Leaving the life
Performers savor last days of the Ringling Bros. circus
PROVIDENCE, R.I.—An elephant stretches its trunk through a window to soothe a sick child. A woman gives birth and three months later is back performing on the high wire. A handler of big cats weeps as the beasts lope out of the ring for the last time.
These stories could come only from circus performers, and in particular one famous circus, the one immortalized as “The Greatest Show on Earth”: the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus, which is hanging its hat for the last time this weekend.
While the show goes on in other circuses around the world, Ringling is special. The size, the spectacle and the history—stretching back to P.T. Barnum and his traveling museum in the 1800s—set it apart.
One of Ringling’s two traveling circuses is scheduled to perform its final show Sunday in New York. The other closed this month, in Providence, R.I., and with it, the end to a way of life few others have experienced.
Ringling is the last circus anywhere to travel by train, and while living on a train can be tough, the accommodations are considered a benefit that other circuses don’t offer. Perks include the “Pie Car,” the mile-long train’s dining operation, as well as a circus nursery and school for the many children whose parents make the circus what it is.
Some observations from the home the performers leave behind, from the unit’s last circus baptism, their final times goofing around on “Clown Alley,” and other moments the world will never see again:
THE BOSS CLOWN
One of Sandor Eke’s earliest memories is of an elephant comforting him, stretching its trunk through his trailer window, while he lay recovering from illness.
Eke’s Hungarian parents were performing at a circus in Sweden, and Eke was just a toddler. A few years later, he’d be a circus performer himself, and aspiring to come to America to join Ringling.
He got his wish 20 years ago, as an acrobat. Five years later, his colleagues told him he was funny and would make a good clown.
Now, at age 41, he’s the Boss Clown, leader of the clowns on the unit. He’s also dad to 2-year-old Michael, and they are enjoying the waning days here together.
“You have your own zoo. You can pet an elephant; you can play with the baby tigers,” Eke says. “You have your own clowns. Everybody loves you. A circus is a very big family.”
Someday, he plans to teach his son juggling and other circus skills.
Even so, Eke knows Michael may never join the circus.
Eke’s wife, a former circus aerialist, has already established their new home in Las Vegas. When the circus closes, Eke hopes to get a job as a “flair” bartender there, doing tricks like juggling bottles. He wonders how life will change. “My normal life is this. My normal life is going on the train, going every week to a different city,” Eke says. “It’s crazy how much I love circus.”
SEND OUT THE CLOWNS
Ivan Vargas likes to say his parents fell in love with the air.
He is sixth-generation circus. His mother performed on the high wire when they met, his father on the trapeze.
Vargas was born between two Ringling Bros. shows in Madison, Wis., in 1990. His father managed to perform in the early show, then made it across the street to the hospital—in costume—for his son’s birth.
Vargas is part of Clown Alley. It’s not just a place. In one sense, it’s the private area backstage where clowns get ready to perform. But it’s also how the clowns refer to themselves, a mini-fraternity within the circus, and a microcosm of it.
A CIRCUS BAPTISM
Behind Clown Alley, in the depths of the arena, a small group of performers and crew hastily assembles for a baptism.
Six-year-old Eddie Strickland is led in by his father, Jimmie, who has been with the circus for 20-some years.
The Rev. Jerry Hogan, of the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops’ Circus and Traveling Shows Ministry, is ready in his vestments, made by the costume department from old elephant blankets and decorated with sequined clown faces, crosses and animal prints.
Father Jerry, as he is known, blesses water taken from the tap a few moments ago, then pours some on Eddie’s head.
“Eddie, you’re going to be famous. This is the last baptism celebration on Ringling’s show in 146 years,” he tells the boy.
BIRTH ON A WIRE (CLOSE TO IT)
Being a circus performer takes commitment, discipline and athleticism, qualities Anna Lebedeva exhibits when she balances on the high wire with her husband, Mustafa Danguir.
She executes her tricks so effortlessly, it’s hard to believe she had a baby three months ago.
“I’m really happy to have a chance to finish this. It’s been seven years for us,” she says. “This is just history, you know?”
Danguir is the first in his family to perform in the circus. He was discovered doing acrobatic tricks as a child in Tangier, Morocco, and invited to circus school. Lebedeva, originally from Moscow, is sixth-generation circus.
They married last year, 30 feet up on the high wire, while the show was in Houston.
The couple dreams of starting their own show, or maybe opening a circus school in Morocco to teach future generations. They’re optimistic something good will come along.
“We are artists,” Danguir says. “We are survivors.”
THE CURTAIN CLOSES
The tiger presenter weeps as he ends his act with the big cats.
The animals are owned by Feld Entertainment, which owns Ringling, and Tabayara Maluenda has to say goodbye.
The animals will be sent to a center that specializes in tigers, according to a Feld spokesman. Years of protests by animal rights groups are among the things that took their toll on the circus in recent years, along with declining attendance and changing public tastes.
As Maluenda wipes away tears during their last appearance together, he thanks each animal individually as it leaves the ring. One, he embraces and kisses—the first tiger Feld got for him when he joined Ringling 13 years ago, one he raised from its days as a cub.
Finally, after the aerialists, strongmen, the human cannonball and the BMX bikes have all done their tricks, it’s over. The ringmaster calls out the families of the performers and crew to join them on the arena floor for a final thank-you.
Among them are “Boss Clown” Sandor Eke and his son.
In a few days, the two will fly back to Hungary to visit family before their permanent move to Las Vegas. Eke is planning to visit a circus he has heard about there.
“Any time I have a chance to see a circus,” he says, “I will be there.”
But tonight, he stands on the arena floor one last time, holds his son in his arms, and cries.