Dobleve

The following is an account of a bullfight and may not be appropriate for all audiences.

So I found myself at a bullfight the other day.  I say “found myself” as if 2 ½ years of hard thinking and contemplation about whether to go hadn’t gone into the decision to be there.  Normally (that is, when I still lived in the United States) it wouldn’t even be an open question, but now, living in Spain, it was no longer that obvious or simple to me.  Bullfighting, more than any other cultural phenomenon, caused an irreconcilable conflict between my values of the way I want to live on this planet in harmony with all creatures and the way I want to live as a foreigner or outsider in a new culture.  Or, more basically: I am for – hugely, passionately, fervently – the ethical and humane treatment of animals and I value, above almost all else, keeping an open mind about new cultures and being willing to critically think about my own reactions/judgments when I think something is distasteful, rude, bad, or even “wrong” in a new culture.   And therein lay the dilemma.

It was with these unresolved conflicts still swirling in my mind that I approached the bullring and I didn’t know until the moment I stepped through the arches whether I would finally attend a bullfight.

I was so immediately overwhelmed by the scene inside that all thoughts of the bulls and what lay ahead temporarily vanished.  The stands – rows upon rows of cement steps – were packed to, or well over, capacity.  The din of the excited crowd was overpowering and a bit mesmerizing.  People were laughing and calling out as every single spectator crawled across nearly 50 other spectators to get to their (tiny) square patch of cement.  Vendors called out, hawking drinks, seat cushions, sun hats and candy.  The men wore suits, ties and hats and the women were similarly decked out in their Sunday best.  The laughing, excitement and general camaraderie was contagious and we found ourselves immediately befriended and enchanted by 2 elderly gentlemen sipping their way to happy land in front of us.  There was no hint (to my untrained eyes) of the gladiator style spectacle that lay ahead.

After some pageantry in which all the key players (except the bulls) paraded around (and then exited) the ring, the first bull charged in.  If you don’t know how a bull “fight” works…  The bull enters the ring with one spear/stick already stabbed between its shoulder blades.  The end of the stick is decorated with streamers or ribbons that if they aren’t already will eventually become soaked in blood.  Once the bull is in the ring a highly scripted performance begins.  The bull is taunted and harassed by several peones or capeadores – men in costumes swinging bright yellow and magenta capes.  This is supposedly so that the Matador can watch how the bull moves in preparation for his own show down.  The capeadores run around the ring yelling at the bull and trying to get him to charge at their capes.  If he does, they make a bee-line for any of a number of wooden shelters placed around the edges of the ring. 

After several minutes of this, a picador enters on horseback.  The horse is completely blindfolded and covered with a mattress-like armor.  The Picador carries a long pole with a sharp end and his job is to stab the bull in the neck to help weaken him for his eventual conflict with the Matador.  The bull is taunted until he (they are never shes) charges at the Picador.  The Picador is considered skilled if he adroitly stabs and destroys muscle tissue in the bull’s neck without severing the spine, thereby killing the bull too soon.  The bull is stabbed repeatedly so that it becomes harder and harder for him to raise his head and gore his attackers.  At this stage the bull fights mightily and tries in vain to gore the horse; to raise it up on his horns.  Historically more horses were killed during bull fights than bulls due to this, now however, they stand covered in their mattress-like protection, completely still as the Picador stabs, pokes and taunts the bull. 

Eventually the Banderilleros enter the ring (three of them in total) and the torture can begin in earnest.  Each has a set of special short pointed and barbed sticks festooned with even more elaborate decorations.  The Banderillero’s job is to further weaken the bull.  There is more taunting and harassing of the bull until the Banderillero simultaneously drives both spears into the neck and shoulders as near as possible to the bull’s other wounds.  At least three Banderilleros do this until the bull is stumbling around the ring with several spears sticking out of his back and blood running down his sides. 

If it’s not obvious, by this point in the “fight” I was truly starting to panic – my reaction was visceral.   The bull was running after almost anything that caught his attention.  His stomach heaved violently – whether due to belabored breathing or due to some of the internal processes of dying, I do not know.  He was pissing all over himself and stumbling, futilely trying to raise his head in defense against his attackers. 

At this point, enter the Matador.  (Matador means Killer in Spanish).  The entire crowd fell eerily silent.  You could hear the Matador’s calls of “¡Toro!” as he tried to get the bull to charge him, although to be clear there was no “charge” left in the poor bull.  The crowd at various times called responses in unison like Catholics in church on Sunday but I do not know what they were saying or what prompted their unified shouts.  The Matador engaged in an elaborate “dance” (called a faena) that all the Spaniards seemed to anticipate and understand.  He held a long spear and a red cape and drew the bull towards him and around the ring in moves called veronicas.  Popular myth is that the cape is red to antagonize the bull but bulls are color blind.  The cape is red to hide the bull’s blood.  At this point the bull is in the throes of death and although there does seem to be almost fluid movement between the bull and the Matador it is sickening to see.  If the bull tries to walk away the taunting and harassing begins anew until he re-engages with the Matador. 

After what seems like an eternity it is clear the bull will die soon.   At the bull fight we attended, moments before the Matador delivered the fatal blow, the bull, in one last effort to defend himself and protect his life, gored the Matador.  He rammed his horns up and under the gold and beaded jacket.  The Matador was lifted off the ground like a marshmallow on a campfire stick – although the  bull’s horns and the damage they were doing were concealed under the elaborate costume.  Men came running from all directions to his (the Matador’s) rescue as the crowd murmured sounds of distress.  My reaction was “GOOD – he (the Matador) goddamn deserves it – kill him”.  And before I even had time to marvel at and process my own reaction, the bull finally and fatally crashed to his knees and then fell over in one final, heavy slump.

Seemingly simultaneously – it was hard to tell amidst the death and violence – the Matador stood and was helped limping out of the ring.  The crowd went wild.  They burst into thunderous applause as I burst into tears.  I choked out several loud sobs as I looked around me, stunned.  I couldn’t believe or fathom the crowd’s response.  I wanted to yell “my GOD are you all barBARians?!”

I looked at the clock.  It had been 12 minutes from start to finish.

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Six bulls are killed in every Spanish Bullfight like the one we attended in Sevilla, España.  In Sevilla alone, during this season, there will be 29 bullfights.  There are 70 other Bullrings in Andalucía.  Bullfighting is a pastime in several countries worldwide.