A recent visit to Spain will be etched in my mind forever. On my 'must-do-list', along with eating tapas, drinking sangria and watching flamenco dancers, I was looking forward to seeing the world famous Spanish Bullfight or the Corrida.
The area in Madrid where the fight was to be held was unexpectedly over-crowded. Thousands of Spaniards created thunderstorms with their constant cheering; I had to scream to exchange a few words with the person just next to me. I felt a rush of adrenaline as I stood up in awe, clapping and cheering, on the arrival of the contenders - the bull and the matador.
Bullfighting is where butchery meets ballet, it is historic and horrific, gripping and gory, but it is also a part of the social fabric of Spain where passions run high. As the bull was let into the ring there was a roar in the crowd and the matador sharply watched the beast to examine his mood as his assistant waved a bright yellow and magenta cape in front of it to charge it. And then began a fight to the finish!
With the sounding of a huge trumpet, several fighters called Picadors weakened the bull by sticking spears into it. The odds are stacked against the bull, but most matadors expect to be gored at some time in their careers, and this 500kg bull was capable of inflicting some of the most sporting injuries one can come by. But then again, I am afraid, it is this chance to see blood spilt, danger courted and life extinguished that makes the Corrida. Without this drama the spectacle would be as vibrant as ball room dancing.
After charging around the ring it is time for the momento de la verdad (moment of truth). At this point the matador must dazzle the crowd and flamboyantly as part athlete, part showman, part pantomime macho man in a glittering sequined, form-fitting outfit. And with balletic grace he faced the bull, his blade slicing down the neck into the vital organs instantly killing the animal. With another trumpet the matador removed his black, winged hat and dedicated the death of the bull to the President and the crowd. If the bull is killed in one go, the matador is considered a brilliant bullfighter. The matador I watched was brilliant! Praises, honor, awards, and the killed bull's horns and hooves were all at his feet.
What makes the experience of watching a bullfight so unforgettable? Is it the never before experienced bloodshed, or is it the exhilaration of watching a death game; is it the sheer excitement associated with a different kind of sport, or is it the trauma of watching an animal killed before thousands of cheering people; is the style and glamour or is it the goriness of the sport? Maybe it is all of these and something more. All I can say is that I am guilty, guilt of watching the sport... the murder.... the bullfight!
