Bullfight
I wonder how many of you I will offend? Last week Rozanne and I attended a Portuguese bullfight at the Campo Pequeno Bullring in Lisbon. Over the past five years and before we have always been told Portuguese bullfights are different to Spanish in that they do not kill the bull. Well, not until after the bullfight, where it is then taken to an abattoir for slaughter.
Funnily enough, the locals openly speak about having attended while the expatriate community are reticent until asked directly before admitting to having seen one. Most have. They certainly do not boast about it. Even in Portugal, the interest is waning amongst the younger generations with demonstrations outside venues occurring more often than not. Us, having embraced the Portuguese way of life, felt that we should at least attend one event to understand it better. Of course, like many people of my age, I was enthralled by Hemingway and his fixation with bullfighting in my younger days. No doubt his drinking, rumoured misogyny and attendance of bullfights would not impress the young of today, especially the ‘enlightened social elite.’ I must admit I would not have known what misogyny meant in my youth, although in hindsight I think it could be said we were brought up in an era of misogyny with the husband being seen as the breadwinner free to spend his money how he pleased while the wife was expected to stay at home and be happy with whatever life her spouse dictated, relying on him for both personal and home funding. Even me as an old fossil can admit some changes are for the better.
Back to the bullfight, the name we were to find understating the evening's events. The Campo Pequeno Bullring was built a hundred and thirty years ago, the anniversary being on the night we attended. We read up and had some idea of what to expect, naturally as is often proved, one person's interpretation of an event can be totally different to your own. The event commenced when a full brass band, located up in the top of the stands, playing as the participants of the evening presented themselves to the patron dignitary. They, including the magnificently mounted strutting cavaleiros in their 17th-century dress, down to the humble man that finally drove the bull, escorted by oxen from the ring after each event. Much ceremony with intense facial expressions taking their respective roles very seriously. Bullfighting is all about adhering to traditional rules and etiquette. This particular evening, no women although there are female Calvalairos in Portugal along with female Matadors even in Spain. So this night, very much a male domain in the ring, from the bull to the herders.
To drum beats and bugle calls the event commenced when a Cavaleiro entered the ring and awaits the bull on his impressive Lusitano prancing horse. These are famous for being excellent dressage horses and from the off they strutted their skills. What happens next is called the corridas de touros. When the bull makes an entrance, it charges at the first thing it sees which is the horse and rider who positions themselves on the far side of the arena to the bull entry gate. From then on a running dance commences between the bull and the horse under the guidance of the rider. Twists, turns, pirouettes, you name it. The closer the bull gets the greater the oohs and aahs as opposed to the Spanish, “Olé!” although that can be heard later when the bandarilha are stuck in the bull's withers. Short barbs to stop deep penetration. We were in awe of the skills displayed, with the horse on occasion thought sure to be gored just to sidestep at the last minute. What amazed me was the agility of these horses between 15 and 16 hands. Of course, it is a bullfight, so the bull does get hurt, how painful only the bull will be able to tell you. He seemed more pissed off to me, ignoring the barbs as he focused his attention on trying to maim the horse and rider. Over the period, the Cavaleiro places up to four bandarilha in the bulls' well-muscled shoulders by means of the bull and the horse charging each other straight on, the bandarilha being placed on the pass. Once this has been completed, probably from start to finish, fifteen to twenty minutes, the rules change. Certainly, the bull, while not completely exhausted, has slowed down significantly. It is also much more wary. It is said the reason bulls only appear in the ring once is that they have good memories and on rare second appearances are very much more dangerous.
The movement of the muleta, not the colour of it, is what irritates the bull. Cattle are colour blind to red. I must say when the matadores do their stuff it is hard to understand why the bull just does not take the man out, rather than follow the movement of the muleta despite passing within inches of the man. The “Ole!” is loudest the closer the pass, especially if it matador pirouettes with the bull next to his body head down following the cape. Some animals are definitely more intelligent than others, enraged bulls are not.
“Watching the bull target the muleta rather than taking the near stationary matador out substantiates my view that cattle are fairly dumb animals. I say it with regret, as I like cattle.” - Peter McSporran
There was another group in the ring who distract the bull when required if the rider is in trouble and also to help attract the bull in preparation for the final charges including in the pega de cara. They are Bandarilheiros. These men are the matadors and/or cavaleiros helpers in the arena. They are skilful and wear the suit of light the same as the matador, except not with the gold sequins. They have no weapons,
only capes to attract the bull's attention.
I should mention there are Matadores in Portugal. In Portugal, matadors fight the bull by placing the bandarilhas, the final one representing the kill. In Portugal to kill the bull is nearly as serious as murder!! There was a guest Spanish matador who fought two bulls in the course of the evening, these bulls did not have the tips of their horns cut nor did he carry a sword for no purpose other than brandishing it.
Next, after the corridas de touros, it is the pega, the finale. This is the part Rozanne and I enjoyed most admiring the participants for their bravery. The pega is performed by forcados, a group of eight men who challenge the bull directly, without any protection or weapon. Nor do they run from the bull, they take it head on. No matter the outcome, a painful occupation. These groups come from what I gather are like sporting teams from towns and cities around Portugal. Traditionally they were from the lower caste, being poorly paid. Even today their appearance-money barely pays for their insurance, which is obviously very high, let alone the slap-up celebratory traditional dinner afterwards.
These guys face up to the bull, attracted by the Bandarilheiros to the opposite side of the ring from them and with the chosen lead man approaching the bull head-on trying to provoke it into a charge. Charge, it surely does and it is this frontman's job to throw himself between the horns and grab the bull's neck as he is hit with his team coming to his support after the initial contact. Crazy! Of course, more often than nought, the plan does not work and he finds himself and a couple of his mates being thrown through the air or butted against the ground. I should mention the tips of the bull's horns are blunted to lessen the danger to the horse or Forcados. Needless to say, being hit by a 600 kg bull at full charge in the gut or chest cannot be attractive to most sane people. After each failure, the lead man must repeat the process, if able to do so, only serious injury would prevent this, until they subdue the bull with their bare hands. The bull is released with the last man holding the bull's tail to allow the others a hopefully safe exit. The last man's own release timing needs to be perfect, often skating around at the end of the bull's tail waiting for the right moment. The end, with much cheering for the courage of the Forcados and the spirit of the bull; enter eight trek oxen to lead the bull out of the ring. Of interest, the oxen avoid getting too close to the bull.
In summary, despite our doubts, we actually enjoyed the horsemanship and the madness or bravery of the Forcados. The bulls, unless chosen for breeding, are taken for slaughter to an abattoir.
These bulls are specially bred for their aggression, the female line all important. As we livestock farmers know, temperament is a highly hereditary trait. Females, unlike normal beef herds, are kept as long as they produce calves while the bulls if selected for the ring, free range for five or six years. Heavy culling of the bull takes place if deemed unsuitable in spirit or confirmation. In my reading, it is reported that they can cause each other serious injury even death up to their day in the bull ring. Until that day, they do not encounter a human on foot. Normally a steer for slaughter would not be kept longer than eighteen months, so the question is; Is the fifteen minutes' pain worth the five years of free-range grazing beating up your peers at any opportunity worth it? Once again, only the bull can answer.
Storm's Arrival
1979 was a momentous year for both myself and Rhodesia. In a referendum held in January 1979, the whites of Rhodesia voted for a power-sharing constitution with elections involving those parties agreeing to peace before a general election to the exclusion of the Patriotic Front (ZANLA and ZIPRA) who refused to take part, rather continuing the struggle. Following the referendum a general election was held, first on the 10th of April for the twenty white reserved seats, followed on the 20th of April by the unreserved general population seventy-two seats. There were a further eight white non-constituency members elected by the elected ninety-two-seat house. Change was in the air. By June of that year, Zimbabwe-Rhodesia was to be born. I remember the day well as I was on call-up in Enterprise and saw the event on Owen and Dawn Connors TV before retiring to his parent's old house verandah floor for the night. Of course, predictably, Britain refused to recognise the result demanding a re-run under their rules and supervision. This opened the door to an intensification of the bloodshed and horrible atrocities in anticipation of a re-run, all parties vying for power. Mugabe’s party, well trained in this political game by their Chinese sponsors were the frontrunners in this violent political intimidation, ZAPU being more disciplined although under Russian influence.
“Despite this homegrown attempt in finding a solution to our situation, we all knew in our hearts Britain's pride and political vanity would want to be seen handing over this self-governing, long ex-colony to the new rulers. Oh, what a harmful legacy this was to prove to this new nation.” - Peter McSporran
Most importantly in between the two election days, my first child, a daughter to be known as Storm, was born. In late 1978 Diane and I decided the war was going to drag on for years having settled onto our own farm, therefore we should start a family. I suppose you get used to anything, even war as three years earlier we were unhappy about bringing a family up in Rhodesia, especially with me going off to fight most of the time. Yes, I believe while uncomfortable, no matter what the circumstances, you learn to live with it, or at least accept it.
The 14th of April had started as a sunny day with me being at home overseeing the stripping of the last four leaves of that year's tobacco crop. Being mid-April the rains are normally over for the season, but that day nature decided otherwise and by three o’clock that afternoon the gathering black clouds burst open. Thunder, lightning, hail followed by strong winds and heavy rain. Whilst viewing the damage to the crop I received a message to return to the house as soon as possible, on getting there being told by Diane we needed to head to Lady Chancellor Hospital in Salisbury as she was about to give birth. Of course, in those days the sex of the child before birth was unknown. Later that night, on the arrival of a girl, the name was never in question, Elizabeth Storm. She has always only ever been known as Storm thereafter.
“Of all the events in my life having children was the most significant.” - Peter McSporran
As all parents know, your world as you know it changes with the birth of a child. While our daughter was perfect physically she suffered from Chronic Colic. My goodness could she cry, night and day. What a strain on Diane as she was often left alone with Storm. Of course, as she got older a nanny was employed to assist. Most white African children had the privilege of having an African nanny, who were dedicated, caring and loving. Having a child meant that when we went out or Diane had to go and stay with her folks when I was on call-up, our old 1200 Datsun would not suffice, it was too small. Of course, Storm’s grandparents Derek and Isobel Belinsky were over the moon with her birth, their first grandchild. I was extremely lucky and fortunate to be able to afford a brand-new Datsun 120Y station wagon. We could pack all our baby’s clobber along with her mobile folding cot easily into the back with the seats folded down. Wait for it, you would be horrified nowadays but when we visited neighbours for dinner our children would be left in the cars with a nanny. Of course, the cars were always parked by the house inside the security fence. All farmers either had station wagons or a pickup with a canopy to allow for mattresses for the children to sleep on or more likely play on.
For us men, call-ups went on the same. Meanwhile, I was under pressure from Diane to build the house I promised her, I would do as soon as I could when we moved to Diandra as part of the deal in convincing her to move. To this end, we employed the good services of Nancy Black’s father, one of our neighbours' wives, an architect, to design and draw the plans for our future home. Obviously, plans were not enough, so in 1979, with our limited cash, we laid the foundation slab where it would lie for another year before any bricks were laid.
Little did I know I was yet to encounter one of my scariest contacts of the war.
Further Travel with Han Anecdotes
Travelling with Han was never boring. Although a city banker by trade, he was now an agricultural investor with me on tow for advice having moved on from infrastructure projects, one of which was the Emirates Stadium in London, the home of Arsenal Football Club. He, therefore, had many stories about the banking world, well known for its greed. Han was certainly not lazy but did like to do things in his own time. For example, when you were called to board a flight, that is likely when Han would decide to disappear to the duty-free shop to look for a cigar or restaurant for a final bite. He was happy to argue all day with an immigration or customs official despite the fact you rarely won in debate with these experts in corruption. Their patience in trying to extract a dollar from you is renowned.
I remember once at the Forbes Border Post between Zimbabwe and Mozambique, the immigration officials decided Han should have obtained his visa before travelling. This is despite him and I having been in and out of Mozambique on numerous occasions in the previous years. After accepting, yes, we were correct in the assumption that we could buy a visa at the border, unfortunately, as Han had recently visited Mozambique more than five times in recent months, he now needed to buy a visa before arrival at the border. Other than the stamp on your passport they would have no idea how many times you visited, a fictitious instant new rule. I found travelling on a Zimbabwean passport in Africa was the best for ease of entry, it could not be said of the rest of the world where it often was the worst.
Eventually, after six hours of haggling, it was agreed that perhaps he could obtain the visa, but as the required senior official had gone home and therefore they could not issue it that day, they suggested we go back to Zimbabwe and come back tomorrow. With that, I said, “That is it! I am not going back!” I declared they could keep Mr Derksen in their care as I was taking my car and proceeding into Mozambique, to both the immigration officers and Han’s trepidation. Confusing them into requesting me to wait while they rethought the issue, finally declaring they could sort the problem out. By now the border was closing with darkness falling. I did admire Han’s intransigence as we both knew a few dollars would have got rid of the problem easily.
Another particularly amusing incident was when we visited Kilombero Rice Estate, Tanzania during the rainy season. The road from Ifakara to Kilombera was virtually impassable with many vehicles, especially trucks, stuck in the mud. Throughout my travels through Africa I had warned Han and others who travelled with me, not to take photographs of security people, strategic structures such as bridges or what could be deemed sensitive events, the latter sometimes rather obscure.
There is a prison farm between Infakara and Kilombera where we found ourselves stuck behind a couple of heavy vehicles sunk up to their axles. In the fields by the side of the road, some prisoners were top dressing what were hard-to-identify maize plants amongst the weeds. Both I and our Tanzanian driver warned Han, who always had his camera at the ready, not to dare take a picture. Did he listen? Nope. Within what seemed like seconds we were surrounded by a crowd of irate prisoners brandishing their hoes at us, even more disconcerting in their midst, a number of armed guards brandishing their AK47s. The prisoners shouted they wanted to kill us, the guards announcing we were now under arrest. For a while, it was not clear who we should fear most, the guards or their prisoners. It was even more unclear who was in charge of the melee. Luckily our driver calmed things down, pleading to let us go. Of course, we were all apologising profoundly, between cursing Han. They refused to let us go demanding we wait until the prison warden discussed our situation. Eventually, as always in Africa, after a lengthy wait, the head warden arrived to confirm we were under arrest and we would be proceeding back to the police station at Ifakara. Further pleading finally led to his agreement, he would let us go if we destroyed the film in the camera. To his disbelief, we told him it had no film being digital. Back to square one, the prisoners by now were very animated, no doubt the best entertainment they had for months. Finally in convincing them, we had deleted all the pictures taken, they let us go. Another story to the better in our locker.
Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.
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