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Episode 3: When Humans Attack (Animals)

The Exploitation and Contradiction of South America: La Corrida - Episode 3: When Humans Attack (Animals)

Tysonv
2005-11-05 08:23:00

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to Sam. He quickly corrected me and showed me how to pass the bottle to the right. I quickly blamed the altitude, which, at 9,000 feet in El Valle Sagrado, has become an omnipotent gringo scapegoat for mistakes made.

—"I have a headache." "Oh, it's Probably the altitude." (everyone nods in concurrence)

—"It is really hard to breath today." "You know, it must be the altitude" (mm-hmm)

—"Sorry I forgot to meet you at the football field yesterday. The altitude must be getting to my head." (for sure)

—"Man, after we finished that second bottle of Pisco last night, I couldn't find my hostal and I woke up in some random house in the campo ten kilometers outside of town." "Yeah, that altitude sure has some effect, doesn't it?" (it sure does)

Meanwhile, something symbolic of man's domestication of animals and dominion over nature had just taken place: the wild horse had capitulated and the cowboy was riding him heroically around the ring in circles amidst thunderous applause. Sam and I would later discuss the significance of the whole rodeo and especially of this event in order to make sense of it. The horse had been tamed and was ready to become part of the team of beasts of burden on the farm. It was a glorious moment for all.

As had the beast been tamed, so too had my first-world attitude as I watched the skill, strength and teamwork that make these people, so small in stature, so grand in culture. But my moment of admiration would be short lived. To the blaring sounds of the band above the other door, into the ring, a raging, snarling bull was shoved from the back of the bull truck. Two unprofessional toreros ran into the center of the ring and coaxed the bull with their dirty, faded red capes. The onlookers cooed with excitement.

Two more liters of Cusqueña were purchased and the corrida was in full effect. The matadors toyed with the bulls until the bulls were tired or the crowd was bored. One drunken citizen played rodeo clown and was intentionally gored on several occasions. Soon the bull was escorted off into the corral to strong applause.

The referee appeared again in different uniform, donning a new cerveza to match. And round two began with the horse band starting their song and a fresh set of young horses busting into the ring. The same display of domestication was repeated to the same delight of the crowd. A few cowboys failed to mount the horse on the first try. But the beast inevitably would be tamed, the crowd would applaud, and the horse and rider would clear the ring. Then came the next bull. A bit more ferocious than the first, the crowd's excitability raised to match.

Round after round, the horses then the cows. The bottles passed around. Without questioning the process or significance, Sam and I soaked up the sun and suds, squeezed between excited onlookers who were in turn overlooked by towering Chikon and her glaciers who turned a faint pink color as the sun was fading by round eight or so. I looked at the crowd around the makeshift bullring. Nobody had budged an inch in four hours, nor had their excitement waned in the slightest. Several times I gazed at them to notice that each and every man, woman, and child—whether in trees, on walls or houses, under the bleachers or in the stands—had a permanent grin attached to their face. This became contagious, an effect that would not wear off until long after the local men's chicha hangover. The hangover only serving them as a temporal indicator that the next day of the festival was about to begin.