Still in Seville for another couple days…..we were hoping to go to a soccer game or a bull fight. After much confusion, it was determined the Sunday evening soccer game was in Seville against Real Madrid. How exciting! But, alas, tickets sold out weeks before and I was advised not to purchase from a scalper as they sometimes sell fake tickets for a high price……..Molly had the idea to watch the game in a local tavern. Instead, I found out about a bullfight, the final of the season.
I did my bike thing, short term check out, over to the huge, bull fighting arena and bought tickets. Later that afternoon, we joined a young man named Joshua from our hostel and went over to the bullfight. It was a thrilling feeling walking into the massive ring where the show would be. The matadors were preparing on the sidelines, cleaning their capes, the crew was watering down the dusty field, men in business suits supported the matadors every whim. A live band played in the stands and a trumpeter began the event…….
Oh my. In Portugal, the bulls are not killed. In Spain, they are killed by the matador. At first, Molly wanted to leave and I agreed, the tradition seemed tragic and sickly to observe, but I insisted on staying……the first bullfight was the hardest to watch. There is a pattern to each fight and the bulls seem to respond in a similar, predictable way themselves. A pattern to death, a similarity in each stage of dying, a common struggle at the end………….
Hard to describe the full energy of the bull coming out of the fence. The taunting by the matadors with the bright capes…….initially wearing the bull down by running him in circles and safely jumping behind wooden walls. Next, a man on horse comes out with a spear. His horse is protected with metal guarding and blindfolded as the bull attacks it until the rider spears the bull between the shoulder blades and the blood begins to follow. The next stage is the matador assistants, who continue to taunt and tease, stabbing the bull with serrated spears that stick in the shoulder blades and create a pain that often made the bull sound an agonizing cry. The bull is tired and hurting now, but still trying to run at the cape and destroy his attacker. At this point, the main matador does his artistic game of getting close to the bull, taunting the bull, hypnotizing the bull, until the bull finally puts forth his last steps at which point the matador stabs him deeply into the back, hoping to strike the main vein that will kill the bull instantly. Doesn’t always happen, and the final death stab is done while the bull lay incapacitated with pain. The bull is dragged out of the arena with applause and music, the matador bows proudly and the next fight begins.
The fight we watched was young bulls (3) and young matadors (18-25 years). The matador in green got tossed around a little and we thought that was a show. In the final fight, the youngest matador met his match with the dying bull in the end. The bull gathered enough energy and caught him offguard, goring him in the stomache and then rolling him around with his horns and hooves…….the bull was distracted away and the matador lay in a curled ball, bleeding and was rushed out to the waiting ambulance.
We watched 6 bulls be killed. The upside is the meat is supposedly provided to the poor. Hmmmmm. With each fight, the death became predictable and my emotions faded. It became easier to watch. I was ashamed that that became true.
