Courage Unrewarded

Sun Jul 06

It was Ernest Hemingway who attempted to romanticize bullfighting in his novel 'Death in the Afternoon' where he talked about the 'dance of death' and glorified the attendant ritual. Well, after an afternoon at the 'corrida' at Feria Fenouillet, neither I nor Donna, nor our visitors could find anything at all romantic or attractive about this ritualized butchery.

It was all the fun of the Fair as we arrived to be greeted by numerous food and drink tents packed with an assortment of humanity ranging in age from about 6 or 7 years up to men and women perhaps in their 70s. Most wore white 'T' shirts and red bandanas folded as neck sashes as well as hats of extraordinary variety. As we moved around it became apparent that there were negligible numbers of foreigners...this was a very parochial affair.

The arena was a temporary arrangement of steel scaffolding with a capacity of around 3,000. Prior to the action and immediately adjacent to the arena, Spanish dancers did their thing (the best part of the afternoon I thought) and artists, sculptors, booksellers, and equipment vendors did a roaring trade. At 1900 hrs we took our seats on the shady side and took in the building atmosphere. A brass band, which plays a significant role in the overall proceedings,struck up behind us in the stands. I estimate the stands would have been 2/3 full.

The band heralded a 'paseillo' or procession of all who would be participating in the event down to the 'sand-rakers' and manure collectors. They all doffed their caps to the 'president' who presumably gave them permission to start. At the sharp end there are three matadors who get to fight two bulls each. Assisting them at a lesser level are banderilleros and horse mounted picadors whose main task is to weaken the bull and to goad it into activity so that the matador can assess its style before he kills it.

The bulls are magnificent beasts bristling with energy and with their coats shining as they enter the ring...the pride of their breeders. The bulls weigh from between 450 to 600 kilos and are four years old. As they run in the breeder jabs a coloured ribbon into their back identifying his stud. The matador's assistants or banderilleros run out from behind their protective barriers at this stage and wave their 'capote' or capes to attract the bull who charges head first into the wall to the delight of the audience. The matador also has several passes at the bull.
The three elements of the fight are strictly timed and after the allotted period the band signals and the picador enters the ring on his heavily armoured horse. The horses are routinely deafened by putting wet newspaper or similar in their ears and are blindfolded...thus the horse's senses are dulled to ensure as far as possible that it does not move away as the bull thunders into its side, literally lifting it off its feet. Further, the horse's vocal cords are cut so that it makes no noise as it is hit by the bull. As the bull attempts to gore the terrified horse, the picador drills his long steel-pointed spear into the bulls backbone behind its neck. This procedure is repeated twice until again, the band signals 'time' and the picador leaves the ring. That was the end of stage one.

The bull now is seriously wounded and blood streams down its side. It is apparent that it is feeling pain and is becoming disoriented as the banderilleros continue to antagonise it with their capes. Each of them now get to plant brightly coloured bandarillas into the bull's back. As I understand it, this is not intended to weaken the animal further but to re-invigorate it after its clash with the picador. The banderilleros stand on tip toe with the bandorillas raised above their heads then run towards the bull and plant the sticks which are barbed into the back where they remain in the animal.

The band now signals the third and final stage...the 'suerte suprema' or killing of the bull. The matador (toreador is not used nowdays) has ten minutes to achieve the kill and takes a muleto or red cape which maintains its shape by being held across a wooden stick. He carries his sword in his right hand and he goads the bull into a series of passes where he demonstrates his grace of movement and his 'mastery' over a seriously weakened animal. All the activities prior to this, and the matador's movements, have been designed to disorient the animal and, in particular, weaken its neck muscles. With its head consequently lowered, the matador is given the best opportunity to drive his sword between the shoulder blades and into the animal's heart. The bull's sides are heaving as it struggles to get air into its lungs and its tongue rolls around outside of its mouth as it seemingly contemplates its courses of action. The matador lines up his sword in a ballet like gesture and moves his muleto closer to the ground to entice the bull to charge head down. With no other option, this is what the bull is bred to do and as it charges the sword strikes deeply into the heart...you wish. On Sunday, only one bull died almost immediately. It took five goes to sink the blade into the fifth bull! Once the sword is driven in, two banderilleros take a position either side of the stricken animal and alternately wave their capes. The side-to-side movement of its head as it follows the capes is designed to move the sword sufficiently so that the internal organs are sliced and mutilated. The crowd seemed oblivious to the incompetence being demonstrated and cheered on.

All of the bulls were gallant. We found it heart rending to watch these courageous animals rise to their feet and stagger as they fought the effects of their mortal wounds. The crowd cheered on. When the bull finally falls it is usually not dead and a coup de grace with a special knife is necessary to sever its spinal cord. The crowd cheered on. The matador struts the arena like a peacock as the rakers rake and the crowd cheers on. A duo of mules is driven into the ring and a chain is attached to the bulls horns and, in each case, the recently magnificent beast is dragged lifelessly and unrewarded to the waiting butcher outside the arena...and the crowd cheered on.

There will be no more bullfights for us however, maybe the protesters grouped outside the area might welcome us into their fold. Perhaps I could be enticed into attending a 'course camarguaise' where athletic 'raseteur' dressed in white, challenge themselves to pluck rosettes from between the horns of charging bulls and the bull lives to play again and where, quite often, the 'raseteur' leaves the arena bloodied, sometimes lifeless and for little reward.

We found nothing to cheer about as we made the two hour trip home and pondered the fact that some 30,000 bulls a year suffer this ignominious fate.