Bullfighting in Sevilla

In all honesty, I never thought that I’d summon enough courage to attend a bullfight, having heard all about the cruelty involved in the activity and being cognisant of the ethical issues surrounding it. In fact, we went to Sevilla thinking that the bullfighting season had stopped for a couple of months as the scorching Andalucían summer reached its zenith. We were thus surprised to see bullfighting tickets on sale as we took the short walk from Sevilla’s historical centre to the bullfighting ring, merely hoping to do a tour of the arena. Ticket vendors (scalpers, perhaps) loitered around the main gate of the Plaza de Toros de la Maestranza, reputed to be one of the most impressive bullrings in the country, and having managed to bring our flamenco performance forward, we purchased fairly decent seats at €15 each (we had expected to pay €40). Banned in Catalonia, bullfighting appears to be very much a mainstay in Andalucían culture and having expected the arena to be filled with tourists, we were astounded at how ‘local’ the event was. There were definitely a noticeable number of foreigners in attendance but the majority of the spectators comprised Spaniards of all ages, many bringing boxes of drinks into the arena as well as tortilla to munch on. The chirpy atmosphere, with trumpeters playing Spanish tunes and the crowd’s constant chatter, coupled with all that eating and drinking made the scene resemble that of a massive picnic. It didn’t seem as though death was on the cards that evening. I sat next to a garrulous Australian tourist who had a ‘funny’ face-shape and who had been touring Spain for some six weeks. Robbie’s Spanish was of great utility as his bullfighting experience was enhanced by the informative conversation he maintained with a local university student seated to his left.

The Pass

The matadors involved that evening were young and inexperienced. We were to find out that the actual season had not actually started and these events were something like a pre-season warm-up to prepare the relative tenderfoots. This explained the casual mood which pervaded the arena and the (comparatively small) sizes of the bulls used that evening. The spectacle of bullfighting itself is, amid the brutality, supposed to be characterised by a degree of poise: banderilleros who waved pink capes took turns to plunge coloured barbed sticks into the shoulders of the bull before the leading matador used his red cape invite the bull to pass. The more spectacular passes gave the impression of a ‘dance’ between matador and beast and these invited shouts of ‘ole’ from the crowd. Then came the actual killing of the beast when the matador forcefully plunged a sword into the bull to administer a ‘quick and clean’ death. Even when this was moderately successful, the bull never really seemed to die quickly enough. Six bulls lost their lives that night, to the horror of our Australian friend who was somehow unaware of the fact that bullfighting was synonymous with bull-killing. The most memorable part of the evening was certainly the most worrisome one when a matador was gored by the bull, throwing him to the ground. Even as he curled up on the ground to protect himself, he was lifted by the bull’s blunted (thank goodness) horns and tossed around like fresh lettuce. It was quite horrific seeing the bull exact its ‘revenge’ and the rest of the bullfighting team raced into the ring to divert the bull’s attention away from the wounded matador, who was carried off to applause from the audience.        

I found it a tough spectacle to enjoy and it was difficult to applaud when the various steps of the fight were completed as each only served to increase the bull’s agony. The blood spilling from the animal’s body after the stabbings was conspicuous enough under the arena’s light. When the sixth bull was eventually killed, I felt a keen sense of relief after, for the first time, seeing six living creatures being taken from life to death right in front of my eyes in the matter of a couple of hours. Although watching bullfighting proved to cultural experience in its own right, I think I enjoyed the flamenco performance we attended earlier that evening more. 

Dead bull being dragged away by mules

P.S. I also realised that picture of the arena used as my blog's background is that of the Plaza de Toros de la Maestranza. Emily was right.

(Photos courtesy of Robbie)