Bulls Fighting

I have done a lot of traveling. I have seen a lot of things, I have been to lots of museums, cultural events, concerts, festivals, you name it. But in recent memory, very little has made me step back and think wow... I am in a different country more strongly than what I am about to write about. Maybe Buzhludja in Bulgaria, but nothing else I can even think of.

Thursday, I attended a bull fight at the Real Maestranza, one of the most historic, prestigious, and largest bull rings in the country. I was warned of what was to come, namely, the death. In fact, it was supposedly so gruesome, so cruel, that I was unable to get anyone to come with me. So I went alone, on a toasty 100° day, to the bull ring. It wasn't close to being fully booked, though those seats that were open were mostly those with direct sunlight for the first half hour or so. The seats in the shade were mostly taken.

First of all, the inside of the bull ring is beautiful. This is our first sign leading to, frankly, what I'd hope the lesson of this post is: that though the idea of bull fighting is of course sad, the culture and traditions behind it are superb. Inside the ring is the stunningly yellow Andalusian dirt, complemented by the reds, yellows, and whites of the Maestranza. Arches run along the upper level, all around the ring. Around are, as you'd expect, plenty of different people. A decent amount of tourists from lots of places, but more commonly, Spaniards dressed quite nicely, here to catch up with old friends or conduct business deals and expand their network.

I'll cut to the details, saving more gory videos for sections that you don't have to open if you don't want...

Before the fight, a band, complete of course with a pair of castañuelas (the wooden percussion instrument you can hold in your hands, and is typical of Spain and especially flamenco), opened. It was total typical Spanish music, and got everyone in the mood for this unique cultural tradition we were about to experience.

When I was told what I should expect from the fight, I was told two things. I'll give the first one now, and the second a little later. So, I was told the fight would last as long as the bull would last. So at 9:00 sharp, trumpets blared, and a man dressed in the flashy, bright-colored clothing and a dapper hat rides in on his armored, presumably pure-bred, Spanish horse. He paraded the horse around for a little bit, and some other people walked in shortly after. I won't call them matadors, as I believe there's just one matador, but maybe toreador is a better word. I'm not quite sure with all this terminology, but for this, I'll use the term toreador as an assistant to the matador. They have pink capes, not the infamous red cape that will lead to (spoiler), the bull's death. They walk in to the ring, waving their pink capes around in ways that are clearly in response to a hypothetical bull. It's calm, and the music continues in the background. After a few minutes of warm-up, the trumpets blare again, and in runs the bull. Though it shows no signs of fatigue in my very inexperienced view, I've been told that the bulls are tired out through heavy loads and salt water. Mercedes's dad told me, as well, that the bulls are treated wonderfully their entire life, until the day they die. That they are let to be themselves, roam where they want to, and are fed well and not abused. That only, on the day of the fight, do they begin to experience the slightest of pain. So, our toreadors, now alone in the ring with the bull, have to tire it out enough for the matador to come in and, well, kill it. They do this by waving their cape, causing the bull to charge. When the bull

comes close, they wrap their cape around their body and it follows, as they elegantly pull themselves away from the center of rotation and towards where the bull came from.

After a bit of this, the bull first notices the horse, which is, interestingly, blindfolded. Not just blinded, but fully blindfolded. Presumably this is so that it doesn't react as the bull charges at it with its horns. By the end of the fight, I had noticed one of the horses start to bleed a bit, but It didn't look like anything more than superficial damage, especially considering the thick layer of armor it had to protect it.

Picture of the bloody horse is in here:

Once the bull is determined to injure the horse, the horseman needs to get it away. This is the first blow dealt to the bull. The horseman holds a short dagger on a long stick, and cuts, just superficially, the bull until it learns to stay away from the horse. This could take a few tries, but nearly every time, you can see the shine of blood running down its sides and legs. It's not a lot of blood, but actually, this is the majority of the blood that you'll really see. The rest of the damage is internal.

Picture of the bloody dagger is in here:

Once this is done, the next step would be to continue to get the bull to bleed. I would suppose that keeping it injured would distract it from what the matador has in store. They have these pylons striped in Andalusian and Spanish colors, which have, as far as I could tell, daggers on the end, too. As the toreadors get the bull to run towards them, they stick these pylons into the bull, and they stay. They're in the bull until it dies. Occasionally, they'd miss, at which point they'd be brought out of the ring, but when they stay, they don't come out easily. Upon a successful implant, the audience will cheer. The first of these pylons went in at 9:12. Having been told that the fight continues as long as the bull lasts, I imagined I'd be out of there soon.

Here's a video of sticking these pylons into the bull

The following step will tire the bull out enough for the matador to come in. They continue to run their pink capes in the air, causing the bull to charge towards them. There are these protective barriers, though, which the bull cannot reach. As late as possible, the toreadors will duck behind these barriers, as the bull desperately tries to injure the human luring—no— begging, to be attacked. These barriers are filled with dents left behind by previous bulls as they too did the same, to no avail. After a few rounds of this, all toreadors hide behind their barrier, and the matador steps in.

The matador has a long sword, covered by a red cape. The bull has learned by this point that a cape is not danger. That a cape will lure it, but will not kill it. The matador continues to build this trust, now with his red cape, symbolic of blood and danger. All the while, to keep the cape taut, the sword sits horizontally at the top. The matador does the same with the bull, running it around, causing it to charge, giving it occasional rests. Remember, at this point, the bull has had its fair share of bleeding already, but nothing that would kill it. As time goes on, the matador takes the sword out from the cape, holding it now in the opposite hand, still distracting the bull with the cape. Eventually, since this went on for a few minutes, the band played more traditional Spanish music, and this was the moment I referenced at the start of the section... the costumes, the concept, the stunning architecture, and the stone seats of the ring; the posters, the discussions, the controversy were enough to make this experience completely and utterly foreign, but throwing the music in there, nearly identical music to that which was on my "I'm going to Andalucia" playlist, completed that utter removal from anything familiar. This was not a sporting event I was at, it was a display of culture and history. I remember getting goosebumps. Not that the music was so complex and developed, as what usually happens when I get goosebumps while listening to music, but simply that this was something so, so unique—something that I was truly lucky to experience.

The matador deals one and only one blow—the fatal blow. Though the ring is usually quiet, as the toreador goes face to face with the bull, both silent, both motionless, shushes spread through the ring. This requires complete silence. The matador runs, and the bull lunges forward. Little does it know that this time is different. It's not lunging forward, charging, only to be tricked by the matador moving to the side in the last possible second. No. Now, there's a long, sharp, shiny sword. He misses, but it's okay. They set back up again, exactly the same way. Facing each other again, the matador runs, the bull jumps. Swoosh, the sword is in the bull's back.

The fatal blow:

Keep in mind, the ring is silent. You can hear the sound of the sword entering the bull, and a split second later, a cheer from the crowd. It's now about 9:20, and as the other toreadors exit from their barrier, they all surround the bull, getting it to run back and forth between them.

The bull, at this point, is dead. It's still running around, trying to charge at each toreador as they wave their capes, but there is nothing that can be done. It begins to limp, as half its body loses function, still determined to do something with its rage until its dying breath. Within about 30 seconds, the bull falls to its knees, and the audience whistles and waves white fans and cloths.

The bull falls

And everybody whistles

The fall itself is heartbreaking. I didn't realize it was the death at first, I just figured it was tired. But knowing that in that moment, the bull cannot withstand its own weight anymore, that the systems that have worked the entire life have been ended by the single blow of a knife that I saw just seconds before, is utterly depressing. (I was going to use heart-stopping, but I don't think that's appropriate to use in this context ;) ) What makes it worse is that I paid for this. I paid to see something be killed, to see something die in front of my eyes. And I knew it going into it. It wasn't an accident. It always ends up this way. Though a bull fight is called a fight, it's really an art. The bull has no chance; the matador always wins. The next day at work, I couldn't help but continue to think of this scene: the final moments of the bull's life. As the bull falls and dies, the last thing it hears are the obnoxious whistles of the audience, the last thing it sees are the pink capes of the toreadors, which it had learned to trust, and the white fans throughout the audience, nearly encouraging it to just surrender. It suck with me, and I don't think I will forget the solemnity that I still get when thinking about it, when going back to those videos.

The bull, already on its knees, falls on its side as it dies. A team of horses is brought in, signaling that the bull is indeed dead, and they strap the bull to chains attached to it, parade it around the ring once and bring it to the exit way, directly opposite the entry way.

The bull being dragged away: by far the worst video in the post

At 9:25, I was expecting to go home, but not everyone was leaving. A few people had left to get a drink, but I decided to continue to stay. The Indian tourist next to me walked out as soon as he could. Little did I know, but a bull fight is not a singular bull. It is six. This happens five more times.

What struck me the most about the next five bulls was the choreography and precision to which the ritual was executed. It seemed that, by the end, I even knew at which points in the process the bull would begin to pee. Sure, things would happen, sometimes the pylons wouldn't stick or the matador would get the sword in the bull on the first try, but it was completely repetitive. The more times it happened, the more times I became more uncomfortable with it. I had signed to up see a bull fight, not six bull fights. Let alone, out of fear that I'd miss some sort of "final boss" or something, I stayed all the way until it was over, at 11:25.

See, I was originally mad at myself. In my excitement to be there, I was taking lots of videos and photos of the process. But I was not paying as close attention to the process in real life as I could have been. That being said, I didn't know how many bulls there would eventually be. But by the fourth, fifth, sixth bulls, I had taken enough videos and pictures, but also, I had gotten used to the process. Again, it's a careful choreography, so excelently and precisely executed with each bull. Instead of being mad at myself for taking a video, I had started to look at my phone, and, say, respond to texts. So now I see why people dress nice. Why people go here with a business partner. The bull fight seems to be the equivalent of a round of golf here... that you are on a fixed path. That when you enter the ring, you will see the death of six bulls in the same way, one after another, as if they were all put on a conveyor belt to their deaths. It's the same with golf. When you play, you tee off from the same spot, and your goal is to get the ball into the same cup at the end of the hole. In football, there's a million ways to get the ball into the end zone, in baseball, any combination of pitches can meet the infinitely different ways to swing the bat, ever so slightly different, such that the ball ends up anywhere. A home run can be anywhere in an infinite range of angles. But in golf, a cup is a cup. You only finish the hole once you sink the ball. You only get the range of the hole. Here, the match is only over once the bull is dead. Yes, you can take the bull to different spots in the ring, but the process will never differ. It's repetitive, it's hypnotic. For a first time viewer, it gets you thinking. For a regular attendee, I can see why you'd want to have a conversation over it. There's nothing particularly special going on, it's just the same old routine. It provides something to watch with half your attention, while the other half is dedicated to whatever dealings or connection-building is happening. It gives something to talk about, in an amazingly beautiful place, with cool costumes, cool music, and a cool ambiance.

We think of Europe as being not too different from America, but indeed there are things here that are. And bull fighting is one of them. Am I glad I went? 110%. Did it get me thinking, of course. Would I go back? Chances are, not. But I am surprised by my reaction. I figured that the culture, the costumes, the architecture, the music, the history and tradition, the process, and the genuine "cool" factor would get me to return for the last show of the time I'm here, on June 28. I did not expect the wave of sadness I felt with the death of each bull to overpower all these other extrodinarly wonderful things about being at the bull fight, and make me not want to buy a ticket to the other night. I like to think of myself as a man who loves to experience cultures, who can muster the stomach to see, to eat, to do what anyone in the world has been seeing, eating, doing since the time they were born. That I can put aside my thoughts and ideas for the sake of culture and tradition. But here, I, for the first time I can remember, hit my wall. I met a tradition which I could not surpass.