Los Toros, Tranquilo

At the Wheeler County Fair in Oregon, real cowboys ride fearsome, stomping, raging bulls as the crowd cheers wildly. In Costa Rica, los toros – like the people – are more on the calm side.

We’d been looking forward to the annual festival civica and bullfight at La Suiza, a neighboring village named for its Switzerland-like setting. The brakeless jeep has not yet had its brakes fixed and its clutch also no longer works. No problemo, The Kid urged us to borrow it, knowing how excited we were to see a real Central American bullfight.

We left in the late afternoon and traveled in first gear the entire way, coasting on the down slopes. Once we arrived at La Suiza, we parked and walked downhill on a narrow dirt lane between two houses. We came to the festival grounds, which consisted of a concrete community hall with kitchen and a small arena tightly edged with upright sheets of rusty metal roofing. A soccer game was in full swing on a well-maintained field far below. A crowd of Ticos sat at the edge of a cliff overlooking the field, many perched at the edge as they sat on short pieces of planks that they carried to the site – much as our county rodeo-goers carry soft cushions.

We watched the soccer match for an hour. The game was halted for a few minutes each time that the ball was inadvertently kicked over a steep slope at the far edge of the field. Several teams were lined up to play and soccer would continue until it was too dark to see.

We sampled the various foods that were cooked over open fires in the kitchen – each full plate costing about one dollar – fried chicken, pork stew or tamales, all served with yucca root, boiled bananas, cabbage salad and a small plate of acidos, a sweet citrus fruit that tastes like a lemon-lime touched with perfume. At home we season with acidos at nearly every meal.

A beer/liquor booth was in full swing, planks serving as a makeshift bar. Cases and cases of Imperial beer were stacked high; liquor bottles were lined up on the ground. Pecos ordered rum and asked for ice, drawing much attention for ruining a good shot of liquor this unusual way.

An ambulance arrived from San Isidro to stand by. Two coffee trucks loaded with brahaman bulls arrived shortly thereafter and several men helped unload them as the truck backed up to a ramped corral edging the bullfight arena. The bulls stomped and bawled as they were unloaded. None of them had horns and all were rather small and a few were downright skinny. A few young men donned various pieces of arena attire – red matador shirts, chaps, sombreros or cowboy hats – and finally it was time for the bullfight!

A piece of metal roofing was pulled away to serve as an entrance. We bought our tickets (equivalent $2), received stamps on our arms for the event, and entered. Inside, the small arena was ringed with planks and seating curved on a steep hill around half of it. Four levels of dirt steps a foot or two wide held rough-planked seats set on short posts. We chose precarious seating on the highest level, about 30 feet up. Music blasted from the announcer’s wooden platform where he kept up a rapid dialogue about the event and its sponsors.

The announcer called for audience members to come down and join the line-up of contestants. The crowd cheered each time a Tico climbed down to the arena. The line-up resembled what it was, an impromptu gathering of would-be cowboys, some of whom had stayed at the beer booth too long.

Just like at our county fair, the first bull entered a small wooden stall and a rider perched above it. The bull snorted and jumped, banging the wood gate as it tried to break its way out. Several men held onto it with ropes and suddenly the rider nodded his head, jumped down on the bull’s back, the gate swung open and this angry, bucking animal broke loose and high-kicked its way across the arena before tossing the rider in the dirt.

The crowd went wild and the announcer was yelling loudly, clearly beside himself at this extravaganza of performance. Two young men holding red flags ran out and taunted the bull, which ran wildly at them as the flags swung upward and the men scattered. This fearsome bull crashed into the planks that walled the arena and shook its head wildly while running frantically back and forth. Finally the bull calmed down and stood in place. Two men on horseback entered the arena, looped ropes in hand, and tried to rope it a dozen times before one of the loops finally fell over the bull’s head and it was pulled from the arena.

This would be a great event! The crowd was primed and ready for the next bull.

The next bull, however, did not intend to leave its stall. This animal laid down on the dirt, stuck its head out from under the wooden gate and quietly moo-ed to the crowd. Several men poked it and struck it but it would not get up. They finally gave up and shoved another bull into another gated stall. The same thing happened. Back and forth they went, trying to get one or the other to get angry, rise and charge out of the stall. Finally one of the bulls stood up and snorted a little. A rider leaped on its back, the gate swung open, and the bull quietly walked out to the center of the ring. No amount of prodding would get him to jump and buck. It seemed that the first bull was the only one with energy. The rest of the ‘bullfights’ consisted mostly of young men running and charging the animals that did enter the ring, rather than the other way around.

To add more excitement, bulls were let loose one at a time into the arena and a small group of men would chase the animal and push it against the wall, where one of them would jump on its back for a short ride in the arena before falling off or having the animal come to a calm stop.

The crowd loved these performances. Pecos decided the beer booth was more interesting, where even over here several persons knew who we are and attempted conversation with him. I watched the arena antics for another hour but no real bull-riding action took place. Back at home a little later, we could hear the bass beat of the DJ in the dance hall at La Suiza, the sound carrying the distance of a few miles to our village. The festival civica would last well into the night.

I have a new appreciation for the county fair of Wheeler County, Oregon. This true West is where tough cowboys – not gentle coffee farmers – courageously ride untamed bulls and put on an exciting, high-flying, dust-biting show. 