Hey Toro! A cautionary tale.

This story is something I wrote back in 2017, it is allegorical and it represented the political situation in the general elections of Papua New Guinea at the time and was almost prophetic in its accuracy.

The situation of my political commentary also has some analogous features with the bullfight. There is much to be learned from the artistry and the savagery of this archaic and (not quite) anachronistic bloodsport.

In PNG, at the moment (three years later), there has been an attempted vote of ‘No Confidence’ in the Prime Minister, James Marape and the matter is currently before the Supreme Court to interpret the constitution that the complainant (a member of the opposition – and a former Prime Minister) says was breached in the various parliamentary manoeuvrings (as yet incomplete).

Will this allegory prove as prophetic this time – or will the bull win – sometimes he does. It should be noted that, when the bull wins, it’s always particularly bloody and the results totally random and out of control.

But it’s not only PNG – this is an allegory that would fit many circumstances, in particular in the political arena – name your own cast.

He pranced into the arena, young and fierce – the audience screamed their encouragement to the proud bull: Toro! Toro! Toro!

The steam coming from his nostrils indicative of the fire in his belly, with head held high, on display his two deadly assets: his long sharp horns.

Standing proudly confident, in his arrogance, he has seriously underestimated his opponents.

The crowd adore him, their roars of encouragement excite and agitate him leaving him to become easily disoriented by flashes of a red flag here; a pink cape there. He charges at anything, head lowered, horns poised to inflict maximum damage.

Hey Toro!

The bull, proud, angry and arrogant – his ultimate downfall

This is what audience has come to see – they love this savage beast. Expectations of him are high. Toro! Toro! Toro!

But even with his potently destructive headgear, the bull has little hope: his opponents have his measure – always have had. Every charge, every primitive attempt to maim and gore is sidestepped and countered with spears and knives that are driven into the back of the charging bull’s thick, fleshy neck.

Each wound is potentially fatal – but it’s not over yet.

The bull is brave – he was selected for the arena for his tenacity not his intelligence. So, mortally wounded he doesn’t give up. He keeps charging and is rewarded, each time with a fresh wound.

The crowd applauds his bravery and encourages more of the same – by now they are baying for his blood. Toro! Toro! Toro!

Enter the Matador: Magnificent in his bejewelled finery, he bows to the audience and waves his red cape at the wounded bull – who, predictably, continues to charge.

The Matador taunts the bull to the predilection of the crowd whose allegiances have now shifted. ‘Olé‘…is now the cry of appreciation for the Matador as his red cape is lifted, with a flourish, over the charging and disoriented bull.

Then the drums roll, to thunderous applause. Now is the hour.

With gleaming sword in one hand and red cape in the other, the Matador faces off for the last time against the charging bull. In a savagely beautiful move, he plunges the sword deep into the flesh of the bull. The death thrust. Olé

As the bull staggers and falls to his knees he is jeered and booed by a now hostile crowd even as he takes his last brave, dying, stupid breath. He has failed them.

To the delight of the crowd, the ears and/or the tail of the pathetic creature are cut off and given, as a trophy to the Matador according to his adjudicated performance: one ear for a good performance, two for a very good show and two ears and a tail if he was excellent.

The Matador holds them aloft proudly before throwing them to the audience. To the victor, the spoils a triumph of guile over brute force.

Olé.