A Peruvian Bullfight

On our drive into Ollantaytambo we passed a circular stadium with a dirt interior. The first thought that crossed my mind was, maybe that's a cock-fighting colosseum.

A few hours later we were climbing tall, mammoth ruins on the edge of town when we peered over the edge and to my surprise saw the colosseum—but this time full of people!

An hour later, and now done with the ruins, I asked a lady sitting at a store-front, “Are there rooster-fights in Ollanta?” 

“Yes,” she said. “They're over that way,” pointing in the same direction as the colosseum. I was stoked! With one hour left of daylight, I knew exactly where we'd go.

We walked through a dirt parking lot and over an embankment. Already I could see the townspeople sitting on the hillside. Below them was the outdoor colosseum with seats full and spectators overflowing. We walked along a dirt path and slipped between lines of people and found a spot on the rock wall where we could stand and see most of the arena.

The setting was beautiful. As the sun lowered in the valley, a special glow radiated on the mountains that towered above us. Storm clouds teased from the upper peaks and the scent of rain blew all around.

As of now, there was nothing happening in the ring. A patient crowd sat on walls and leaned over fences, waiting for something to begin. From time to time a lady would enter the arena selling beer or Coke and the crowd would cheer and whistle and she would smile back.

On the far side of the arena, near the back entrance, I saw a livestock truck attempt to back up. “Maybe he's bringing the roosters,” I suggested.

Jenna, who is much more observant than myself, responded, “No, those animals have horns.”

Within a few minutes a group of matadors entered the arena. They paraded to the the crowd, attracting cheers and applause. It was then that I realized that this was no cock-fighting colosseum, but a bullfighting ring!

I was excited. I had only seen one bullfight in my life, and that was over twenty years ago in Valencia, Spain. But that was a bullfight on horseback, or rejoneo, and is not favored by true aficionados. Perhaps this was my chance to view the real thing.

Then, from within another entryway, a bull raced into the ring and the crowd cheered with excitement. With a rope still lassoed around his neck, a group of adrenaline-filled helpers tugged at the rope and pulled the resisting animal close enough to the outer ring where they could undo the loop from his head.

The bull was free!

In typical fashion the matador waved his red cape and taunted the bull to come his way. The bull lowered his head and charged forward, barely missing the man.

The scene was repeated over and over. There wasn't one matador, but three in the ring at once; and each stood in a different section of the ring.

The crowd was fun to watch. They cheered with every pass and yelled out “Bravo!” One section was reserved for the band who played their drums and tubas, keeping the atmosphere upbeat.—I was also fascinated to see a boy, no more than eight years old, sit on the edge of the ring with his legs dangling over. He had to hustle and move his legs on one instance when the bull came too close.

A lady next to us had a box of beverages and several homemade desserts she was selling. She turned and asked if we wanted a beer. 

“No, thanks,” I said in Spanish, “but we'll take a piece of cake.”

After the matador, it was time for the banderillo. I turned to Jenna and explained that this is the guy that has a dowel with a steel point beneath his cape and makes the first thrust into the bull's withers.

[Please forgive me if I make a mistake in terminology. I assumed this was now the second act of the bullfight when the banderillo makes his entrance. In a true bullfight, I believe, he does not use a cape, but only carries two dowels called banderillas. I did not know if this bullfight in Peru followed the same suit.]

When I watched my first bullfight twenty years ago, this was the point when my wife first saw blood running down the flanks and realized that the aim was to kill the bull. Mentally, she had known it all along, but this was the first time that the reality of it had sunk in.

I watched the banderillo draw the bull with his cape and the bull made several passes. Then he put down his cape, raised the sword and the crowd cheered. Then he returned to his blockade at the edge of the ring, put down the cape and lit a cigarette. His turn was over.

I thought that was odd. 

Then, a cowboy-looking macho guy came out with his lasso, whirled it through the air, and flung it toward the bull. Twice he missed, but the third time was a charm and the one ton animal was pulled and persuaded out of the arena and back into the truck. 

This entire scene was repeated one more time. I turned to the lady who sold us the dessert. “Why don't they kill the bull,” I asked. 

“It is prohibited,” she replied, “and has been for about three or four years.” 

Interesting. Animal-right ideology had made its way to Peru. I knew that in some parts of Spain bullfighting had been banned altogether and old bull rings had been converted into shopping malls. But Spain is in the midst of European progessivism, while Peru, I thought, would be sheltered, especially this deep into the Andes. 

Jenna wasn't saddened that they didn't kill the bull. That's how she preferred it. A little sport, then let the bull run free. 

I, on the other hand, felt disappointed. I understood how some can see it as animal cruelty, but the suffering of the bull, in reality, isn't very long. Maybe fifteen minutes. Instead I see a world where the true masculine things in our society are becoming erased. And believe me, bullfighting is truly a masculine sport. 

I was, however, happy that we happened upon this unusual spectacle. As I walked back toward the old town of Ollantaytambo, with the fresh breeze at my face and the giant Andes mountains all around, I was grateful to be here. Grateful for all the variety of life. ♠