a Toyota versus an eighteen wheeler. Somehow I didn’t shield my eyes. And just as the bull was about to maul his prey, the young man sidestepped and thrust his instruments toward the bull’s hump.
Somewhere in the blur I saw the sticks graze the animal and tumble on the dirt. Looking dejected the bandillero shook his head, jogged to the edge of the ring, and leapt over the wall. Although he failed, the audience clapped for the effort. And the young man seemed to inspire his peers. The next two bandilleros were older and heftier, but each challenged the bull and connected with good placements of the sticks. The momentum had now swung back to the matador.
The third act of this tragedy was set to commence. Any high I got from the banderillos evaporated when I inspected the bull. The black beast, once so full of energy and life, was now weary and listless. His expansive hump was stained red. His mere sight made you desire euthanasia. A wish that would be soon granted.
Except this was what I had been waiting for . . . the matador’s cape work. I so deeply wanted to see if the guy moved in the terrain of the bull, or faked danger by staying in his own. I gazed intently as the matador positioned himself and then proceeded to conduct his passes. I studied carefully, enjoying the fluttering of the red material, but couldn’t feel any emotion for the bull or the matador.
It was kill time, and it felt anti-climatic. I did not feel that the matador was risking his life for artistic expression. As for the bull, I didn’t feel bad because I had accepted his demise from the beginning. The two participants were simply finishing what they started in the kind of manner my high school basketball coach deemed “going though the motions”.
By the time the bugles sounded and the announcer told us it was now “the moment of truth”, I had lost interest. I still yearned to see the matador and bull become one, but I knew it wouldn’t happen here. If bullfighting is indeed an art, then it loses all aesthetics conducted in these surroundings.
When the person in the tight costume drove his sword into the creature it all seemed so contrived. His movement wasn’t smooth, it was over emphasized. The bull staggered for a few seconds, his tongue draped over his mouth, and then collapsed to the cheer of the crowd. Two more bulls would be killed, and not for one second did I see animal and man become one.
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