¡ Olé !
Our view of the world is one we build for ourselves. All we see, all the folks we know, the movies
we see, books we read, newscasts, conversations, all the experiences of our
lives, contribute to this view that our brains construct of the world. This world view influences our opinions on
politics, our philosophies of life, and our expectations when traveling and
dealing with others, different from ourselves.
When our expectations are inaccurate, we can sometimes crash into a wall
of disillusionment. I saw a little bit
of that this week.
Travelling in Madrid, I encountered a woman, let’s call her
Vivian, at breakfast at the hotel. She
had been working at another hotel all week, with colleagues of hers from around
the world, and when done had moved to our hotel, for a few days of relaxing
before heading home. She overheard us
speaking English, and we began to talk.
No longer with her group, she would tour around on her
own. She would be visiting Valencia on
Monday, but on that Sunday she would look around Madrid. She was excited to tell us that her Sunday
evening would be capped off with a Bullfight.
You can see many things in Madrid, the Prado Museum, the Palace, lots of
architecture, but I wondered, as she said it, if she knew what she would be
getting into later, at La Plaza de Toros. My companion and I were off to Toledo, so we
parted company with Vivian and agreed we’d look for her in the bar later, to
hear all about her day.
We had a long day in Toledo.
It was hot, but the sun was great and I got a lot of photos. When we made it back to the hotel, the bar
was empty. We had a couple of drinks and
waited until we expected Vivian to be back, but never saw her. Never that is, until breakfast the following
morning.
“Hey,” I said when I saw her, “how was your Bullfight
?”. She replied, but it was noisy in the
dining area, I thought she’d said “terrific”…”it
was good ?”, I asked again. “No…”, she repeated
softly, “…horrific”. I could see in her
face that it wasn’t what she had expected.
“It wasn’t a ‘fight’…they just
murdered that bull,”
she said, with only a few words, but the look on her face said much more.
Unfortunately, her romanticized view of the world had
included a picture of the long tradition of Spanish bullfighting, colored with
bravado, machismo and pageantry. She no
doubt had visions of handsome matadors, beautiful red capes, solemn ceremony, and
mean, nasty tempered bulls. Seated there by herself, in her €100 Euro,
front-row seat in the shade, her illusions crashed into a wall of blood,
suffering, and an outcome that seemed all too predetermined.
It was to be a “3-bull event”, and started with music and a
parade of the (human) participants.
First came the Picadores, the lancers on horseback, followed by the Banderilleros.
Marching around the ring, they were finally followed by beautifully
costumed Matadors. In time, the ring was
cleared and the first bull was ushered in.
The mounted Picadores began to approach, carefully circling
the bull on horses adorned with heavy pads, to protect them from the horns of
their adversary. The horses eyes were
covered, so that blinded, they would not panic on site of the rushing
bull. These lancers made multiple
passes, repeatedly stabbing at the back of the bull’s neck, as part of the
effort to tire the animal, wear him down by loss of blood, and make it
difficult to hold its head high.
Then came the Banderilleros, on foot in the ring, bravely
approaching the bull alone. They
proceeded to make multiple approaches to the animal, attempting to stylishly
and athletically jab their barbed picks into the already bloody neck of the
bull as he passed. This athleticism
would no doubt normally be surpassed by the quickness and athleticism of the
bull, and success was only possible due to the initial lancing of the neck,
moments before.
As the bull tossed his head right and left, trying to fend
off the Banderilleros, the stick portion of the picks swung wildly back and forth,
which causes the barbed tips to rake back and forth, buried in the mussel of
the neck, causing great pain, increased loss of blood, loss of strength, and
continued difficulty in holding the head high.
And finally, in came the proud Matador. Decked out in his “suit of lights” he
commanded the attention of the crowd, and faced down the now tired and bloody
animal. Cape in hand, he taunted the
bull, causing him to hook and charge at the swirling red cape, over and over
again as they danced around the ring, kicking up sand, to repeated cheers from
the crowd. As they paused for a moment,
staring at each other, eye to eye, Vivian watched as the blood from the bull’s
neck dripped, forming a small puddle in the ring. As she watched the growing patch of blood on
the sand, she realized that there were several other such dark areas nearby, no
doubt remnants of previous battles, previous bulls, who one after the other had
met their end in this way.
Finally came “the moment of truth”. The Matador was handed his sword, with which he
would dispatch the once proud beast.
Now, it was clear to Vivian why it was necessary to prevent the bull
from holding its head high. The Matador would want to thrust the sword
deep, deep into the animal’s body. He
would reach up high, plunging the tip of the blade down through the back of the
neck, just missing the spine, penetrating down through massive neck mussel,
severing the arteries and veins as it went, then finally, the tip of the blade
would enter the bull’s heart, to produce a quick and humane death (…that is,
“quick and humane” after torturing the shit out of him for half an hour now…).
With great tension and sense of the moment, the sword was
raised, the blade was plunged, the bull’s lifeless body dropped, The crowd leapt
to their feet. So did Vivian. Sickened, angry and disillusioned, fighting
off the urge to throw up, she threw the stub of her €100 ticket to the floor
and marched directly, out of the stadium, to the Taxi Stand. She didn’t watch the cheering, the tossing of
roses at the grand Matador, the presentation of the ear, or the grounds crew
coming in with horses, to drag the slain bull out of the way.
We didn’t see Vivian in the bar, because she’d gotten back to
the hotel well before the other two bulls had had their day in the sun. Tired and disgusted, she hadn’t felt like
rehashing the day’s events with us. We
caught up with her the following day, and heard about her trip to Valencia,
which had transpired with much less violence than had her Sunday. And, reluctantly, she told us about the
bullfight, and how she began to wish that the fight was more even, more fair,
and that the bull should be the recipient of the roses, every now and then.
-
Mark W. Laughlin
15-July-2015
In truth, Vivian
didn’t provide much detail
about her trip to La Plaza de Toros.
The above was
painted by me,
mostly owing to my
own experiences,
using colors from
the palate that was her face,
the morning Vivian
looked at me and said,
“…no…horrific…”
-m
Added Note:
I understand that Bullfighting in Portugal is done rather differently than in Spain.
The bull gets tortured a bit by a mounted picador, but isn't killed.
The horse on the other hand is spectacular, have a look at this video.
-m
http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x7fqme_bull-fighter-on-horseback-merlin_animals
