Bullfighting — all bull, not much of a fight

Editor’s Note: From 1 January 2012, bullfighting will be banned in Catalonia, the first in mainland Spain. Blogger Amod Chopra remembers his bullfighting experience and says perhaps a ban isn’t such a bad idea after all.

In an inebriated moment in Cancun, a younger version of me ended up in a bullring, with a crash helmet, fighting a baby bull. Henceforth, the aforementioned baby bull shall be referred to as a bull to prevent my emasculation.

After lying to the fight doctor, I stepped into the ring. I don’t know who was more scared, the bull or me. The bull was on the other end of the ring, scraping his foot as if it was in a cartoon. Other than fear, my overriding emotion was the desire not to embarrass myself in front of a few thousand people. The bull made a charge and by some power of the cosmos, he missed.

Ole! The crowd yelled. “Somebody save him,” my friend’s wife screamed. The bull then came in close and started head butting me. I eventually took a spill and left my remaining dignity in that bullring. I still remember clearly the intensity of the pounding of my heart as the bull chased me down.

Let’s fast forward to the present time. Vicky and I are on a culture-seeking mission and end up at the Madrid bullring. It’s the same ring where Hemingway frequently puffed his cigar some 70 years ago. Today was supposed to be a coming of age of three Novillada (novice) bullfighters. The first was an 18-year-old from Mexico, the next a 20-year-old from Madrid and the last a 24-year-old from Granada. Each bullfighter and his team got a couple of turns. These bulls weighed about 400 kg, which is less than the 600 kg an experienced fighter would take on.

As the luck of the draw would have it, the crowd favourite, the 20 year-old blond Madrileno got the feistiest bull. The doors to the corral flung open and the bull came charging in. The young matador, dressed in his sissy boy, ornate gold, skin-tight outfit, worked on getting the attention of the bull, as if saying shall we dance. The bull made a few wild passes at the matador. After a few long and harrowing minutes of this initial acquaintance the band signalled the next phase of the courtship, the reinforcements.

Two Picadores (men with spears) rode in on their horses and took their position on either side of the ring. Naturally, the horses were completely blindfolded in order to take on such a task. The horses literally had mattresses on either side of them to absorb the charge of the bull. The feisty bull knocked the horse off its feet and into the air. The Picadores managed to spear the bull. The bull was now bleeding heavily from either side of its body. Shall we continue?

As if that wasn’t enough, the band then signalled the next phase. The picadores exited and the banderilleros (men who operate the mini spears) came in to stick the mini spears into the bull. For those of you keeping score at home, it is now 6 on 1.

Now that the bull is hurt and bleeding badly, its tongue hanging out, the dance got more intimate. The matador sultrily slid his way into a position that would bring the bull to charge. He kept the bull close to his body, a sign of courage and hence proof that he was a good matador. He boldly got the bull to move in rhythm with him, his face dripping with sweat. He lost his shoe, kicked aside his other shoe. He was going to take on this bull in his knee high pink socks. He moved in for the final blow. Not being very tall, to hit the right spot he had to catch the bull with its head down. He exposed himself as he made the final lunge with his blade. He hit the bull high and could not pierce the skin. He tried repeatedly and failed but the crowd still loved him.

The show ended. Horses dressed up as if they were pulling the carts during the plague take away the carcass of the bull. For dinner, I suppose.

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The young matador stepped out of the ring. You could see the tears run down his face. He hung his head low and banged his head against the corral. He was after all a boy. The crowd wanted him to succeed. They cheered him on, and brought him out for a curtain call.

Dear Mr Hemingway, I love traditions, but I also tend to question traditions. Firstly, let’s not call it a bullfight. The bullfight is as much of a fight as is America fighting Granada or Afghanistan. You may think that the bullfight is actually a fight that resembles an art form or a dance. But the bull wouldn’t really agree with that. The entire time the bandilleros were there as a back-up team in case the matador got into trouble. Maybe, if the playing field was a little more level, it would be more of a sport. In terms of courtship, one would go to jail for behaviour like that.

Also I have always been taught not to play with my food. Let’s say I wanted chicken for dinner. I wouldn’t dress up, invite six of my friends over and for an hour sadistically play with the chicken before eating it. The time of this tradition has come and gone similar to the gladiators of Rome.

And lastly Mr Hemingway, for the record, all I could stomach that night was a freaking salad.