El Toros: bulls of Madrid

  Madrid, Spain
Sunday, June 25, 2006

Hanging around in Madrid until Sunday night for my train to Lisbon held one unexpected benefit - it allowed me to catch an afternoon at the toros (bull fights).




It's not a pretty sight really and goes against my usual grave concern for the welfare of animals at the hands of man, but in Spain it is a cultural experience handed down through the ages and one that should not be missed.






After a late lunch at a dark and moody cervaceria (beer cafe) that Ernest Hemingway used to frequent, I headed up the metro line to Ventas which is home of the world's largest bull fighting ring known as the Plaza de Toros. Looking much like an ancient colosseum and home to a modern form of blood sport which wouldn't have been out of place in Roman times, it was built in 1929 and despite the new bronze statues and reliefs found around it you can tell the place is steeped in history.

It is no problem getting tickets on the door after choosing whether you want to sit in the sun, shade or half shade. Once inside you are ushered to a stone seat (cushions can be rented) and at 7pm the fights begin.



The bulls have no chance really. Some wander out looking bewildered, others charge out in a fury. Junior matadors with pink cloaks torment the bull for a while, getting him to run to wear off the initial energy and then retreating behind a barracade whenever he gets too close. The a couple of mounted guys appear with large spears and a heavily quilted horse. Their job is to inflict the first wounds, spearing the bull to rile him up and getting the blood to flow.

After that two matadors attempt to pin feathered stakes into the bull's back. He charges and the matador must run around the horns, jumping up and sideways whilst spearing the stakes in. If all goes well (for the matadors), up to six of these stakes can be hanging out - enraging the bull even more.



The main event though is when the billboard matador enters, throwing his cap to the floor in challenge and then getting on with the actual bullfight. By now the bull is getting quite tired and is loosing a fair amount of blood down his flanks, but he still has some go in him yet. It seems that the fighter gets as close as possible to the bull, waving his red cape to induce a charge and moving nicely so the lumbering hulk glides by. If the matador can get the bull to charge again and again in quick succession in a flurry of cape swings it pleases the crowd (and particularly the Spanish portion) no end.



Finally it is his job to inflict the mortal blow. He takes a thin, half-metre long sword and tries to get right in front of the wavering bull, inducing it enough to charge as he attempts to stab it into the bull's spinal region. Not as easy as it seems and pretty grotesque to watch, so the aim is to insert it in to hilt on the first attempt, landing a killer blow that brings death quickly. A rising star didn't do so well, taking a few attempts with a couple of swords much to the crowd's consternation.

With the mortal blow inflicted the pink cape guys come back in, herding the half dead bull to the fence whilst wearing down the last of his energy. Once the bull falls, one of the men stabs the bull through the top of his spine to put him out of his misery. The carcass is dragged out of the arena by a team of horses and a team of sweepers tidy up the mess.



That, in a nutshell, is what happens in the six fights held each Sunday night throughout summer (each fight lasting 20 minutes on the two hour program). I hope the bulls are put to good use after their bloody demise - becoming nice beef steaks or the like - as they do go down fighting, and that occasionally one gets the better of his tormentors and wins one for the heavily outnumbered 'Team Moo'. I don't condone it and I didn't really enjoy it, but travelling is about new experiences and trying to understand different cultures, so I'm glad I went in the end.

Moo.

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