Sunday at the Plaza de Toros

A Sunday afternoon tradition from November to March, largely of the upper class but with cheap-seat diehards as well, Mexico City bullfights take place in the Plaza de Toros. A local offered to take me and some Scottish pals and I jumped at the chance. I had to see for myself.

The fights progress in a calculated manner, with carefully orchestrated steps and stages. Initially the helpers cajole the bull into running around the ring a few times. Then a fighter or his "picadores" (stabbers) will insert various knives in the bull's hunchback. Some have long ribbons or flags attached and, if well placed, will stand up in the immediate center of the bull's back. Once weakened, the bull is run through various movements by the figther, the most popular of which is the "pass," in which the bull chases the cape, rushing past the fighter and then quickly turning to face him again. Each pass draws the shout of "Ole!" from the crowd.

Towards the end, with the bull bleeding extensively and more deliberate in its movements, the fighter calls for his sword. His job then is to manipulate the bull such that it stands with its front feet parallel. This way the sword will pass directly through the bull's lungs. A well-placed thrust drives the sword in to its hilt, a poor one sends it bouncing to the ground. After a good sword thrust, the fighter stands back triumphantly while the helpers make the bull jump tire itself until it collapses. If the fighter cannot kill the bull, a specialist, who my Scottish companions referred to as the "wee-knife man," bounces into the ring with a small knife and drives it directly into the bull's brain.

We saw seven fights, seven kills, seven bulls dragged out of the arena by a train of horses. Only one figher, the first, received an award from the judge (one bull's ear, out of a possible two ears + one tail). The others had to call in the wee-knife man and were booed loudly. The bad kills were extremely hard to watch, as the bull bled profusely and endured much before dying. The last one was the worst, with the wee-knife man, usually the last resort and a quick killer, needing several stabs to fell the writhing bull. In disgust the crowd rained debris upon the arena and booed as they exited.

Drinking is a tradition in the stadium, and usually done from a leather wine-skin, or "boot." Being able to direct a steady stream into your mouth and not onto your shirt is a necessary skill, and frequent contests were held to see who could chug for the longest count. I set an interim record of 43 seconds before being soundly beaten by a local's 60 second gem. An older man with few teeth offered me a chance to redeem myself with a flask full of cheap tequila, but I declined to a chorus of boos. Beer is also served in large glasses by a "beer man" who, lest you forget he is there, constantly shouts out in slang, "Cheves! Cheves! Cheves!" At one point he actually chanted that the crowd was watching too much and drinking too little. Chants are common and rarely related to the match. One old man riled up the crowd by drunkenly slurring a ditty that went something like this: "I'm so happy happy happy, because my wife is not here."

The anti-bullfight crowd will be happy to know that the tradition seems to be on its way out. I asked several people in the city for information regarding the fights, and they either did not know or did not want to speak of it. The stadium, the world's largest for bullfighting, holds 41,000, but on this Sunday you would have been hard-pressed to find 5,000 in attendance. The lack of attendance was all the more surprising when you consider that it was late in the season and a rejoneador--fights on horseback and in a different style--was making a rare appearance. While the more expensive, lower-deck seats were filled with white shirts and fancy cowboy hats, the upper-deck was full of soccer-jerseys. This crowd was more interested in the party than in the fights. A group we befriended was actually a club that supports the Pumas football team and had only come because there was no match that day. Even our host, who used to attend with his father, had not been in years.

I was in awe throughout the show. In awe of the festivity, blissfully incongruous with the premise of the event. In awe of the ring, a circle of caramel-colored sand marked by clean white lines, watered and swept by a sand-zamboni after each kill. In awe of the choreography of the kill, despite the fact that on this day the execution (apologies) was poor. Admittedly, I was swept in by it all and had a great time, cringing as I did throughout and guilty as I may have felt afterwards. What sits with me now is the blood, the realization that it is not a universally "Mexican" pastime, and the fact that despite attempts to be artful and sporting it only achieves cruelty.