A Couple Deaths in the Afternoon: The Bullfight

“Hey, you’re in Spain. Want to go watch a couple animals get ritually sacrificed?” is what I heard.

“Sure, I’ll go watch the Bullfight.” is what I replied.

It’s 2003 and all but the four vegetarians in my Spanish Language and Culture program are in the cheap seats of Granada’s Plaza de Toros. We’re here to put aside our preconceptions of what some US states consider a felony and take in what the locals see in this Spanish cultural touchstone.

The moment I craned my neck up the tan brick walls at the Roman arches ringing the top levels of the arena, I’ve been flashing back to the colosseum I vaguely remembered from history class and still clearly remembered from Gladiator. From our seats a few stories above the sandy arena there’s still an echo of the Roman games. The tiered stone benches filled with locals eating bread and guzzling wine in the Mediterranean sun. The higher classes elevated above the rest of the crowd in covered patios and padded seats. The fanfare as the procession of combatants emerges into the ring: horse-mounted picadors armed with steel lances, followed by the three banderilleros in their silver embroidered suits, and the matador garnering the most adoration. The crowd rises from the stone benches, cheering for blood and death.

With a bugle burst, the first bull is unleashed from the gate and the disturbing reality of blood sports unfolds. The ritual begins with the picadors, who spur their mounts broadside of the bull while the banderilleros and matador distract it with magenta and gold capes. A picador thrusts his lance into the bulge of muscle on the bull’s neck. Wheeling from the fluttering capes the bull charges into the thick padded blanket covering the horse’s side. Two hooves are lifted off the ground and the picador flails for balance. Surrounded by waving capes the confused bull backs away, blood glistening through the sweat-matted fur. The picador regains control of his mount and strikes again with his lance.

The second bugle announces the entrance of the three banderilleros. Each outfitted in vibrant green, crimson, or purple suit, they’re armed with two barbed sticks wrapped in matching cloth. Their job is to further weaken the bull while avoiding retributionary puncture wounds. With Matrix-like levitation, one leaps above the charging bull, jabbing the barbed sticks into the bull’s shoulder while dodging the horns. The bull charges after each one as they strike, the flapping sticks pulling open the bull’s flesh. Sand clots around the hooves.

The matador enters on the third bugle blast armed with a cape and sword. By this point the bull can barely keep its head up from the lance-strike to the neck and the blood loss. The matador spins away as the bull charges with less and less purpose, tongue lolling in the heat. Finally the bull succumbs to his injuries and gives up, collapsing to the ground. The matador jabs a dagger into the back of the skull to finish it off, cuts off an ear, and tosses it into the adoring crowd. Three harnessed horses are trotted into the arena. The attendants loop a rope around the bull’s limp neck and prod the horses to drag the carcass back through the gate. The sand is raked and the process repeats.

By the time the third and final matador of the day enters through the gate into the arena a few of the students have left. The rest of us are seeing this through to the end and I’m still trying to understand the appeal. As each dead bull has been dragged off to the cheering crowd I’m less and less able to see this as anything but cruelty in its purest form. An animal is shoved into a confusing world of noise and pain, then provoked into retaliation until its heart stops. However, the last fight I’ll never forget.

The top matador in all of Spain, you can see the skill even from high above in our cheap seats. He spins with balletic grace away from the horns passing inches from his side. The crowd grows louder with each pass, the danger barely averted with a flourished snap of the cape. Another narrow escape and the bull wheels, lowering its horns. The matador flings his cape to the side, facing down his adversary. The bull charges and the matador unleashes a battle-cry that’s still ringing in our ears as he leaps, twists in mid-air above the bull’s head, unsheathes his sword, and buries it to the hilt between the shoulder blades.

He somersaults over the bull, rolls across the arena floor, and springs to his feet to the impossible silence of 10,000 people.

Frozen in place, the bull’s mouth opens, its final bellow lost in a gush of blood. It slumps into the ground.

Cheers, wineskins, bread, roses, and seat-cushions rain down upon the bloody sand. The matador guzzles from one skin, wiping his mouth and offering it to his gathered entourage of picadors and banderilleros. Our teacher rises and we follow her to the exit, eyes downcast.

Outside the arena the crowds disgorge and our group collects, queasy and lightheaded, still processing the deaths this afternoon.

The Texan in our group breaks the silence.

“I’ll be the only one to say it, but that was fucking awesome.”

I gotta admit, on both accounts, he was right.