Bullfights Out. Ferdinand In.
by Maggie Van Ostrand
 No more bullfights in
Spain, reports the media. Is the majestic fighting bull now on the endangered
species list, or has the Spanish government realized that Ferdinand the Bull
was right to be smelling pretty flowers instead of goring the guy waving a
red cape at him. Fight fans will find that it doesn’t really matter if,
henceforth, the bull ring is empty every Sunday because riding in a Mexican
taxi amounts to the same thing. Even Hemingway would have to
agree.
Hemingway said there are two types of spectators at a bullfight:
those who identify with the bull, and those who identify with the matador.
When a bull is properly lined up for the kill, it is called
the "Moment of Truth," the most difficult and dangerous moment
in bullfighting. The matador utilizes all his skill and courage
in selecting and executing his choice, the most common method being "A
Un Tiempo," in which both bull and man move toward each other to
meet somewhere in between. Hemingway probably experienced this in a
Mexican taxi. Let me explain why I believe this.
The day I rode in a
Mexican taxi, I identified with the driver, Jésus. His weapon was neither
sword nor muleta, but a 1962 Dodge. It was a four-door 330 model Dart with a
318 cubic-inch V-8 engine. That is what it did have; soon I will tell you
what it did not have.
Jésus had painted his taxi a Day-Glo yellow, so
vibrant a shade as to make Sponge Bob Square Pants turn green with envy. He
named it Ferdinando after Ferdinand, the gentle bull who enjoys nothing
more than smelling flowers in the fields and jousting with bees.
Disney even made a movie about this peaceful creature.
Ferdinando the
taxi's hand-bent antenna waved sportily in the breeze, a souvenir left by
crooks who ripped off the radio in 1975. By the late 80's, both wipers had
eventually decomposed. In order to avoid the dangers of an accident during
rainy season, Jésus was forced to hang out Ferdinando’s window wildly swiping
at the windshield with a big red rag, and mastering one-kneed
steering.
Jésus, a skinny, opinionated man, did not trust any other
driver on the road, muttering "They are out to make my wife a widow and
my children orphans." He claimed that Ferdinando was the "cleanest taxi in
all of Mexico. The Senora she will find no gum stuck on the seats or beer
cans on the floor."
Jésus deftly steered Ferdinando down a narrow one-way
street until suddenly confronted by another vintage taxi. Bumper to bumper,
we could proceed no further.
Red tassels strung along the periphery of
the other taxi's pockmarked windshield quivered with indignation at our
challenge for right-of-way. Colorful mini lights, the kind usually strung on
Christmas trees but in this instance installed around the windows, began
flashing on and off. A warning.
Neither quivering tassels nor flashing
lights intimidated Jésus, however, and we just sat, waiting. From the back
seat, an itchy one, I observed a newly determined set to Jésus' bony
shoulders. Was this to be the infamous "Mexican Standoff?"
At last,
Jésus shouted to the other driver, a glaring fat man with a Pancho Sanchez
mustache, to back up, but Pancho simply shrugged, settled greasily into his
seat, and waited. So Jésus also shrugged, and waited. In time, Jésus began to
stroke his talisman, a Don Quixoté icon dangling from the rear view mirror.
Obviously a signal of some kind, the other driver did the same with a
Scapular hanging from his mirror. Mutual glaring followed this ritual.
Apprehensive of the immediate future, I was prevented from leaving for the
safety of a doorway by the taxi’s lack of inside handles.
Having given
what he felt was fair warning with his Quixoté talisman, Jésus abruptly
shifted into spastic reverse, one of Ferdinando’s four gears, the others
being Wheeze, Lurch, and Gallop. Jésus enthusiastically shouted, as he
finished reversing and began revving the engine, "Do not be afraid Senora,
victory will be ours!"
By then, we had backed away a considerable
distance from the other taxi whose front was snorting smoke out of each glass
nostril. Both drivers slammed feet on accelerators and hands on
horns simultaneously, and raged onward. Jésus waved his red rag out
the window in a one-armed, mad version of a matador’s red cape. The
taxis careened recklessly over potholes and rocks, sparks flying off
their oily bellies.
Nanoseconds before colliding, the other cab veered
sharply to the right, scraping itself between a building and us. I could hear
some of the Day-Glo grinding off Ferdinando as I attempted to extricate
myself from between the two front seats where velocity had hurled
me.
Pancho regarded Jésus with great respect, then reversed and backed
out of the narrow street, leaving us free to continue our journey,
shaken but alive. It's an amazing thing to be part of a mano a mano, even
if it's really cabo a cabo.
I still think we should have been awarded
the tail lights.
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