Indiana Jones and the Blood of the Toros

Where to begin? Emily and I decided to frolic off to a city called Valladolid (Vai-ah-dough-LEED) this weekend, which is situated to the east of Merida, halfway to Cancun. Many people pass through, but rarely stop in, and I am not sure why. After spending a weekend there, we are considering going back a second time to hit all of the stuff we missed!

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SATURDAY:
We got up early on Saturday morning, hoping to catch the bus in Valladolid to Coba, a recently-excavated ruin about an hour east of Valladolid. Somehow, the bus schedules got mixed up, and we ended up in Valladolid about a half an hour after the bus had left. Giving up on that idea for the day, Emily and I decided to check into our hotel and rent some bicycles to ride to a famous pair of cenotes not too far away…

John-Curtiss, you are no longer allowed to tell me that my bike stinks! These bikes that we rented brought new meaning to the phrase ‘rusty pile of bolts.’ I think that the bike I rented was once red, though the rust made it quite difficult to say. The handlebars were bent to one side and crooked, as were the pedals, making it difficult to pedal uphill without my foot slipping off. The handbrakes were questionable and there were no gearshifts.

Our first stop on the bike path was the old church of San Bernadario. It is a colonial style church which is in large part, a convent. As is usual with colonial Spanish churches, the inside of the church itself was not much to look at. Like all the others I have seen, it had large, high, sloping walls with sparse and gruesome decorations. The Spaniards seemed to think that bloodier was better in all of their depictions of Christ. We had to pay to get into the adjacent convent, but the moment I stepped through the doorway, I was very surprised. The entire convent reminded me of a conch shell. It was rough, sandy-colored brown stone on the outside and a soft, peachy pink on the inside. I couldn’t believe that the outside could be so rough and crude, while the inside was so pearly pink and lovely. It was two stories high and was filled with the dormitories where the nuns lived. Emily and I wandered around the pink hallways for a while. I had read that there was a cenote next to the convent, so we wandered outside…

For those of you who did not get my emails last year, you may need a quick debriefing on cenotes (seh-NO-tays). Those of you who already know may skip to the next paragraph! Here in Yucatan, there are no above-ground rivers. The ground here is a tiny bit of topsoil with solid limestone underneath. When it rains, the water filters through the limestone into the expansive network of underground rivers below. Sometimes, though, the layer of limestone can become thin in places due to erosion, so the later of stone above breaks, and leaves a sinkhole in the land. These cenotes often look like a pool with very steep walls, but they are really just an open portion of an underground river. Since the water is filtered through the rock, the water is some of the cleanest in the world. It is so clean, that if you let the water still around you, you get the sensation that you are floating mid-air. They can also be dangerous because some of them have very strong currents and can suck you under… where you may pop up in another cenote along the way… probably dead. Dangerous though they can be, their beauty and allure cannot be denied. The Yucatan peninsula is the only known place in the world today that has cenotes.

Sure enough, we found it. The nuns had built a large gazebo above it to honor it. Some years ago, some scientists went scuba diving down in there and managed to find all sorts of old weapons and plates and tools. The gazebo has a coffin-shaped hole with a cage above it, so you can look down and see the water far below. I am not sure what I was expecting, but it was not to see what must have been a forty-foot drop.

After all of our adventures there, we hopped back on out bikes and squeakily pedaled out to the cenotes at the end of the trail. These were the cenotes of Dzitnup, which I was very sad to have missed last year. They are much more public than the cenotes I so well loved in Cuzama last year, but they are nonetheless beautiful. The first we went to was X´Keken (ish-keh-KEN), which is the more famous of the two cenotes. The cenote itself is in large cave, artisitically lit with artificial lighting. There is a small hole to the world above in the ceiling from which tree roots hang down and shed light on the eerily clear, blue water below. To the right is a giant stone formation that looks like a willow tree. Black catfish of all sizes pepper the water, as well as small, grape-sized seed pods from the tree above. Emily and I had a fabulous time splashing around in the super-cold water. If you stood still long enough, little green minnows would come nibble on your toes.

Right next door was the cenote Samula (sa-MOO-lah), which was similar in appearance to the X’Keken. There was a hole in the ceiling where tree roots stretched down as if they were melting into the water. They came down to meet a tiny, dirty island off to the side. The water, as usual was lovely. These are the first cenotes I have visited this year… it feels good to see them again.

So Emily and I hopped our bikes back to Valladolid late in the afternoon to see what trouble we could dig up. We had heard that there was a fair in Valladolid, which was one of the reasons that we decided to go this past weekend, so we went to the centro to see if we could catch a taxi out to the fairgrounds. It was a touch of fate that we ran into a friend from the past year, Alberto. Apparently, he was in charge of the corrida at the fair… corrida (co-REE-dah) translates roughly to ‘the running.’ Bull fights. I had heard that there would be bull fights there and was planning on going, but I had no idea Berto was in charge of the whole scene. He and another from his work offered to take us out to the fair.

On the way out to the grounds, they received a call that the bullfighters would be coming in earlier than expected and therefore needed hotel rooms for that very night. We spent a few hours running around the city, trying to help them find hotel rooms with our library of guide books and asking them all about bullfighting. After it all, we managed to arrive at the fairgrounds just in time for the Yuri concert.

Who is Yuri, you may ask? Who is she not? That would be the better question. She is like the Mexican Madonna… with a little Britney Spears, Carly Simon and Rihanna mixed in. Emily and I agreed that we would have never ever thought to attend… but Berto’s growing group of friends from work insisted that we ‘get to know’ the Mexican Madonna. We got into the concert for free (because they are ALL higher ups, as is seems) and feasted our eyes on every manner of costume you could imagine. It was actually a pretty good show, if not a bit hysterical. Between each number there was a group of young men doing interpretive dances in everything from buckskin Native American attire to the robes of the Chinese to the getups of 50’s gangsters. But all of them were sparkly and neon. The concert in general was much more calm than most in the United States. Most people in the stadium remained seated and relaxed, simply enjoying the music for what it was: good music from a good singer wearing crazy costumes.

And that was Saturday.

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SUNDAY:
Sunday we woke up bright and early, ready for the day. Berto invited us to the corrida that afternoon, so we spent the morning just shopping and checking out Valladolid. There was way too much to do and not enough time! Part of the main plaza has a series of attractive little shops perfect for souvenir shopping. One side is the main church in Valladolid. It was beautiful. I think the most interesting thing for me was a side chapel, filled with stone plates carved with epitaphs. The epitaphs covered the floor and halfway up the walls, the names were from the 1800’s and I knew that behind them were either ashes or a body part of the person whose name graced the stone. It was like walking on a mosaic of graves… who knew what was beneath my feet? I think the strangest thing to me was that in the center of the room was a large, glass coffin in which an incredibly life-like statue of Christ rested. His eyes were open and staring and his face was pale in death, his crown of thorns pushing into his skin and real human hair. But for his face, he was wrapped in a white burial shroud.

Our next stop was the governor’s palace, for which we had low expectations. The paintings on the second floor, however, made it worthwhile. They masterfully depicted the history of the Mayans, some of the Spanish Inquisition and the arrival and success of the Conquistadors in Yucatan. The paintings skillfully showed the story without much bias to either the Mayans or the Spaniards… a rare feat in Yucatec art.

After a coconut popsicle (more coconut than popsicle) we scurried out to the fairgrounds to meet Berto for the beginnings of the corrida.

We met up with Berto and he sent us off with his younger cousin, Fernando, who was maybe twenty-five… and a Reggaeton star in Merida! (Reggaeton is kind of like Mexican Hip-Hop and it is definitely the favored type of music among young folk.) ‘Make sure they have a good time,’ Berto had instructed him, handing him a 500-peso bill. The Reggaeton singer bought us lunch and some marquesitas and showed us around the fairgrounds. When we came to the cow shed, I saw that none of their animals were castrated, I asked Fernando why? He said he had no idea, but not to ask one of the caretakers because it would offend them. I guess that just must be another cultural thing that I wouldn’t understand… I feel like I would not be offended if a Mexican came up to me at the fair and asked my why I castrated my steers. Oh well. Also, Fernando insisted that we take pictures with the little fair ponies, simply because he thought it would be a really cool thing to show the family back home!! After spending some time with Fernando, we went back to the stadium to see the preparations for the bullfight. We watched as people prettied up their horses with ribbons and braids… between two bullfighters, there were 17 horses! I was told that each one was trained in one particular skill for bullfighting and that the bullfighters would change horses multiple times during the fight.

So bullfighting. It has a bad wrap, right? After this weekend, I have very mixed feelings about it, but I will say that I learned so much about it that I have to at least respect it. According to what I was told this weekend, bullfighting first became a widespread practice when the Christians were trying to learn to defend themselves against the Arabs. To train soldiers, the Spaniards would set their soldiers against angry bulls, with the idea that a soldier that could face down a rampant bull could face down another man. This type of training was used during the Crusades, Inquisition... by that point though, it had already become more of a gladiator-type spectacle. Anyway, this is where the sport began. I should hardly say sport… it is more of a ceremony. They actually call it an art. I was expecting it to have the feel of a rodeo… but it feels almost... sacramental. I will explain :)

The breed of bull that they use for corridas only exists because bullfighting still exists. The bulls themselves are similar to Black Angus, but smaller (maybe a thousand pounds), and slightly more front-heavy. They have curved, black-tipped ivory horns, which are filed down to prevent the horses from being gored. This breed of cattle has aggressive tendencies and they are bred for the sole purpose of bullfighting.

The corrida we went to on Saturday consisted of bullfighters on horseback. The fight begins when the bull is released from the holding pen. In order to arouse the bull’s temper, they scrape some skin off of their tails and stab them in the shoulder with a shallow barb that is adorned with a ribbon rosette. The bulls come tearing into the ring, already bleeding profusely from the shoulder. The bullfighter on horseback proceeds to drive a series of barbs decorated with tissue paper and ribbons into the bull’s back. After about eight barbs or so, they take out a sword and drive it into the bull’s withers. This blow, if well-placed, will cause the bull to lay down. Death come shortly thereafter when one of the matadors comes to drive a knife into the base of it’s skull so that it dies instantly. If the crowd determined that the bullfighter did a good job, they cut off one of the bull’s ears and get to keep it as a trophy. If they are REALLY good, they get both ears. If they do AMAZINGLY well, they get both ears and the tail. Whatever the case, they throw the them out to the audience as an offering of thanks for their support. (I am currently in possession of a bull ear. It is at my house.) I won’t lie, it was pretty grisly. If I didn’t know more, I think I would have been so offended that I would have left.

The idea is obviously to kill the bull… What I did not know was that there is much more to it than this. Being with Berto and his gang, we were right down in the arena, just inches away from all the action. When the first bullfighter finished, he came to the area where we were watching to wait while the other bullfighter took his turn. We plucked up the courage to ask him for a photo in his royal Portuguese bullfighting garb… and found out he speaks perfect English. It was so good, we had to ask him if he was Mexican! As it turns out, we were talking to the number ONE bullfighter in Mexico… and we didn’t even know it at the moment. We drilled him (his name was Gaston) with questions about bullfighting. He told us that to him, it wasn’t a game, but a very serious thing. He said that to fight bulls was to continually appreciate the fact that Christianity still exists, because if it weren’t for the bulls, the Christians would never have been able to fight. He said that he took the bull’s death very seriously, and that each bull he faced was a noble and worthy opponent that has a heroic death. I was surprised at the respectful view he had of such a seemingly gruesome show.

‘I don’t expect people to understand,’ he told me ‘because bullfighting does seem so gruesome and violent. What people don’t know is the history behind it, and that we view it with respect, not just as a game.’

I was surprised to find, also, that the crowd did not enjoy it when the bull’s suffering was prolonged. Gaston told us that people want to see the bull’s suffering eased. All of the corridas actually have a judge present (as in a judge of legal matters) to make certain that the bullfighters are not prolonging the agony of the animal or disrespecting it in any way. Another thing that I did not know was that the bull has a chance to come out alive. If a bull proves valor beyond the norm, the audience begins to wave white handkerchiefs to beg the bull’s pardoning. If the majority rules, the bull will live. It will be moved out to a ranch where it will live amongst hundreds of cows and breed! Sounds terrible for him, no?

It was a singular bullfighting experience, to be sure. I was sitting right in behind the thick wooden wall that the bulls smash into... just inches away from all of the action. I must admit, I had no idea blood was that red, and I had no idea that it could come out with such force. Each time a bull was killed, I sent up a prayer for its spirit… I know I have grown up raising and eating cattle, but I think I never quite get used to the idea of it. The sight was sorrowful, especially since the bulls were so heroic and brave till the bitter end. I didn’t like that the bull had hardly any chance of being the victor (not in the sense of the bullfighter dying of course, but in the sense of coming out alive).

Honestly, the part that bothered me most was not any of this. Halfway through the bullfight, a series of men come into the ring called forkados. Their role is to run at the bull (weaponless) and stop it from moving. They do this because in Portugal, it is traditional to catch the bull at the end of the show, not kill it. The forkados reenact this, by piling on top of the bull like football players. After, one of them grabs its tail, and the bull tries to chase it off, running in circles to try to shake the forkado in tow. This is the part that bothered me most. It is clearly a joke of sorts, and it really bothered me that people were making light of the bull’s death. It bothers me in general when people forget where their meat comes from, or when they disrespect the sacrifice that an animal makes so that we can thrive. I guess I feel that this small and ‘funny’ little act belittled the bull’s death.

After the bull is dead, they attach it to a rope and drag it out of the ring, where it will be carved up for beef. A lot of it is cooked up right there on the spot for visitors. I ate some… I must say it was quite good. I think bullfighting would offend me completely if they did not eat the bull afterward.

And that was Sunday (whew!).


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MONDAY:
We woke up and got dressed to hit the last cenote in the immediate Valladolid, called Saci (sah-KEY). This cenote is named after the tribe of Mayans that lived here when the conquistadors arrived. They were the first people to fight and be defeated by the conquistadors, and once used this cenote as a means for fresh water. The cenote itself is wide open, most of the stone above having fallen into the water below. It is a beautiful blue, though somewhat dusty and leafy because it is so open. The water is teeming with wildlife… fish of all kinds and a turtle. It was profoundly deep… the walls disappear from sight because of distance, not because of clarity. It was actually pretty eerie… enough so that Emily and I were not enticed to swim, but rather decided to just stick our feet in.

We got dressed one last time for the fair, and Berto and company took us there. A word on Berto and crew: they are rich. Like, we are talking the kind of people who have brand new incredible cars (a brand new Peugeot convertible, but I can't remember the model), stay at the nicest hotels, and blow money on all sorts of things. I am not saying this to speak badlyof them at all, just to tell it as is. This being said, they were wonderfully hospitable! From the moment they met us, they wanted to show us everything!! They told us that they wanted to make sure that we had a complete experience and that we got to taste and see everything that there is to see. I couldn’t believe how well they took care of us… I mean, we got to hang out with the top bullfighter in mexico, a Reggaeton singer from Merida, we got front row spots for the corridas and got into everything for free. I felt like I was so well taken care of the whole weekend. By the end of the weekend, I felt so indebted to them that I wanted to buy them all fruit baskets!

It was Monday, the day of the last corrida. This one is on foot however, the bull’s horns are not filed down, and the bulls are significantly larger. When people think of bullfights, this is what they often imagine… the bullfighter with the red cape… you know the deal. It followed basically the same procedure as the day before, thought with a few differences. When the bull first comes running out, the matador has no weapons… only his cape and his brain. He holds the cape out to the side so that the bull will run at it instead of the person beside it. This proceeds for a good ten minutes before a man on horseback comes out. His horse is covered in giant pads and is blindfolded, and the man on top is wearing armor on his legs and feet to prevent him from being gored. He carries a long spear that has a cube-shaped end that is sharpened to a point. He stabs the spear into the bull’s withers. This spear doesn’t go deep, but it leaves a large puncture wound from which the bull’s blood pours out. Every little movement from then on causes a small fountain of blood to spurt up. I could not believe that an animal could lose that much blood and still live. With the bull weakened by this blow, the bullfighter then proceeds to do the death-dance, where he carries a sword and dares the bull to gore him in its agony. They end it the same way as the other corrida… by stabbing it in the withers so as to cause the bull to collapse. They kill it the same way.

The very last bull we saw would not die. After three attempts on the matador’s part to undo it with a sword, they finally went in for the kill at the base of the bull’s head. Even after stabbing it in the head three times, the bull still jumped up and continued fighting. I was amazed at the valor shown by a simple animal, and wondered if anyone else in the stadium felt that way as well. The audience started to turn sour. As I said, it isn’t popular when the bull suffers for a long period of time. When it was finally dead, I was relieved. I can’t imagine pushing through all that pain and torment for as long as that bull did.

In conclusion, I am still not sure what to think about bullfighting. Cows are my favorite animal, and it is sad whenever I see an animal suffer that way. I can see that there is a lot of respect for the bull’s sacrifice, but I don’t really think that makes it right. I understand a lot better now that I know more history and more of the sentiment behind the scenes… but I still think I am glad I did not pay and give my financial support to the cause.

We closed up the weekend with that second bullfight and headed home with Berto and his friends, who kindly offered us a ride all the way from Valladolid right to our doorstep. (I swear, the people here at the most hospitable I have ever met!!) We ended up getting home really late… but it was worth it right?

I am sorry I wrote a novel today! I hope you all enjoyed at least little snatches of it and that you learned a thing or two :)