La Corrida de Toros

This weekend, I visited my first and last Corrida de Toros, or bullfight. In all honesty, I have no clue why I went, and have been quite upset with myself for choosing to financially show my support for animal cruelty with my purchase of a ticket. Unfortunately, I did my research after the fact, and at that point there was nothing I could do. I decided only to turn up on Saturday so I could have firsthand experience on which to base my thoughts. And those thoughts were confirmed within the first ten minutes.

Upon my arrival, it was reminiscent of going to a baseball game. Men and women were drinking, children were eating candy and fried foods, vendors were selling overpriced seat cushions for the maladjusted. Everyone was smiling and in good spirits, eager to enter the stadium. I made my way to my section and quickly took my seat in the sun. People were beginning to file in and, for the first time since I’ve been here, an official Spanish event began on time. A band full of horns began playing and little children in jeweled costumes began parading around in the bull pen, soon followed by men on horseback. The crowd began to cheer, stand, and shout “Ole!” to the men who were now trotting their horses around the ring in such a way that made the horses look mechanical.

Soon enough, the children were ushered to the sides, and only one man on horseback remained. Voices behind me were telling everyone to be quiet. The first bull was about to enter the ring. From across my field of vision, I saw a bull stumble into the ring, confused, drugged, and helpless. And before I could even blink an eye, I began to cry. I knew the fate of this bull; everyone did. He continued to fumble about the ring, rambling to and from the pink capes of the other matadors, globs of sweat streaming down from his mouth. The bull soon became exhausted, and the man on horseback teetered closer to the bull, taunting him with the swat of his horse’s tail, the swish of his cape. And then the first blow. A metal rod that looked like it was made out of tinsel entered the bull’s flesh and expanded once inside, hanging on his back like some kind of macabre Christmas ornament, remaining there for the duration of his poor life. Blood began to seep through the bull’s skin like water does from an overfilled sponge, and soon he was glistening in a dark red sweat. The audience around me was now licking their lips, taking swigs of their beers, belching and crying to the matador to go again. Harder. More.

Another horseman entered the ring, this time toting a longer metal rod. The bull was still swishing his tail, rocking his head back and forth to try to rid himself of his recently-installed fixture, unaware that another had entered and was about to puncture another part of his body. This one was quicker. The man nonchalantly made his way to the bull and rammed the rod into the bull’s neck repeatedly, digging deeper each time until blood gushed at the rate of a broken fire hydrant. It reminded me of an oil rig. Deeper and deeper he dug, twisting with his wrists from atop his horse until the bull bowed his heavy head in submission. Meanwhile, the crowd booed. I asked a neighbor why this was the case, and he responded that the audience prefers more teasing and tricks first. I was stunned.

The bull still wasn’t dead. The sun had begun to set, and inch by inch the shaded section of the circle was beginning to blanket the stinging hot clay that was now stained red. Another man entered the ring, this time without a horse. He was thin and wearing a dark grey suit. He threw his hat to the ground with a sharp flit of the wrist, and the audience watched in awe as a small cloud of dust rose from where it landed. The matador walked slowly to the bull, who was now leaving a trail of blood wherever he went like the mucus trail of a snail. Step by step, the matador strutted closer, leading with his thin hips. He revealed a silky red sheet from his jacket, much like the color streaming from the bull’s inner organs. The bull, that stupid bull, ambled forward, wobbling on its increasingly weakened legs. Meanwhile, the audience begin to cry as the matador revealed a long, shiny blade to the public. Men in front of me clinked their cups together, women began clicking their heels in excitement. Everyone was cloaked in their own sweat, making fists with their hands. Their knuckles were white in anticipation.

The sunlight had gone now. The matador sashayed and swirled about the bull, who was now coughing up his own blood. And then all of a sudden, the matador thrust the sword into the setting sun and then straight down into the forehead of the bull. He held the position for three seconds until the bull, caked in his own blood, toppled to the ground like a domino, its limbs paralyzed and extended as if suddenly frozen, mouth hanging open and revealing a dry tongue that hung limply like a windsock in the dog days of summer. The matador removed the sword quickly and triumphantly, turning his attention to the audience. He took a bow. He also took an ear. Returning to the bull, now almost indiscernable among the pool of blood that had formed around it, he took a smaller dagger and shaved off the bull’s left ear, throwing it to the public like one would a bouquet at a wedding. A little boy around the age of eight picked it up, smiling.

The crowd roared. My stomach began to churn, and I had to leave. Other bullfighting enthusiasts saw me rise (and also saw my raccoon-eyes) and began to mock me, crying “Ah, tortura, tortura!” and then made obscene gestures at me in the darkness. I was horrified. This wasn’t human. Or perhaps even more terrifying, maybe it was.

Seven bulls were slaughtered that night. It lasted for approximately four hours.