Thrill-seeking tourists flock to Spain each year watch the bull fights. A spectacle, macabre in its cruelty, where the bull stands little chance of survival against a skilled matador. More fun, for the bull, is chasing brave, or stupid tourists and locals through narrow streets in an annual bull run festival. No need to go to Spain, we can offer the same attraction right here on my farm. Bred to procreate and not to fight tourists, neighbour Jan’s Santa Gertrudis has performed his duties with alacrity. Until he hurt his leg in a scrap with a Brahman over a pretty cow.
Like a wounded buffalo, he’s turned ugly. Very ugly! As I discovered when driving my lucerne-laden bakkie into its camp. Raking its fore hoof on the ground, head lowered, eyes bulging, it charged at me. While a ton of muscle and bone at top speed will inflict fatal injury, was in the safety of my vehicle, which surely would deter it. Not so! It kept coming! In the split second to contact had two choices: Stay put or get out and run. The fence was 50 meters away. an option.
The impact was like getting hit by an express train at a level crossing. Connecting the bakkie’s grill head-on, the steering wheel saved me from being catapulted through the windscreen. Steam exploded from the punctured radiator infuriating the bull even further. After taking out the headlights it moved to the passenger door, sticking a horn through the closed window, which shattered, sending a shower of glass all over me. Bull then moved to the back load box and on seeing the stack of lucerne, calmly started to feed. was frozen in my seat.
Terrified to move or risk escape. My farmworkers had ejected from the rear at first sign of attack. Now sitting on the safe side of the fence, laughing their heads off. Realising was trapped, they went to fetch matador Jan. Forsaking sword for rifle he approached cautiously. “You OK Townie?” Jan shouted. The bull turned around, saw Jan and charged. single shot dropped it in its tracks. Surveying the damage to my bakkie, Jan said, “can get out now”. He had to prise my white-knuckled fingers from the steering wheel. Returning to my stoep, a couple of stiff dops of Klippies restored my shattered nerves. “What causes a bull to turn killer like that?” asked Jan.
“Probably its sore leg and too much testosterone,” he answered. “The carcass is off to the abattoir. should fetch enough to cover repairs to your bakkie, Townie.” “Tell me Jan, why did you have to shoot it? red cape and a sword would have been more sporting.” |fw
