We’d seen the placards around town for a couple weeks; having never before witnessed the spectacle, we decided to give it a go. The arena was a circular affair with concentric stepped concrete benches. All seats had a comparable view of the action, yet the high-status front row seats cost nearly double that of general admission, just two rows behind (which, at $25 each, struck us as pricey enough). Vendors made the rounds with cervezas and sodas and such delicacies as plastic tube-bags of potato chips soaked in lime juice and drenched with hot sauce. A brass orchestra at one end of the stands played all the Mexican folk favorites. As the matadors took to the ring in their colorful skintight costumes, the band struck up the iconic strains of the Corrida; the dolled-up machos fanning their purple capes and fawning to the admiring crowd.
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A fellow marched around the ring with a blackboard inscribed with the breeding ranch, name, and weight of the first contestant, who promptly charged through the torile (bull chute) and into the ring. The assistant matadors had a go at taunting the toro, leaping to the safety of the barricades that dotted the perimeter, to the increasing frustration of the bull. A couple of lance-bearing fat guys rode in on blindfolded, mattress-corseted horses, and proceeded to prick the bull in his shoulder haunches, clearly pissing him off...
Then the star of the night, Ignacio Garibas, strode into the ring, all asparkle in his gold-sequined traje de luces, to cheers, whistles, and adoring cries, “Nacho! Nacho!” And so the fight was on. Nacho worked the bull admirably, eliciting “Olés!” from the crowd for his more dramatic passes. At one point the bull clearly nicked him, causing Nacho to retreat for a breather and a glass of water (and a few Advil?), while the junior matadors took turns annoying the bull. Nacho regained his composure and resumed center stage, stepping aside at one point as a couple of picadors stole into the ring, each baring a pair of colorfully plumed barbed pickets, which they deftly stuck into the bulls shoulder haunches, further enraging him. Nacho skillfully played the bull with more approaches, taunts, and flourishes; to more Olés from the crowd. Then it was time to trade purple cape for red cape and sword. More passes and posturing, including the iconic pose with arched back and sword dangling dramatically down the spine, just like in the posters. Finally, Nacho made his move, and in a single thrust, the bull went down. The roaring crowd took to their feet as one. A huge bouquet of roses appeared in Nacho’s arm. Ears were sawed off and Nacho hoisted them aloft with a flourish, parading around the ring. As he passed, hats and scarves were hurled his way (dutifully retrieved by junior matadors who reverently followed Nacho around the ring, tossing hats and such back from whence they came)..
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The dead bull was hauled off on a horse-drawn litter and a janitorial crew swept onto the field with rakes to tidy things up, kind of like the between-sets scene on the clay courts of the French Open. Then the dude with the blackboard strode about with particulars on the next contestant. The gates of the torile were flung open, and… nothing. It took 10 minutes of coaxing, junior matadors waving capes and disappearing into the chute, before our reluctant toro finally sauntered out. Instead of being drawn to the flourishing capes, he noticeably shied away. They promptly called in the gordos on the padded horses, who mercilessly pricked his haunches, causing much bleeding but eliciting little display of emotion. Likewise the picadors and their plumed barbs; poor bull seemed more hurt and confused than enraged. Nacho strode onto the scene in his sparkly get-up, and did his best to elicit a few lunges from the toro, to a few half-hearted “Olés” from the crowd. Wisely, he called for the red cape and sword early on, thinking it best to put an end to this embarrassment. But the bull had other ideas, wandering away after being stabbed, sword falling out. Three times. Finally, with a fresh (presumably sharper) sword, the bull went down and the episode was over. No flowers. No ears.
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The dead bull was hauled off on a horse-drawn litter and a janitorial crew swept onto the field with rakes to tidy things up, kind of like the between-sets scene on the clay courts of the French Open. Then the dude with the blackboard strode about with particulars on the next contestant. The gates of the torile were flung open, and… nothing. It took 10 minutes of coaxing, junior matadors waving capes and disappearing into the chute, before our reluctant toro finally sauntered out. Instead of being drawn to the flourishing capes, he noticeably shied away. They promptly called in the gordos on the padded horses, who mercilessly pricked his haunches, causing much bleeding but eliciting little display of emotion. Likewise the picadors and their plumed barbs; poor bull seemed more hurt and confused than enraged. Nacho strode onto the scene in his sparkly get-up, and did his best to elicit a few lunges from the toro, to a few half-hearted “Olés” from the crowd. Wisely, he called for the red cape and sword early on, thinking it best to put an end to this embarrassment. But the bull had other ideas, wandering away after being stabbed, sword falling out. Three times. Finally, with a fresh (presumably sharper) sword, the bull went down and the episode was over. No flowers. No ears. .
There were five more bulls on the night’s docket. But we’d seen the good and the bad, and it was ugly enough. Besides, fresh entertainments awaited back at the Jardin....
(For more pics of the bullfight, and a video clip, go to http://picasaweb.google.com/bajarob/Torero#)
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