34. Bull Fight

34.

In the morning I am up early and out walking the city streets.

Here is the Science Museum where I learn that “Columbia has more species of plants and animals than any other country on earth.” There are some wonderful butterflies in their collection and I learn that both A and B Centauri are stars in the ship constellation. (That gives me a “starship” flash!) A Columbian flag which was carried round-trip by the American astronauts visiting the moon is on display along with a replica of the medal bearing good-will greetings from the leaders of 73 countries which was left by the astronauts on the lunar surface.

The planetarium building next door looks a bit like the planet Saturn or maybe a flying saucer.

Continuing my walk, I soon arrive at the modern “Plaza de Toros”. It is almost time for a bullfight to begin so I buy a cheap ticket and go in. My seat is number ten on the sunny side, which is not so bad since the weather is not hot, in fact there is thunder and a light sprinkling of rain. Most of the spectators buy flimsy plastic rain capes from vendors. The people around me are fairly well dressed—the young women wearing “Cosmopolitan Magazine” denims decorated with silver studs, and the usual modish platform-soled shoes. The young men are dressed about the same plus denim jackets and minus the platform shoes. The older people wear Sunday suits and dresses. Most of the people are tan in skin color, stout of build and about five foot four in height.

I feel tension in the crowd. A fistfight breaks out across the arena, but a security check at the entry gate probably stops most of the lethal weapons. There is a lot of drinking from leather wine bottles. Classy, curving, brick and glass high-rise apartments loom over the arena, every balcony overflowing with non-paying bullfight fans with binoculars. The teenager beside me holds his transistor radio under my left ear tuned to broadcast the bullfight commentary so I can enjoy the sport more fully.

“Classic bullfighter” Manolo Parma is the cool-looking dude whose likeness appears on the cover of every patron’s program. The kills of the day are dedicated to him.

Bullfighters are brave as hell and I wouldn’t like to do what they do—but in fact, slowly and painfully murdering a bull for the amusement of a huge crowd does not seem so much an artistic sport to me but more like a sadistic crime. .

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