Death in the Afternoon
I had been to Lima on four other occasions, but on this my fifth trip I finally managed to see my first bullfight. Bullfighting has been around since as far back as ancient Rome, but it was transmitted into South America by the Spanish through their colonies. It didn’t appear on the US radar in earnest until it was written about by a drunk hack named Hemingway in his book Death in the Afternoon. Since then it has stirred up controversy in Western circles - lionized by some as an important cultural tradition and art form while demonized by others as a cruel blood sport. I needed to see one first hand to decide for myself.
October and November are the best times to see bull fights in Lima because the best matadors around the world arrive to compete. (The word matador is a derivation on the word matar, which means “to kill”. One could say that the literal English translation of the word is “killer”). Tonight the card was stacked with names such as David Fandila “El Fandi”, J. Maria Manzanares and Alfonso Simpson (yes, THE Alfonso Simpson!). The event was held at the legendary Plaza de Acho in the neighborhood of Rimac. Opened in 1776, it is the second oldest bullfighting arena in the world.
My jaw dropped when I discovered that tickets started at 84 Nuevo Soles. Front row seats topped 300. Whatever I expected to see from the crowd, this was not it. There was no diversity on this day. This was clearly the moneyed elite. Some had skin tones whiter than mine. They were all Meztizos, or people of mixed Spanish and Peruvian ancestry. Looking around I realized that here was evidence of the class divisions which were established during Spanish conquest. They were, unfortunately, alive and well and still running along racial lines centuries later.
I spotted three separate women (not girls, full grown adults) with braces. The implication was clear to me. They had landed rich husbands and were well on their way to becoming the perfect trophy wives. More than a few of these same women wore red dresses and tops, a bold choice on their part considering what the bull would do to them it if jumped into the stands. But then again, this was a venue where the men in the ring imposed their will over untamed beasts, so for the men in the stands this may have been a way of demonstrating their own dominion - without the danger of being gored of course.
I sat next to an amiable older gentleman with an easy smile and the smell of beer oozing from every pore in his body. He patiently explained the nuances of the bullfight to me.
It isn’t man against beast, it’s men against beast. This is a group effort involving not only the matador but two picadores (lancers) mounted on horseback and three banderilleros (flagmen) and a host of minor players apart from the matador’s entorage.
The rituals are strict and all artistic expression must be performed within the framework of the scripted storyline.
When the bull first enters the ring the banderilleros harry the bull, forcing it to charge and either deftly avoiding it or taking cover behind a barrier:
 |
 |
The picador acts next. He sits astride a horse that is blindfolded and heavily padded. The picador’s job is to provoke the bull into charging and then stab the bull’s neck with a lance. First blood is drawn here. It is designed to weaken the neck so that the bull holds his head down, making him easier to control for the matador. The manner in which the bull strikes the horse also provides the matador with clues as to the bull’s style of attack:
Next up is the tercio de banderillas (”the third of flags”), where the three banderilleros each attempt to plant two razor sharp barbed sticks (banderillas, natutrally), six in all, near to the wound where the picador drew first blood:
The last stage is the matador alone with the bull. There is a great misconception that the red cape he wields angers the bull and provokes its attack. This is untrue. Bulls are colorblind. The red, much like the British colonial uniforms (the Redcoats, for those of us who remember), are designed to conceal the blood stains which might demoralize or distract the matador.
The matador uses the movement of his cape instead to provoke the bull into a series of passes, where he demonstrates his control over the animal. Here the crowd participates. On the first pass you don’t say anything. On the second you give a tentative Ole´. The third, a little louder. Louder still on the forth. On the fifth you cause permanent damage to your larynx and spill your beer over the people sitting in front of you:
Finally the matador maneuvers the bull into a position where he strikes the death-blow between the shoulder blades and through the heart. A swift one-stroke kill is preferred. Two strokes is not unacceptable, but it is considered ungentlemanly. Three or more and you will get booed:
After it was all explained to me, the story-board seemed boringly simple, even repetitive:
Man confronts beast.
Man tames beast.
Man kills beast.
Man gets laid despite wearing sparkly fuchsia spandex, also known as the traje de luces (suit of lights).
In between the bouts I had time to interact with my new friend on a more personal level. Our conversation worked its way around to the inevitable. “Well, what do you think?” he asked.
I weighed my words carefully.
“The men have courage and skill. It is art, no doubt, and a beautiful expression of cultural heritage. On the other hand, I don’t think its right to take pleasure in the suffering and death of other living things.”
He nodded in understanding and patted my knee, once, twice. No te precoupas (don’t you worry). The bulls don’t suffer, he assured me.
Three minutes later this sad scene unfolded:
(Note the man in blue runs in with a dirk to finish the bull off, lest it find the will to scramble back to its feet)
I looked around at the cheering crowd. The women for the most part seemed indifferent. It was the men who were hanging on the matador’s every move.
Was this really blood-lust? No, it was something else. Lust for power, maybe, or desire for mastery and control.
And something else nagged at me. I think that I was the only one actually rooting for the bull here. People readily admit that they watch Nascar to see the cars crash. But I honestly think that I may have been the only person in the arena who wanted to see these cocksure playboys get skewered then gored (or gored then skewered, I’m not a picky man). The men in the ring represented something more to that crowd than just an agent for bloodshed. The bull and all that befell it appeared almost incidental.
In the end, I felt that I didn’t need to see 6 bulls toyed with, killed and dragged off the field before I got the point. The matadors embodied the desires of every man in that crowd for deification - to act with supreme confidence, to execute flawlessly, to be able to exert ultimate control over their environment. At the end of the games (matches? bouts?) the winning matadors were carried around the arena on the shoulders of men. From the stands men threw their hats and women threw roses. These men in their rainbow tights were worshipped by all.
Except for me. Oh I’m impressed no doubt. I could never stand in front of a 550kg charging bull and do this:
But all in all I have to say that I was not overly impressed, though at the conclusion I did throw my rented seat cushion down into the ring like everyone else. I walked out with the same basic sentiments that I walked in with. I have respect for the matadors, but no more than any other dangerous job, like firemen who run into burning buildings, policemen who confront armed thugs, test pilots, stunt men, circus performers, the list goes on. I remain morally opposed to bullfights (despite having shelled out almost 200 Soles for a seat thus contributing to economy of the sport).
Unfortunately for its critics, bullfights aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, though apparently there are now versions cropping up where the bull is not injured in any way and afterwards it is returned to the ranch. Purists don’t stand for this and claim that it distorts their tradition. In a sense, it does. But tradition or no, I don’t think anyone will argue that bullfights are a spectacle. And like any spectacle if you were to strip away the blood and the death it would become a little more palatable, but a lot more boring.
 |
 |
