The Jumping of the Bulls

The next day we walked along that same empty road heading back in the direction of Turmy. From kilometres away we could hear the celebrations drifting over on the breeze. At first the sounds just flirted with our instincts, horns hooting mostly, but frequently enough to feel a sense of fervour. As we got closer the sounds teased us even more, we began to make out the rattle of bells jingling and people cheering. There was an unmistakable energy in the air and it was seductive and enchanting.

When we stepped through the clearing we found ourselves standing just meters away from hundreds of brown sweaty bodies. It was mostly the jingling of the bells that echoed around us, they were strapped to the legs of fifty or so women all jumping up and down on the spot in front of us. A few of the women were blowing the horns that cut through the continuous jingle of bells.

The women were wearing cow-skin skirts laced with coloured beads, their red-clay dreads were hopping up and down on top of their heads. They wore cotton shirts lifted above their stomachs and tucked under their breasts exposing their backs that were already proudly displaying the raised welts and bleeding wounds from the lashes they had been copping from the men and their sticks.

The men sat on the slope in front of them, perched on little wooden stools. They too were dressed for the occasion, coloured beads on their heads and in their ears and draped around their necks and waists. They all wore brightly coloured skirts tucked up well above the top of their thighs. As ‘traditional’ as they looked they all had western boxer shorts slipping out underneath, except for one old man, who didn’t seem bothered at all that his most precious assets were baking in the sun.

One or two at a time the women would jump up to one of the men. She would stand in front of him jumping on the spot, thrusting her pelvis toward him, back and forth, blowing her horn, and it seemed to me that her sole intention was to annoy him; annoy him enough to get him up off his little stool and drag him to the centre of the clearing.

In his hand the man held a long, thin, flexible stick.

The woman would stand less than a meter in front of him, still jumping up and down, her little bells jingling, and staring him in the eyes, daring him to hit her.

And sure enough he would.

He would raise his arm high and swing it down hard. Every muscle in his tightly toned and fat-less body would tense. The whip would crack through the air, wrap around the woman and snap across her back. The woman would not even flinch. Not a single woman that I saw that day flinched when she was struck.

When the stick broke the man would toss it away and go back to his seat. The grass was covered in broken sticks. The woman would stop bouncing, her bells would stop jingling and she would join her friends who stood behind her celebrating by jumping up and down and blowing their horns.

The blood trickled down some women’s backs. Some of the gashes were pussing and oozing a yellow fluid. And yet not one of them looked to be in the slightest bit of pain.

And the strangest thing was that the women kept presenting themselves for more. Even when they were hit so much that their backs were white and red they still went back for more. New lashes on fresh wounds, and still none of them winced with pain.

‘How barbaric!’ I thought as I sat in both awe and repulsion.

It was so barbaric and repulsive that I wanted a turn.

Gino got me up and led me to the centre. The only problem was finding a man who would hit me. The men all cheered and laughed but none of them were willing to hit a Western woman.

“She cannot handle it!” They explained to Gino. ‘Our women are strong here, but white women are not. It will kill her.” They kept telling Gino.

I insisted that I wanted to be hit.

Finally they found a boy who would do it. He was probably only 14 or 15, but not one of the men was prepared to strike me.

The women continued to bounce somewhere behind me, their bells filling my ears and my head. I kept my t-shirt on, not because I was cheating out of the pain, but simply because I was shy. And I didn’t jump on the spot either. I just stood their, face clenched tightly, waiting to feel the blow.

The boy stood in front of me, he looked more scared than I was, but he dutifully raised the stick and landed it down across my arm.

I barely felt a thing.

“Come on!” I yelled out. “Hit me properly!” and I gestured for him to strike me again.

He raised the same stick up (it hadn’t broken the first time so was still in good shape). And again he hit me and again I felt nothing.

“Hit me again!” I yelled and this time I was so determined for him to do it right that I stared him down and kept a straight face, I wasn’t showing any fear this time, I was showing him a challenge.

He raised his arm, and held the stick high, and then he brought it down.

I felt a sharp sting across the top of my back. It sent a shock through my body and my legs buckled slightly.

He definitely got me that time.

I laughed but I am pretty sure that my eyes welled up with tears. All around me the people laughed and I resumed my spot on the hill beside Elie, I decided just once was enough. Some of the men shook my hand and gave me high-fives one old man even hugged me.

The women resumed their spot in centre stage and one at a time they stood and accepted the beatings from the men.

The sting along my back did not subside, I relished the burning sensation and when I lifted my shirt to show Elie I felt a sense of pride when he described a purple line that spread from my left arm all the way along to my right shoulder blade.

The boy who hit me approached me with some coloured mud and with the tips of his fingers he gently painted lines around my face.

Only men had painted faces but I guess they made an exception for me. Another man painted Elie’s face, his lines were far more detailed than mine, but it was a man’s honour after all. Men got the warrior face paint, and women got the scars.

…To be continued…