Before you even get to the plaza, way before actually, there’s although an electric thrill in the air. Mostly it’s to do with the throngs of people cheering and dancing in the streets, the bright colours of the clothing according to the festivals (I remember having to wear white and green for la Fiesta de la Albaca, Basil in english) or the sheer vigour and energy of the people in the build up to the fights. But there’s also a large part attributed to the sense of tradition and festivity, and the way in which a small town near the Pyrenees which doesn’t have much else going for it can really come together and celebrate as a whole for the several days of events which are usually only held yearly. Even before you get to the arena, the street is thronged with people drinking and dancing, marching bands or lone guitarists being a regular feature in the streets (Even in the arena there were three full bands as well as the arena band competing to be the loudest), and stages set up on the street blasting concert music. Even the restaurants and bars set up chairs and food stalls outside offering great Spanish chorizos or boxes of paella to people passing. Really the whole town came alive for the festival, all this energy and enthusiasm culminating in the one ultimate gladiatorial event, the Bull Fight.
I think the important thing to know about bullfights in Spain, is how truly big a thing they are. Not just Spain, France and Latin America too. I’ve been to several great bullfights in Arles and Nimes (Both of which have beautiful converted Roman Coliseums) and even one at the huge arena in Lima (Which I don’t remember as I was three*), and the people go just as wild there as they do in Spain, trust me, I know. Even the bullfighters are treated like rockstars. El Juli, one of my personal favourites, was staying at the same hotel as me. As he was leaving the lobby was filled with screaming girls desperate for autographs. They’re really the stars of the show, and people seriously respect their ability (Understandably enough, they appreciate its difficult to step into a ring with a 600kg angry bull). Honestly after seeing a bullfight, it’s tough to respect even the big hits rugby players take, especially when you see the matador get bodily thrown by the bull and yet still go on.
And that’s what it all comes down to in the end. 20 minutes of man vs raging bull in an enclosed arena. If I’m going to be totally melodramatic, time doesn’t even come into it, you don’t notice it. Your attention is often utterly transfixed by the, well fight is an ugly word and it’s not really, it’s more of a dance. I say often because sometimes the band plays up loudly, someone starts cheering of one of the Cuadrilla* members absent-mindedly flaps their capote* and those things really are eye catching. Yet for the most part it’s amazing how silent an arena full of people can really be. The only sound is the steady thud of the bulls hooves on the thick sand. That and an occasional “ole” when the bull skims past the Matador* or when they do something really showy. Often when a bull is less active and not as entertaining, the matador will do some pretty insane stuff to get the crowd going of to anger the bull (Don’t even ask the type of person you have to be to enrage a bull). I remember the same El Juli kneeling in front of the bull and slowly leading him in circles whilst on his knees. But none of that matters if the matador fails his final and most important job, the kill. The fight is show and entertainment, but it’s also crucial to tire out the bull, let him bleed out and weaken, to the point where the matador can successfully deliver the killing blow without getting gored himself. (Which does happen more than you think, there’s actually a well know matador who uses an eye patch, having had bull’s horn go through his mouth and up into it).
It is at that moment that silence really descends. When the Matador draws his sword, raises its hilt up level with his eyes, and carefully points at the bull, aiming for the point just below the neck. The bull similarly stares at the Matador, every image of the wounded warrior with the blood running down its back, and softly begins to paw at the ground. Then the Matador slowly dips his capote, and begins to advance towards the bull, which similarly dips his head and charges the Matador. The culmination is the swerving jump of the Matador, the dip of the sword into the charging bull and the bursting of the intense electric tension in the air when the bull slowly stumbles like a drunk and collapses black and red onto the brights yellow sand. Then the crowd goes wild.
This is the famous Sangre y Arena which Ernest Hemingway wrote in honour of one of his great passions, one which he shares with the great crowds of the arena, with me. I hope you someday get to enjoy it too.
Andre Hirschler 