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On a blisteringly hot day in Malaga in the summer of 2001
whilst away learning Spanish in the Andalusian city, I resolved
to see my first bullfight. With my father being a long time Spanish
teacher I had often heard about his trips to the bullfight with
his students and I also had vague recollections of a television
programme watched whilst on holiday in northern Spain commemorating
the death of a matador – a horrific goring was a shocking sight to an
eight year old boy and had left me with mixed feelings about ever going to
a bullfight. Part of me attracted by the spectacle and what it symbolises in
Spain’s cultural heritage, and part of me reviled slightly as a young
man with a fairly weak stomach for gore and blood.
Tickets were secured early in the afternoon for a surprisingly
large price. I discovered prices varied massively depending on
whether you’re sitting in the sun or the shade with the latter
obviously being the most coveted and therefore most costly. As
the afternoon sun cast its light over half of the arena, I looked
around and noticed that the bullring was by no means full as the
first bull came skidding and pounding out of the enclosure.
I was
at once struck by the sheer size and power of the creature, specifically
bred to be as aggressive and unpredictable as possible and weighing
somewhere in the region of 600kg. Straight away the giant animal
crashed into the wooden fencing surrounding the bullring, smashing
a hole and rendering itself unfit to fight on account of it’s
injuries. A replacement bull was sent out and the spectacle was
underway at the second time of asking. I sat back with my bag of
sunflower seeds and my beer (trying to look the part at least)
to watch the drama unfold.
From conversations I have had since and from books that I’ve
now read I realise how often North Europeans view the “Corrida” in
the wrong light. Many have said to me that it’s a cruel sport
where the bull is badly handicapped to let the matador take victory.
Firstly, it is now apparent to me that bullfighting is by no means
a sport; it’s as much a cultural display as the ballet or
an opera where certain rules must be adhered to and conventions
followed. If you look for news of the bullfight in a Spanish paper
it will not appear in the sports pages, rather the culture section.
I cannot deny its cruelty towards the bull however, in the first
act (the “Corrida” is broken into three “tercios”,
literally “thirds”); the horse-mounted picadors drive
their pikes into the bull’s neck muscles. In the next act,
the “banderilleros” do likewise with their colourful,
barbed darts. By this time the bull is bloodied and weary, its
heavy horns were almost dragging in the dust as the matador appeared
for the final “tercio” known as the “faena”.
This is the culmination of the bullfight where the matador shows
the audience his domination of the bull and the grace of his movements
before delivering the final blow through the bull’s heart
with his sword.
I recall reflecting on what I had just seen as the bull was dragged
out of the arena, a smeared arc of blood tracing its route across
the floor, and realising that I’d been enthralled and appalled
at the same. Clearly the bullfight will always be a divisive subject,
even in Spain there are groups who call for it to be banned as it
already has been in Catalonia. For me, it offers a visitor a chance
to imbibe something that embodies Spain and its history – all
may not like it, but it’s not necessarily a question of like
and dislike; of winners and losers – rather a question of
what it means to the Spanish people and their cultural heritage.
* Please note that the opinions expressed in this article do
not represent those of Babylon Idiomas as a school. Bullfighting
is a very polemic issue for many Spaniards and you will find many
local and personal differences in the support of bullfighting across
Spain. |
