Blood and guts all over

I had a barf bag handy and the was familiar with the nearest exist. Sitting on the hard stone bench at the bull ring, I was trying to remind myself of the cultural significance of the event in which I was about to participate, and not think about those six bulls who were probably eating their last supper, having no idea what was about to happen.

April has arrived in Sevilla, and with the orange blossoms of spring, Feria de Abril and the torero season has begun. Each night for the next two week, three toreros will face off against six bulls in front of hundreds of spectators in the hot sun of the late afternoon.

There are three stages of the bullfight, which I quickly realized are to accomplish two objectives: tire the bull out and piss him off royally. (I would be pretty angry too if someone had jabbed a pointed spear into my back and then wanted me to run around a hot ring until I died.) The first round involves a group of men with capes running the bull through a series of exercises, directing him across the ring to the second stage. The second stage consists of two picadors who are mounted on horse with sharp lances. The horses are blindfolded and armored. The bull runs right into the side of the poor horse as the man jabs the lance into the back of the bull. One wonders what that blindfolded horse thinks when a 450-kilo weight lunges into its side! At this point, the bull is hurt and mad, and the banderillero, who is on foot, enters the ring to pierce the bull with two arm’s length daggers. Blood is gushing down the sides of the bull. Finally, the matador enters the ring. The bull will make a series of passes as the matador whips his cape around. (Did you know that bulls are colorblind? They are not charging the red, but charging the movement!) Next, the matador will take him sword and launch it into the bull, right where the back meets the head (neck of the bull?) It will be less than thirty seconds after the sword enters the bull before this massive animal will fall over, dead, and the audience will stand on its feet, cheering for the matador.

Check out the pictures and video, if your stomach is up for it, at http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/EspanaPart13


It was amazing to watch the disposition of the crowd change substantially over the two-hour bullfight. When the first bull charged the horse and was lanced, there was a substantial and collective gasp from the audience as many averted their eyes. But by the third bull, the initial shock had worn off. Now, people were engaged, clapping and shouting as the bull met its fate. It was an interesting process to witness this happening around me and happening to me. I found myself enthralled by the sport of this fight. (It makes me think what I else in life I become desensitized to simply because of more frequent exposure.) Suddenly, I appreciated this sport for what its cultural significance, and almost found it beautiful, in a very primal way.

The best moment was when my favorite matador had put the sword into his second bull. This bull had not really been up for the fight from the beginning: After he was let into the ring, he stopped, looked, and then turned around for the door out. It was as if he was saying, “You know, I’m not really up for this game today. No, thanks.” Actually, he proved to be a very good bull, and he had a good fight. After the sword had entered him, he, once again, headed for the door. The matador walked up to him and sat down next to him, as if to show him how to lie down and die. And the bull followed, laying down and then dying. It was this oddly poignant moment. It conveys that a bullfight is not just a sport or a killing fest, but a cultural tradition deeply rooted in respect. This matador demonstrated deep respect for this animal, and when he had finally died, began applause for the bull. It was a relief to be proved wrong: a bullfight isn’t just blood and guts all over, but a celebration of strength and power.