Dispatch Number 22 -La Coleta

I sit with a glass of tequila in the front row under cover of shade, late afternoon sun showers the grounds. It is small and intimate -from where I sit I am right in it, and could not be happier. Let's see how I hold up watching the act itself. There are two concentric circles of thick chalk matching the shape of the grounds. Hard packed sand has been groomed smooth and level. I am at Plaza de Toros, the "La Coleta" in San Cristobal de la Casas in the southern reaches of Mexico -the bull fights.

Two days earlier I saw a poster promoting the Easter Sunday event and knew I would attend. The blood, the spectacle, the ritual. Now I sit in the ring. I see a white face or two but find myself surrounded by Mexicans and this pleases me, no distractions to listen to, no English speakers to openly howl in shock and disgust, at least those that bring their cultural bias to foreign lands. Judgement of a ritual not theirs. Mexicans are fun at public events like these, I thoroughly enjoyed the professional boxing title fight I attended in Baja California.

Here at the La Coleta there is a thick wood boundary that is the same color as San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge. Every bull that has entered the arena has scared the freshly painted wood with its horns, usually right after it is released into the arena, the sound is horrendous and is a show of ferocity. The bull fighters are more commonly referred to as Toreros than Matadores. Each Torero has a cuadrilla, "entourage" of six men that perform different tasks which I will spare you here (there is a concise write up on "wikipedia"). From my spot I watched a member of the entourage sharpen the sword used to deliver the final death blow to the bull known as "estocada", where the sword enters at the shoulder blades and through the aorta or heart.

It will be a duel between six bulls ranging from 460kg to 600kg (1,012 lbs- 1,320 lbs) and three Toreros. Sumidero at 485kg did not have much fight in him, where Monte Bello at 518kg was a clever and hearty fighter who died 15 feet from me. I could see the eyes of the Torero with all the expression and emotion. It was after this I knew I could sit and appreciate the ritual of bull fighting. I arrived without preconception. I did not bring my cultural bias with me -I accepted the ritual as it was and did not try to "figure" out the various aspects or apply my Western logic to it. I came to see-live-hear and feel Mexico.

An excellent fight brings the crowd to their feet waving thousands of white handkerchiefs as a sign of respect for a Torero's performance, it is also intended to influence the single judge presiding over the fight to wave his white handkerchief as well -it is the highest honor that can be given to the fighter. On this day the crowd is intense and the judge endures a great deal of jeering including some from the Torero himself who has an orchestral command of the crowd at that moment. The moment is fraught with tension until the judge makes his decision.

A single handkerchief earns one ear, which is sliced off the bull in the ring where it fell dead. For an excellent fight both ears come off indicated by two handkerchiefs. During the ovation the Torero is presented the still warm ear or ears, he then makes a show of the ears by presenting them to someone in the crowd. Having anything presented to you by the Torero is an honor, it is intentional and not haphazard.

During the ovation the matador walks the entire ring and the fans throw personal effects at his feet which he briefly holds or wears. People throw everything into the ring: hats, wine bags, seat cushions, shoes and all are thrown back to the owner by the Torero. If it is the Toreo's last fight he drinks from the wine bag filled with tequila or red wine. It is an intimate affair.

Bull fighting is an act of ballet between man and beast both will kill if given the opportunity, and one such opportunity came to a particularly clever bull. Much to my pleasure a bull drew blood and injury from both a bull fighter AND one of his assistants. The assistant was gored in the thigh when he was trying to place his pair of darts into the shoulders of the bull. The bull went on to deliver the exact same injury to the Torero. I watched several bulls die up to this point and it felt like justice, a balancing of sorts to keep the tormentors honest. The assistant managed to limp off under his own power, whereas the bull fighter had to be carried out by his cuadrilla like a man being carried off the battlefield.

Unsure who said it, probably Hemingway, that bull fighting was a place to study death and motion. It certainly was.