This will come of as naive, but up till the very moment when I saw the torreros stabbing at the big beasts with colorful staves with ribbons on them, I had no idea they actually killed the bulls at these things, or at least I had no idea that that was pretty much the sole purpose of the event. Needless to say I was a bit shocked when, because the first bull was a bit too stalwart, or perhaps had not been stabbed precisely in the right spot by the fighter, a torrero had to repeatedly raise a knife in the air with both hands and slam it down onto the bull's skull until it stopped groaning and twitching. Yes, this was the most violent thing I had ever seen with my own eyes.
I was shocked, but not offended. For as much violence as there was, there was just as much or even more art, sport, and culture along with it. And did you know that, although a rarity, when a bull acutally succeeds in evading the fighters stabs for long enough or actually injures the matador to the point where he can no longer fight, the bull is considered the victor and gets to spend the rest of his life mating with loads of female bulls, spreading his seed to make future champion bulls? Either way, whether the animal goes down in a colorful spectacle of gore and applause or dies from old age and a way overworked libido, I'd say his end was way better than that of the countless other cattle that are routinely slaughtered daily and unceremoniously.
Like I said before, besides the gore, there really was a lot of sport and athleticism to this thing. Typically, there are a total of six fights, four of which we watched at this particular event before my friend Meg said she had had enough. Like me, I don't think she was all that offended, but after seeing four bulls stabbed to death, she simple didn't desire to see anymore. I don't blame her. The most impressive fight by far was the second, in which an apparently quasi famous matador, dressed in very flashy orange, white, and gold, did the fighting. (Naturaly, neither Meg nor I recognized or remember the names of any of the fighters). The guy without a doubt had the skills to back up his audacious outfit. Several times, rather than wave the red flag standing up, he got down on his knees and waved it out in a totally defenseless position. Had the bull for some reason found his orange outfit more enticing, or had he not waved the bandera with the correct motions, he would have been trampled for sure. At one point he allowed the bull to pass by him not once but two times in a row in this position before standing up. At another point he brought the flag in a little closer to his body and, rather than pull it up and allow the bull to run past him, kept it at his side so that the bull continued to circle him over and over, grabbing the beast by the neck as he spun with it in tandem. Eventually, the bull did for a moment get the best of him. As the matador attempted yet another athletic feat, or tempting of fate, he was tripped up and fell over. The bull seized the opportunity and charged the fallen competitor. The matador instictively and wisely grappled the bull around the neck with his body, so as not to be gored. Although the bull bucked and reared, he couldn't shake the fighter, and within seconds four or five torreros came out to distract him with flags from all sides. The matador apperently knew it was now safe to let go, and sure enough, the bull entirely forgot about him and charged at the array of colorful new targets around him. Next came a truly symbolic and romantic moment in the fight. The slightly trampled matador, now visibly bleading through his orange tights/pants from an injury his lower leg, wrapped a tourniquet above the wound and called off the other torreros. He walked back out to face the bull again. Blood ran down his leg from the bull just like blood ran off the bull's back from his knives. In a rather ballsy display, the matador continued to play with and tease the bull with his flag, rather than kill him right away. But eventually, an end had to come. As the bull charged for the last time, rather than meeting a raised red flag, he met the matador's rigid sword, thrust perfectly through the top of his neck and into his vital organs. The bull staggered for what seemed like a minute, unable to move, and as the matador motioned wildly with his arm, as if telling it to die, the beast reared upward and collapsed on to the ground, dead on the spot. The matador's one thrust had really been perfect.
A quick not about the people in the seats around us at the event: They were almost all American, which I guess wasn't too surprising since we were in the cheaper section of the stadium. Besides their clothes and language, something that distinguished them as fellow americans was the fact that they had brought snacks. No sooner had a group of guys sat behind us than they began eating family sized bags of sour cream and onion lays. Some girls that were with them also began busting out cookies and chips and all sorts of junk. It got weirder...... While blood was at the same moment gushing from the back of a freshly stabbed bull below us, girls to our left were talking about what kind of sandwhiches their host mothers had made them. "Is that chicken?" a girl asked in the most nonchalant voice possible to her companion, who had just unwrapped the foil from a sizable bocadillo, as a bull below us, already with several knives stuck into his back, is being continuously stabbed to death. "O no, it's an egg and cheese sandwhich," she says after taking a bite. "So good!" she adds. I think they would have offered some snacks to their other friend, but she was too busy crying her eyes out at the amazing brutality taking place before her. I guess she was a bit more sensitive.....
I was shocked, but not offended. For as much violence as there was, there was just as much or even more art, sport, and culture along with it. And did you know that, although a rarity, when a bull acutally succeeds in evading the fighters stabs for long enough or actually injures the matador to the point where he can no longer fight, the bull is considered the victor and gets to spend the rest of his life mating with loads of female bulls, spreading his seed to make future champion bulls? Either way, whether the animal goes down in a colorful spectacle of gore and applause or dies from old age and a way overworked libido, I'd say his end was way better than that of the countless other cattle that are routinely slaughtered daily and unceremoniously.
Like I said before, besides the gore, there really was a lot of sport and athleticism to this thing. Typically, there are a total of six fights, four of which we watched at this particular event before my friend Meg said she had had enough. Like me, I don't think she was all that offended, but after seeing four bulls stabbed to death, she simple didn't desire to see anymore. I don't blame her. The most impressive fight by far was the second, in which an apparently quasi famous matador, dressed in very flashy orange, white, and gold, did the fighting. (Naturaly, neither Meg nor I recognized or remember the names of any of the fighters). The guy without a doubt had the skills to back up his audacious outfit. Several times, rather than wave the red flag standing up, he got down on his knees and waved it out in a totally defenseless position. Had the bull for some reason found his orange outfit more enticing, or had he not waved the bandera with the correct motions, he would have been trampled for sure. At one point he allowed the bull to pass by him not once but two times in a row in this position before standing up. At another point he brought the flag in a little closer to his body and, rather than pull it up and allow the bull to run past him, kept it at his side so that the bull continued to circle him over and over, grabbing the beast by the neck as he spun with it in tandem. Eventually, the bull did for a moment get the best of him. As the matador attempted yet another athletic feat, or tempting of fate, he was tripped up and fell over. The bull seized the opportunity and charged the fallen competitor. The matador instictively and wisely grappled the bull around the neck with his body, so as not to be gored. Although the bull bucked and reared, he couldn't shake the fighter, and within seconds four or five torreros came out to distract him with flags from all sides. The matador apperently knew it was now safe to let go, and sure enough, the bull entirely forgot about him and charged at the array of colorful new targets around him. Next came a truly symbolic and romantic moment in the fight. The slightly trampled matador, now visibly bleading through his orange tights/pants from an injury his lower leg, wrapped a tourniquet above the wound and called off the other torreros. He walked back out to face the bull again. Blood ran down his leg from the bull just like blood ran off the bull's back from his knives. In a rather ballsy display, the matador continued to play with and tease the bull with his flag, rather than kill him right away. But eventually, an end had to come. As the bull charged for the last time, rather than meeting a raised red flag, he met the matador's rigid sword, thrust perfectly through the top of his neck and into his vital organs. The bull staggered for what seemed like a minute, unable to move, and as the matador motioned wildly with his arm, as if telling it to die, the beast reared upward and collapsed on to the ground, dead on the spot. The matador's one thrust had really been perfect.
A quick not about the people in the seats around us at the event: They were almost all American, which I guess wasn't too surprising since we were in the cheaper section of the stadium. Besides their clothes and language, something that distinguished them as fellow americans was the fact that they had brought snacks. No sooner had a group of guys sat behind us than they began eating family sized bags of sour cream and onion lays. Some girls that were with them also began busting out cookies and chips and all sorts of junk. It got weirder...... While blood was at the same moment gushing from the back of a freshly stabbed bull below us, girls to our left were talking about what kind of sandwhiches their host mothers had made them. "Is that chicken?" a girl asked in the most nonchalant voice possible to her companion, who had just unwrapped the foil from a sizable bocadillo, as a bull below us, already with several knives stuck into his back, is being continuously stabbed to death. "O no, it's an egg and cheese sandwhich," she says after taking a bite. "So good!" she adds. I think they would have offered some snacks to their other friend, but she was too busy crying her eyes out at the amazing brutality taking place before her. I guess she was a bit more sensitive.....
*The photos for this post were taken by the very cool, very talented Meg Anderson, all rights reserved, etc., etc. If you are impressed, as you should be, you should totally give her a job. Just sayin.*
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