If David and I hadn’t stumbled on Alcudia’s beautiful Plaza de Toros, I probably never would have agreed to go to a bullfight. David had suggested going to one a few times before, but I always grimaced and objected. Seeing the stadium changed my mind. It was a tiny, whitewashed affair with simple stone steps for seats. Ancient and still well-used, the trash from the last event still littered its sandy pit. Alcudia was a small seaside town that had seemed to resist Mallorca’s tourist swarms and still retained a genuine local effect. It felt very real and old, and as travelers are wont to do, we were quickly charmed and felt we must come back for an event — a corrida de toros.
A few days later, on the bus back to Alcudia, I tried not to think too much about what I had gotten myself into. I never would have done this back home. If the thought of bloodshed and the literature I had read on animal rights crept in to my mind, I quashed it with the promise of adventure, and the Sampling of an authentic Spanish tradition. I thought of Hemingway.
Upon arriving to the stadium we found great noise and excitement, a long line for beer and two ambulances parked near the entrance. Beers in hand, we directed ourselves to our seats, the cheap ones, only by virtue of being in the scalding afternoon sun. Noting the many other spectators dressed in red, it was obvious that tradition was no small player in this event. The band struck up a brassy tune that would repeat itself for the next three hours. So far, so good.
The first bull crashed in and excitement jumped. Ladies’ fans flipped open and started fluttering in a rippling wave around the stadium. People yelled — “Olé! Olé!” Men leapt and cheered.
After chasing pink and gold capes waved by a team of banderilleros, the bull just stood in the middle of the pit, exhausted, annoyed and confused. Suddenly, one of the men all but charged it and drove two spears, banderillas, into its spine. The banderillas were dressed in frills of white fabric and to my horror, the bull’s blood showed quickly. With two more spears, more aggravation with the pink capes, the man of the moment, the matador appeared with a red cape and swords. With sweepings of his cape, he maneuvered the bull in circles around him, with an arched back and motions very similar to the other old Spanish art of flamenco. It was then time to kill him. He attempted to jab it between its horns, in the crick of the neck. The sword was pronged and it took a few stabs. The crowd booed. I could not bear to watch the bull fall and die. It had been about 20 minutes since the bull entered.
I spent much of my childhood on my grandparents’ grassy cattle ranch, where the butchering of a good cow could be made into a big family occasion. However, the killing of the cow was left to older, tougher hands and the rest were left to help cut meat and sort and label the Ziploc bags. I had seen dead animals many times, but never one pass from life to death. When I first saw the wild black bull bounding in, I could not see it as a savage beast that should be slaughtered. Its fury seemed unnatural. I later learned it had been provoked and had possibly been given substances to pump up its adrenaline. As his body was dragged out by two shire horses, I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to watch five more fights.
However, I had gotten myself into this and decided that I would sit through the whole thing. I was truly mystified by this brutal spectacle and I wanted to understand something of it, especially since people were enjoying themselves so much. As the fights proceeded, I found myself turning my attentions from the pit to the merry spectators. A cheery fellow tourist sitting near us nudged David and quipped in a northern British accent “Oll this foighting is moiking me hongry, eh?”
David struck up a conversation with a Quirky Local, probing for specifics on the sport in the fight. This elderly man told us that the best fight is the one with the quickest death, for it requires the most precision and courage. The first fight had been a poor one. We then learned that this was intended to be more of a fiesta! than a sporting event. The toreros were noble old stars that had come out of retirement for a special festival and they were fighting younger, smaller bulls. The oldest torero was 70 years old. There was something keeping these guys strong and fast in the ring — they just could not get away. It had something to do with a great, great love for a national tradition.
The fights ended with a noisy parade through the town. Walking away, I thought of the simple horror of the first death, the intoxicating cultural pride and how one could be torn between them. While I vowed never to go to another again, I was thankful to have seen one. David and I talked, with real urgency, about the life and death of animals, and the complexities of human sympathy. Violence in entertainment. Art and death. Tradition and Cultural Relativism. Over the years, I had come across these subjects many times in the rooms of Goldwin Smith and they always intrigued me. In the middle of a roaming summer, I was jolted back to Cornell. Though deep in summer vacation, lingering texts, ideas and discussions blazed in our banter, and I was thankful to have such a comprehensive experience of a brutal and complex tradition. To all students this August, I hope that the coming academic year, in a similar spirit, offers excitement, engagement and real adventure!
Erin Geld is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be contacted at esg24@cornell.edu [1]. The Sampling appears alternate Wednesdays.
Links:
[1] mailto:esg24@cornell.edu