THE BULLFIGHT
It may not be right , but its the truth.
Chub Church
In a bullfight there are people that identify with the matador, & people that identify with the bull.
Ernest Hemingway
One of the main reasons for travel is to experience different cultures,
different customs. One cannot judge...one cannot hope to understand other cultures when judging them to ours. The beauty, the magic of this world lies in its diversity, however exotic or horrific that may seem.
Let us consider then, one of the most graceful, dangerous, barbaric, & emotional sports on earth...The Bullfight.
Bullfighting may have had its roots in Rome, or ancient Greece...but the modern form seems to have originated on the Iberian Peninsula where the Moors & the Christians had been battling each other for centuries. During tiresome truces, both armies would keep talents honed by fighting bulls.
The Bullfight today involves generally 6 bulls being fought & killed by 3 matadors. The bulls have earlier been paired good with bad so each matador will experience a similar fight. The matador has 15 minutes in which to fight, tire & kill the bull. The idea is not to physically hurt the bull during the fight, but to fight him fairly until the beast is to tired to defend himself, & administer a quick coop-de-gra by driving a sword through its heart. Things do not always go that smoothly however.
If the bull wins the fight, if he has not been killed in 15 minutes, he is led away the victor...& killed in the corrals. The reason being this, once a bull fights one battle he begins to understand....dont go for the cape... go for the man. By national law the bull must be killed as he is far to dangerous now to ever fight again. That is also why the fight only lasts 15 minutes, any longer the bull starts to learn. This killing of the victor does not always occur, however. Sometimes the bull is spirited away for breeding purposes...& sometimes if the bull is deemed extrodinarly courageous by the crowd he is spared. This is a rare occurrence, mabey 100 to 1 lives.
The matador on the other hand has a 1 in 100 chance of being killed by the bull. Virtually every famous matador has been severely gored at least once.
A good matador will kill 1000 bulls in his career, one bull, before the national law, killed 16 matadors & wounded 60 others in his career.
Let us consider the characters in this ballet of death, first the bull. Fighting bulls are to regular bulls as wolves are to dogs. Ferocity & bravery have been bred into their genes for centuries. They are bred for size,[2000 lbs & up] , for angle of horn,[must be straight & forward & extremely pointed,]
& for quickness. They are not fought until they are 4 years old & during that time have only come in contact with man twice. Once to be branded, at age 1, then at age two they are stabbed by a picador, [some fool on a horse rides up & jabs a short spear in the bull]. If the bull charges, he is deemed brave & destined for the ring, if he dosent charge he is hamburger. A true fighting bull will charge anything, & is afraid of nothing. They have been pitted with lions, tigers, bears & elephants, they have charged trains & cars.
Occasionally a bull is born with all the right features & is used as breeder stock. As one bull can 'service' 50 cows, it is the lucky bull that gets picked for this duty. Sometimes that one bull will go monogamous, fall in love, with just one cow & have nothing to do with the rest of females. He then foolishly becomes destined for the ring.....there is a story here somewhere...a lovestory...
When the mature bull is transported to the ring he must be surrounded by steers. He will only act calmly in a herd, but once he sees a human, look out.
There are numerous entertaining stories of these bulls getting loose...entire towns wrecked, stories of the bulls leaping into the stands, causing great panic, & one story of a bull that entered the ring & promptly killed all seven men & four horses meant to fight him.
The ranches where these bulls are raised will have up to 500 breeding cows at any one time. When posters of up-coming bullfights are circulated the names of these ranches & their stock will be as important as the names of the matadors fighting them. The bulls are as famous as the matadors... in fact let us now speak of the matadors. The two requirements of a matador seem to be bravery & bravery. Here is a man living in the fast lane. He may fight 200 fights in two dozen countries in one season. A matador travels with a cortege
of 9 'team members' & dozens of other hanger-ons. One must remember that during the fight every person in that ring is on the matadors payroll & they all want the same thing, that the matador lives. His 'team', consist of picadors, banderilleros, areneros, & bullring attendants all of whom shall soon be explained...hopefully, with a description of the bullfight itself.
A bullfight is made up of 4 'acts', if you will. First the opening ceremony, in which the plaza president waves a white handkerchief, drums pound & bugles blare, two uniformed, mounted marshals ride forward to accept the key to the bullpen. Another blast of trumpets bring out the matadors & their cortege. This is a colorful display of tight fitted bullfighters & their assistants strutting their stuff. And strut they do, in an almost exaggerated rooster walk, the men approach the presidential box where salutes are made. The cortege then retires, leaving only the first matador & his team in the ring. The president again signals with his handkerchief & the bull is released. At this time the bull is fresh, unharmed & mad. He is at his most dangerous, & the men in the ring hide behind wood barriers observing the beasts reactions, instead of confronting the raging bovine. Bulls will favor their right or left horn to gore with, a twitch of an ear might indicate which. The bull will circle the ring until he has found a certain spot that feels safe to him. It will be hard to get him to charge from that spot & if the matador goes in after him, he will surely be killed. The matador must keep him from this area.
The bullfighter & his team will then emerge from their hiding places long enough for the bull to charge, then scamper back to safety. At this time the matador may attempt a pass with the cape. As he dosent know the bull yet the safest pass, The Veronica, [named for the woman that wiped sweat from Jesus' brow] will be performed....two hands cape out to the side.
If everyone is still alive & if the president see's no defects in the bull, he will now order the entrance of the picadors....'the misunderstood ones'.
The picador rides in on a heavily padded, blindfolded horse. His job will be to get the bull to charge the horse & when the bulls horns are buried in the padding, [it wasn't until the 1920s that they used padding, resulting in the almost assured death of the horse], & when that bull is directly below him he will jab a lance into the massive shoulder blades. The result, if done correctly, will weaken the bulls neck muscles making it harder to get the matador, plus the jab is meant to bleed him, lower the blood pressure, to assure the animal wont die of a heart attack. This is a tricky thrust as the bull can also be maimed & unable to fight by a misplaced lance. The matador at this time may be yelling at his picador not to severely hurt the bull, but one must also consider that the picador works for the matador & the slower the bull the safer his boss. The picador wears a solid steel cast on his leg to protect him from the charge, but still a 2 ton bull can pick up & throw a horse & rider. If the picador hits the ground, he is dead. The horse is also.
The crowd at this time can judge the bulls character, if he runs from the jab he's considered a coward, but if he repeatedly charges he demonstrates his courage. The president again deems the bull ready, & waves the picador off.
Enter the matador, stiff backed, the picture of concentration. He taunts the bull with his cape, called a capote it is not red but hot pink. As the bull steamrolls past the matador will attempt closer more dangerous moves. The Saltillera, a pass with the cape held wide behind the matadors back, the man is actually between bull & cape. The Rebolera where the matador wears the cape as a skirt, twisting away from the charge at the last moment. The idea is grace, the idea is closeness, the idea is bravery. Each matador has his own style, like the famous El Gallo who would break & run in terror, diving into the grandstands from time to time. Or Chicuelo who loved to fight the bulls but hated to kill them. He had have his assistant perform the task.
Now enter the banderillas, the most exciting part of the fight. These pairs of sticks, a yard long, are armed with an inch long barbed hook on one end. They are meant to be placed two at a time in the bulls neck muscles as he charges past. They are designed to complete the work of slowing the bull, by tiring his neck muscles even more. The act of placing these banderillas may be done by the matador or by one of his crew. He must approach the bull with no cape, no protection, only the two sticks. When the bull charges, the man will leap to the side, horn passing inches from his belly, & jab the barbed hooks into the meaty shoulder blades. This, as one might guess, aggravates the bull no end. 4 to 6 banderillas will be 'placed'.
The matador then returns for the final act, The Supreme Pass, or the act of killing. The matador asks the presidents permission to kill the bull, at this time the crowd may enter in for the bulls favor. The matador will dedicate
the bull at this time. If the bull is not completely worn out, the matador will force it into more passes. The bullfighter may be on his knees as the bull passes now. Matadors have been known to crawl on their knees up to a fatigued bull & kiss its horns, betting their lives on the bulls exhaustion.
The matador will then make the bull charge for a last time, as the massive beast passes the bullfighter leaps into the air & drives a sword between the shoulder blades into its heart...the gallant bull collapses...dead.
At the end of the fight the matador circles the arena to the crowds applause.
If he has fought well he will be awarded one ear, very well two ears. If it has been an excellent performance he will be awarded both ears & its tail.
The bull is butchered & given to the cities poor people.
Warning : this story will be continued next week
THE BULLFIGHT Pt 2
All stories, if continued far enough, end in death
Earnest Hemingway
I dont feel well.
Last words of Manuel Granero, matador
I wonder why it is, in a nation with the highest murder rate in the world, in a country bombarded with dozens of killings a day via the media, in a place where Freddy Kruger, an ax murder, is a cult hero....how can it be that we blood-thirsty Americans are abhorred by the thought of a bullfight. Can it be that we like our death in a neat little package on TV or in print, but the thought of paying money to attend a sports event where you can be assured something, man or beast, will die, goes totally against our 'civilized' way of thinking. We didn't mind watching live coverage of the Viet Nam War however, or the burning death of the Branch Davidians. Another thing; in the world today, if you are born a bovine...lets say a male in the species cattle...it is highly unlikely you will die a natural death, death from old age. At least in a bullring the poor beast would have a fighting chance.
All this and more was rumbling through my mind as I contemplated attending my first bullfight.
"Think of it as art." I told a wary Vicki
"I dont know whats wrong with me, but the thought of leotard clad men jabbing sticks in a cow, & the word art, seems miles apart." said Vicki
"A Bull..." I corrected her.
"Oh yeah well I guess a'bull' wouldn't have any feelings, being the male of the species." she countered.
Come & live this elegant 'dance of death' ...I was reading in the brochure as I handed the ticket agent 70.oo for two passes to the Cancun Wed Afternoon bullfights.
"Whats it like, this....this bullfight? I asked the agent.
"Its disgusting," he smiled "You'll love it."
We parked the Hertz VW in a dusty bullring parking lot. A dozen grubby urchins descended like flies.
"Protect your car Meester?" asked the biggest.
"From who?" I looked about
"From us! " A circle of grins.
"Seems fair.." I passed out a few coins, assuring them to a life of crime.
We entered with the crowd of tourists & locals into the arena of a small bullring.
A kind of Bullfight Sideshow was going on...get your picture taken with the stuffed bull here, pet a lethargic iguana there, meet a Mayan Prince...or was it a princess, there.
"Hey this is kinda..."
"Cheesy?" said Vicki
"Exciting!!" I lied.
"We chose a seat in the front row...mistake...but then this whole thing might be a mistake...
A handsome African-American couple sat next to us..."Man," the guy says, "I dont understand these people, why, my ancestors grew up over there in Africa, now you didn't see them screwin with no water buffaloes."
I agreed that it was indeed a bizarre custom at best.
Venders plied the crowd with horned baseball caps, cold beer & 'authentic Mexican Food, Dominoes Pizza.
In the arena now three senoritas their faces plastered in smile, dance a flamingo
on a plywood stage. A pot bellied buckaroo does rope tricks...the 'exciting' opening ceremony, no doubt. A cameraman from MTV runs about the arena inticeing the crowd to scream "OLE" on cue. Suddenly the train wreck sound of a Mexican brass band shatters the hot afternoon. With bugles screeching enter the matadors, & their assistants.
"My my my, marveled Vicki." How do they get those pants so tight?"
"Their born with them on." I inform her.
Salutes are made, bugles blast the air, the keys to the bullpen tossed, the arena clears of everyone but the first matador & his 3 assistants. He struts about nose in the air, chest puffed out....I hate him immediately.
A massive wood door is swung open, the gatekeeper leaps madly for safety, the matador & his assistants scramble behind wooden barriers, a hush falls over the crowd. From out of the darkened chute into the dusty arena steps....bambi.
WAIT A MINUTE!! THATS NO 2000 LB KILLER FIGHTING BULL THATS A ##!!!** CALF!! I'VE GOT A DOG BIGGER THAN THAT POOR THING!!" I couldn't believe it, surely they weren't gonna kill this baby...
The 'bull' trotted nervously around the ring, he had obviously never seen so many people in one place, & all staring at him...he didn't like it.
The matador steps into the ring, cape in hand, & advances on the young bull.
The bull stares curiously at the man...there is no anger, only interest in its eyes. The bullfighter approaches to within 5 feet before a scared bovine charges the cape.
"OLE" screams the crowd.
A few more tentative passes serves to only confuse the beast. The matador retires behind his barricade. The 'president' waves a flag & enters the picador. A Don Qxyuote looking character on a padded, blindfolded horse. He carries a long lance under his arm & taunts the bull into a charge.
As the charging bull slams into a terrified, blinded horse, the picador leans forward & with all his weight drives the lance into the bulls shoulders.
A terrified bellow escapes the bull, blood gushes from the horrifying wound.
The crowd, made up mostly of tourists, gasps....MOTHER OF GOD!!! NOBODY SAID ANY THING ABOUT BLOOD...I DIDN'T THINK THEY ACTUALLY....
We are shocked, repulsed...the picador again drives in the lance, the bull desperately driving against the horses ribcage...WHY DOESN'T SOMEONE DO SOMETHING!! We all stare in some horrified fascination like a crowd watching a beating, & to frozen in terror to stop it...
The picador retires leaving a panting, terrified bull, its heaving sides wet with blood...HOW COULD PEOPLE DO THIS TO A FELLOW CREATURE??
The matador again enters the ring teasing the bull into a pass..."ole" mutter a few in the stunned audience. WE ARE THE ANIMALS!!
The matador has traded his cape for the Banderillas, the barbed sticks. He approaches the panting bull like a cat stalking a wary bird. The bull charges, the man steps aside leaps into the air & drives the sticks into the passing shoulders.
"OLE" screams the Mexican audience.
"AARRRGG!" scream the tourists.
The matador scampers to the barrier directly below us...we could touch his ponytail... the bull pursues, staring up at me from 5 feet away, our eyes meet
"WHY ME??" WHAT KIND OF CREATURES ARE YOU?? The eyes implore me. Blood pumps steadily from the fist size wounds on his back...I am sickened...appalled...shocked by the brutality, disgusted at being a 'human'.
I grew up on a ranch, I have seen & dealt with animal death & destruction, but I have never witnessed the torture of any beast like this.
The matador steps from his hiding place, the Mexicans cheer him, the tourists boo him...we hate this man...we want him killed.
He again makes the bull charge the cape, time & again, till the exhausted bull stands legs apart, head low, tongue hanging out, gasping for air...time for the kill. The crowd sees the sword held high in the afternoon sun, as the matador dedicates the bull to a local dignitary. We are stunned to silence...no one wants to see this thing called death...no one wants to be a part of this barbary, we are foul in this deed...God, let it be over quick.
The bull weakly charges the cape for its last time, the matador leaps into the air & drives his sword deep into the bulls back...The crowd screams a confusion of emotions, & horror of horrors....the bull is not killed.
The matador struts, the Mexicans cheer, the tourists scream in protest. Scream yes, but at what? Life? Death? Mexicans? Ourselves for being there?
The blood drenched bull staggers about the arena, the matadors assistants race to the bulls side. They wave capes to one side then the other of the heaving bull. He weaves toward one cape, then the other & finally collapses to his knees, weak from loss of blood. Our hearts are being wrenched out, our innocence dying with him...
The bull is on his knees, his head now to heavy to hold up. An assistant runs up to him raises a 10 inch dagger above the dying beasts head & plunges the knife into the back of its neck. The bull drops....dead.
It is over.
The crowd is silent...stunned. We're not sure how to deal with what we just saw
We feel dirty...degraded...we are sad. We are changed, a little bit, forever.
Four horsemen ride into the arena, they rope the bulls hind legs, & drag him around the ring. Even in death, the brave bull is being degraded by his 'civilized' captors. Where 10 minutes earlier lived & breathed a fellow creature, with perhaps his own emotions & aspirations, now was being drug in front of the crowd, like some blood-soaked trophy.
"C'mon Vic, this is sick, I've seen enough...."
We walked toward the exit, joined with perhaps a third of the crowd, also disgusted. The second fight was being announced...the bullpen door was being opened. Oh man, here we go again....
Suddenly a bellow of rage shook the bullring, A roar of hatred that stopped your heart. A primal animal scream, that paled mortal man.
Into the ring charged a huge roan-colored bull, his head high, nostrils flaring he moved lighting fast, & purposely. The matador & assistants were scrambling for cover, diving over the arenas' walls.
"Hey Vic," Mabey....mabey we ought to stick around for just a couple more minutes......"
THE END
Big deal! I'm used to dust.
Gravestone epitaph of Juan Belmonte, matador
No comments:
Post a Comment