Love it or loath it? The ancient art of bullfighting is one of Spain's most famous sporting traditions, it is brutal and barbaric but morbidly fascinating, and in many respects quite an engaging art form.
Laws have been passed in Catalyna to ban the blood sport from January 2012 and it is widely regarded that other regions will soon follow suit despite the King of Spain himself allegedly stating that the day the EU bans bullfighting is the day Spain leaves the EU. It is definitely an issue which has formed intensely polarised debates in Spain, animal rights activists on one side and avid followers and workers in the sport on the other. For me deciding which camp I should be in was a strangely difficult decision. The only way to decide was to go see one in the flesh, witness first hand the sport that has had such polemical reactions from the public, after all I couldn’t really knock something until tried it. So with 15 euros to spare and a lot of courage, that’s' exactly what I did.
Initially I had my obvious doubts; Was I going to be sickened by the barbarity of the game? Would I be enraged by the scene before me and walk out? Would people be baying for the sight of blood, guts and horror? Like some horrendous gladiatorial scene from a Hollywood blockbuster? But seeing as how this was our last day in Seville I couragously continued with my plans. A strange excitement had been building up in me from the moment I had bought the tickets two days previously. However, the emotions didn’t really hit me until I was walking there at about 7pm. I distinctly remember the wafting smell of fresh fish from restaurants mixed with that potent smell of sewage seeping up from the drains, a phenomenon that only occurs in hot countries, a concept that was still quite alien to me at the time. The walk up to La Maestranza along the riverbank with hundreds of pissed up and rowdy Sevillians was an experience that I can only liken to my first football match or the first time I went to a gig, the feeling that you are going to witness a spectacle, something that will stay with you until the day you die. I think at this point I can safely say that my prior judgment on this occasion was correct. I recall the building itself was beautiful, a vast circular Coluseum that if blessed with the gift of speech I'm sure could tell some of the most elaborate stories in the world (If only Carlsberg made bullrings). My seat was on the Novillada, the balcony directly in the firing line of the furious Mediterranean sun. Entering the inner depths of the stadium from the relative shade at the back of the ring, the dazzling light directly in my face, I can imagine was as close as I'm going to get the emotions that a bull feels that split second when those vast doors open, confronted by a sandy pit and 13 cloth wielding Spaniards, knowing that my impending death would soon become pending. Queue Nausea. Not a moment after my brief panic attack, the fanfare was piped up and BOOM there were men in fluorescent stockings prancing around before me. "No backing out now Josephine, your in it for the whole hog" I thought to myself. Then, as fast as the tooting of the horns had hit my throbbing ears, with a crash and a wallop the first bull came hurtling out of the pits. As soon as the animal was in the ring a painfully loud silence fell over the crowd, all of whom were avidly watching, waiting, savoring the moment just before the matador makes the first strike. From then on the experience got strangely more palatable. I found my self no longer wincing every time the bull got hurt but mesmorised by the calmness control of the matadors. The focus was shifting towards the man as apposed to the beast.
After about 10 - 15 minutes of goading, the final matador came out to joyous applause; the main man, the most experienced of them all and the one that was to eventually kill the bull. You can tell why the crowd gave him such a reception, so much finesse and dexterity, the sweeping movements of his cape and the realisation that you were witnessing a single man with so much power, a spandex clad god with the power of life and death in his hands alone. I did, however, have a reminder how easily this attention revert back to feeling an overwhelming sympathy for the bull. One matador landed the final blow in the wrong place, directly into the bulls spine, as a result the bull started writhing around in agony on the floor, coughing up blood, even standing up once more as a last sign of defiance before another matador thrust a dagger into its temple. Not a clean death by any means. As soon as the bull is dead the fanfare starts up again and the mood shifts once more to disgust. Men with horses come out into the ring and drag the dead bull in circles for a while in the most disrespectful manner. The bull transforming into merely an obscene trophy, a mere scrap of meat, for the baying crowd to see. The matador then takes his lap of honor around the ring. Members of the audience throw an amalgamation of objects to him, bras, flowers, cushions, and he will in turn throw them back to the people, a sign of respect? Maybe. the peoples champion? Probably. A thank-you to the audience for supporting the sport through trying times? Definitely. Once more, the mood swings again. I felt like I was almost welling up. I sat through six more bulls dying, right until the bitter end. It was like walking through a time warp, I felt overjoyed that this controversial tradition has lasted as long as it has and if it were to be banned nationwide it would actually be a shame. Words cannot describe how much passion, energy and excitement was in the air that night despite its gruesome nature as a sport. I say to those people who are against it you never have to see it, so why not leave it for the ones that do? I myself would probably not go see one again, but it was an tradition that I'm glad to say I experienced at least once in my lifetime...
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