My lifelong friend, Ann Swallow recently gave this bit of
advice to another friend on the facebook:
“You have the chance to do something you've never done
before. Put on your best pair of shoes, grin, and go! This applies to just
about everything.”
It’s sparkling advice from a sparkling person whose opinion
I deeply respect. I had such an
opportunity this past weekend, but there’s a bit of back story we need to visit
first.
Back before the turn of the century (so pleased I was born
at I time I can use that phase) – around ’92 or ’93, I travelled with a friend
for a weeklong getaway to sunny Acapulco . It started with severe sunburn
(self-inflicted and the result of astounding stupidity on the part of two
people who should have known better). In
fact, there were so many opportunities for the pair of us to contend for the
Darwin Awards that week that I almost have to believe that luck is a true power
in the universe. This story involves
death and near death, but not for the two of us.
Dave (always best to travel with someone who shares your
first name. Makes it easy on those you
meet.) and I got chatting with a pair of concierges who worked at the hotel (I
believe their names were Hector and Luis).
It was late morning on our third day down there. Nursing our two day old sunburns, we hadn’t
planned on spending too much time on the beach and were looking for
suggestions.
“How about the bullfights?”
How about the bullfights, indeed.
Both Dave and I grew up on farms. Both of us had a realistic view of large
animals, a respect for their size and a farmer’s gut reaction against
inflicting harm on an animal. Both of
our new Mexican friends nodded enthusiastically and told us how much we would
enjoy an afternoon of drinking cerveza and watching the Novilleros – the novice
bullfighters slated to perform in the ring that afternoon. Like I say, Ann’s philosophy is very much my
own, so – believing it would be an afternoon that I would hate – we agreed to
go.
Shortly after lunch, we climbed into a bus with a few
American and German tourists from the hotel.
The bus driver began to tell us about the importance of bullfighting in
Spanish culture generally and Acapulco
specifically. He told us about how it is
as much an art as a sport and that if a bullfighter fails to deliver a swift
and successful killing stroke with his sword, that bullfighter may face a hefty
fine from the City of Acapulco
for cruelty to animals. He also told us
that in the past the meat from the vanquished bulls was given to the
orphanages. “But today?” he said and
rubbed his index and middle fingers against his thumb. “Too expensive. Now the meat is sold at market.”
How much of the driver’s tale is true and how much is
theatre? I don’t know and I don’t want
to know. I’ve never fact checked his
claims and I never will because his story readied me for my afternoon at the
bullring.
When we arrived, we tried to seat ourselves among the
Mexicans who were out for an afternoon of entertainment. I’d had enough of Americans, Germans and Dutch
at the hotel. We settled in among a few
families but an American family sat next to us.
It was just as well. I was
interested to see how a pair of middleclass teenagers reacted to Mexico ’s
favourite bloodsport.
As it turned out, not very well.
The afternoon began with colour, fanfare, lots of beer,
music, laughter a number of friendly pats on the back from Mexicans who were
more than happy to share their sport with us.
An older gent worked with all the English he had to encourage us in our
appreciation of bullfighting.
The afternoon wore on and novice after novice faced the
young bulls. Some showed skill and were
rewarded by cheers. Some were not so
skilled and gained the contempt of the crowd.
“Toro! Toro! Toro!”
Once the crowd starts cheering for the bull you’re done,
son. If I remember correctly, that
particular novice ended up being gored high on the thigh by the bull to the
thunderous delight of the assembled crowd.
Sometime during the afternoon I came to the realization that
bullfighting isn’t about watching the bull die – it’s about the real chance
that you might get to watch a person die.
And this isn’t just about bullfighting.
Car racing isn’t about running around in perfect ovals forever and
ever. Car racing is about the crashes
and the chance that someone might die.
Alpine skiing, too.
Football. Boxing. Even diving.
Anything with that element that something can at anytime go terribly
wrong and injury and death are only a small misstep away.
As I rode the bus back to the hotel with the Dutchmen, the
Germans and the Americans and their traumatized teens, I realized I kind of
enjoyed my afternoon at the bullfights.
It’s not something that I think I’ll ever do again, but because I had been
prepared for it by Acapulco
natives and I sat among the Mexican crowd, I think I could see how compelling
the sport could be. Later that night,
Dave and I happened upon the nightclub where those Novilleros were spending
their evening and drank each of them under the table with their libation of
choice. That might also be a factor in
my enjoyment of the day.
There have been other experiences that I was either hesitant
to take part in or felt from the start that it was something I would neither
understand nor enjoy. I had just such an
experiential opportunity a few weeks ago and I relate that next time…
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