Adventures in Palca

The air is ripe with anticipation as I ease through the crowd. I claim my seat along the marked concrete slab, folding myself inwards to occupy as little room as possible. Year round, this plaza lies empty and unused---save for today. Sport enthusiasts from all across Peru have gathered here today to witness a centuries-old battle---that between man and beast.
I am a wide-eyed tourist, caught in the feverish excitement of the audience, uncertain of what to expect as a group of men march into the arena. Three matadors are draped in bright hues, each one flanked by an entourage of assistants. After the opening procession, silence descends upon us. Suddenly, the gates fling open, releasing a sleek, black bull amidst a storm of dust.
“Ole!” The beast charges past the matador, angular horns poised to gore anything within his path. Slicing past the stagnant August air are the first few notes of a pasodoble, mirroring the macabre dance below. Over and over, the beast sweeps underneath the matador’s cape, with only the rising tempo of his breath betraying fatigue.
Growing bolder, the matador kneels a few feet away from his partner, goading it with taunts and sly smirks. Then, like a cobra ready to strike, he raises himself up, suspended above ground by the tips of his feet. Held higher still, are a pair of banderillas, colorful fangs that easily pierce through skin and sinew alike.
In unison, the partners rush to meet. As they converge, a banderilla is thrust securely into the bull’s neck. Dark, red liquid begins to soak his coat. Even from afar, it is apparent that the bull is in great agony; upset, he bolts towards the matador. Fa-thump! His hind legs give out, sending him crashing to the ground.
As I watch the spectators’ faces contort in laughter, my mind snaps free from the hypnotic trance. Bile rises up in my throat, as an arsenal of whetted instruments continue raping the bull, leaving him exposed before hundreds of strangers. Their joy, afforded by the bull’s suffering, seems monstrous now.
The duet culminates with an estocada. In one fluid motion, a sword is driven between the bull’s shoulder blades, impaling his heart. He frantically circles round and round, guided by magenta capes waved over him. All at once, he stops, desperately clawing at the earth, before hitting the ground dead.
Thunderous applause ensues in appreciation of the matador’s admirable performance. Meanwhile, his partner’s body is quietly carted off stage; death is its own reward.