Touro!

We were supposed to meet somebody to follow to the bull fight. We already had a borrowed van, all we needed was someone who knew where they were going, not to mention how to avoid getting head-butted by a bull. We waited and waited and waited, but no one showed up. “Bull time” was getting close, so we asked the receptionist “Do you know how to get to the bullfight tonight?” (Terceira is an island with dozens of bullfights scattered amongst all the villages in the summer months, it could have been anywhere). “Do you know where it’s being held?” she replied . “Uhh...it begins with an A, I think.” Luckily for us, she knew exactly which A-town it was, “Agualva. I’ll give you directions. You’ll see all the cars once you get there.”

We hopped in the van and winded our way across the island. You would think I would have no problem driving here since they drive on the right, but apparently five weeks of driving in the UK completely erased my previous 10 years of US driving experience. I kept veering towards the left hand side and tried several times to switch on my blinker with my right hand. It was the complete inverse of the problem I had five weeks earlier driving away from Heathrow. Thankfully, we found the village in one piece, hopefully we’d leave the village the same way.

Just as the receptionist said, the cars increasingly thickened along the roadside as we entered the village. We found a spot and walked the same direction as everyone else, a simple skill that would soon become very important. Soon we passed a police officer and two thickly drawn lines on the pavement, the northern border of the bulls’ domain. The town centre was filled with people. Many mingling on the streets, but even more lining the streets in windows, on terraces, and atop walls. One street was blocked off with flatbed trucks, creating makeshift viewing platforms for the young and old. On the street level, plywood covered up windows and doors, lined the concrete walls, and completely shuttered the shrine in front of the church. Vendors walked up and down hawking ice cream and popcorn and mobile bars set up shop in safe areas far from the reach of the “touros.”

We stood there, unsure of what would happen. We figured as long as we followed everybody else, we should be fine. I looked up the street to see if anything was happening and caught a glimpse of a bull perhaps 100m away, but it didn’t seem interested in going anywhere. It was soon corralled and put away and two loud fireworks went off above. Immediately everyone let down their guard, traffic passed through, and the vendors jumped at the chance to freely roam themselves. We continued to wait, planning our escape routes should a bull come visit us. The area around the shrine looked good enough.

Another firework went off, this time only one, and everyone began to mill about, either coming into the street, or retreating to the safety of a window or wall. We noticed that Brittany was the only woman down on the street, all the others were either further away or up above. Most people were wearing shoes, too, not flip-flops. Still unsure of what was going to happen, we watched the crowd ahead of us, using them as our barometer. Soon enough, everyone turned and began running towards us so we wisely joined them. In seconds, the previously bustling street was deserted save a proud bull and his “handlers” running to keep up.

Now, in Terceira, this is how bullfights work. There is a set area allotted for the bull. Around his neck is a very long rope and on the other end are a handful of men whose job is to ensure the bull does not leave the area. On occasion they will give it a few tugs to redirect the bull in a different direction, but otherwise, the bull is free to roam. The brave will taunt the bull with umbrellas, towels, and shirts tempting the bull to charge. Most of the taunting is done from those in windows and along the walls, but there are a few who jump down into the street to play chicken with the sinewy beast. His horns are capped and he has a lead, but by no means is the bull safe. Back to the chase.

From our perch near the shrine, we could easily watch the bull snort and charge. My heart was pounding and the adrenaline was flowing. Running from an annoyed bull will do that, but I think much of the thrill was from my complete ignorance about what could happen. I had no idea what the bull was capable of. Can they jump? Do they run fast? How close is too close? Is this spot really safe? I didn’t know the answers, but thankfully, hundreds of people around me did. I did what any good tourist does and did my best to blend in, good advice anytime, but especially when confronted with a bit of danger.

The second (or third?) bull we ran from was the biggest yet. He charged down the street and into the patio area near the shrine, the handlers looking hopelessly inept as they scrambled after him. We retreated to some stairs at the other end of the churchyard, hoping he came no further. He returned to the street with some cajoling from the handlers, but stayed below us outside a boarded up gate at the bottom of steps. A gentleman we had met earlier advised us to watch out if the bull jumps. What!? I quickly looked around to see where I might go if the bull did indeed jump and invalidate the “safety” I had chosen for myself. As I was planning my escape route, the same gentleman who had warned us then proceeded to heckle the bull along with some others, calling out to it and waving their hands about.

The bull did not jump and soon headed elsewhere, and we trickled back into the street to watch from a distance. Having had enough fun for one day, we left Agualva and her festivities wondering how long into the night they would last. Two days later we opted for a more relaxing form of recreation in Praia: the beach. No bull, just sun, sand, and surf.