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Published: April 7th 2010
Advisory: contains bull fighting descriptions.
It was 3 am last night. A Greek man some years beyond me sat across the table. He lit a cigarette and explained to me his work in computational chemistry. “I don't do experiments,” he said. “We use similar principles to the ones they use in economics.” He was - is - an interesting man. Beneath clouds of smoke, a common trait of any Spanish bar, we discussed the places we had each visited. He told me how to pronounce his name: John, prounced 'Yawnez'. I told him that Sarah and I might be visiting St. Sebastian in just a little bit. “Are the beaches warm there?” I asked. “Can you go swimming?”
“The weather is more like England there,” he said. “But I went swimming.”
John is lucky enough to have Canadian citizenship. His father had made this possible via their living in Saskatoon. As such, John speaks English very well. And the explanation of his PhD, something he outlined very philosophically, made the whole 30 minutes of our time together that much more memorable.
Right now I am sitting on a bus looking out over the jagged lines of
Spain. It looks like what I might anticipate Arizona to look like; I have never been there. There are probably close to 100 windmills in operation to my left, and beyond their modern touch sits a castle up on the edge of a cliff nearby.
I am reminded of the castle I visited with Fabian, Aaron and Sarah. We never went in the castle, but this was due to our discovery that the castle was actually somebody's home. Apparently the castle was originally built for the purpose of defending against pirates. Now the castle fulfilled the purpose of providing some shade to a man who bore a green sweater and a handful of pistachios. He stood atop his tower and gazed down on us with his guard dogs patrolling nearby. Meanwhile, we stood atop his cliffs and stared out upon on the blue expanse of Mediterranean.
Last night I sat with John when he asked what Sarah and I had seen while in Madrid. “I went to a bull fight,” I told him. “Does the bull die on the field?” he asked. I then proceeded to outline the event as I personally encountered it just a day earlier.
Here is a version of what I said to John, but with a little more detail added:
“The stadium is completely circular. Much different than a football or hockey stadium. There are no seats but instead rings of concrete that rise up. After approximately 100 rows begins the canopied section of the ring. It rises up two stories right away, vertically. The matadors, horses and crews all process out into the ring. They are applauded and some trumpets and drums sound.
The first bull is let out into the ring. A single matador has a cape of either pink or red at this point. The bull charges. He misses. This continues for a little while and the bull becomes a little bit more tired.”
“I hear the Matadors are like celebrities, or sports figures in Spain, with very nice salaries,” John said to me.
“Really?” I replied. I had no idea. “So after the bull is tired out a little bit, a guy riding horseback (which I later discovered was called a Picador) comes out into the ring. The horse is blindfolded and dressed in a shiny cloth. The bull charges the horse. I can't really
say the horse is either defenseless or very well protected. The horse is wearing armor upon its belly, but the bull usually still penetrates enough as to draw blood. Meanwhile as this happens, the man riding the horse shoves a spear into the top hump of the bull. A group of 5-6 matadors then do their best to distract the bull elsewhere and draw its attention away from the horse. They proceed to tired it out a little bit more.
One man (called a banderillero) will then grab a short set of spears; the spears are colored with a bright cloth. The bull charges the banderillero and the spears are plunged into the back of the bull, now hanging there on its back like ornamentation. The bull is tired out more again, and then a second set of spears are added to the growing collection on the bull's back.
The bull is tired more and more. And as the bull slows, the matadors circle grows a little bit tighter. Finally the bull stands exhausted directly in front of the matador, but still determined to attack no matter what the cost. The matador takes a sword, and delivers the
'death blow' to the upper hump on the bull's back. The sword is plunged into the bull, into its internal organs. I had expected at this point for the bull to die, however, in almost all cases, the death blow just made the bull even more angry. A second, third or fourth death blow was required to finish the job. Finally, the bull lays down in the dirt. A small knife is twisted near the base of its skull to ensure its death. Its horns are harnessed to a pack of three horses and it is dragged out of the arena. The sand is mopped up and prepared for the next bull. And the process starts again.”
I watched 8 bulls slaughtered that day. Near Okotoks lies the Cargill meat processing plant. I was once told by a food scientist working in the industry that a cow is 'processed' there every 30 seconds. The death is supposedly painless. It is a bullet to the head. However, up until its death, the cow is transported for very long periods of time with almost no room to move around. These extensive periods provide the cow with little sunlight and plenty of
excrement. Similarly, chickens will live in abominable conditions on chicken farms filled with feces and cramped space. But their death will be quick.
The slow slaughter of those bulls that day could not have been watched on my part (as a single observer sitting alone) without some focus upon the ethical aspect of the entire event. In fact, I will confess to say that I went to the bull fight with the direct intent to get a little bit of blood on my hands. I would like to hunt, but have not yet taken the time to do so. I would like to fish more regularly.
In Europe, the food and the reality of its origins is very present. Entire pigs can sometimes be seen hung in the front window of a shop. Fish are served with heads still on, and chickens can be bought from the store with their claws still in tact. It is very clear when buying meat that you are in fact buying the meat of an animal that was once alive. I do not want to take part in voyeurism, but I also do not want to be blind to what I am
eating. What of the bull's living conditions?
“I have heard the bull's life is comparably quite good,” said John. “It is filled with space and sunlight.” One might also consider (in defense of bull fighting) that the animal is eaten after its slaughter; the food does not go to waste.
While in Paris our friend Philip told us more than I had ever known about Foie Gras. This goose is bound in one position and then force fed so that its liver expands and develops a higher fat content. The liver is then sold at a high premium. At first glance this sounds terrible doesn't it? Except for some other facts we learned. The goose has no gag reflex, so the tube that is inserted into its throat is painless. Moreover, the goose has no way of knowing when to stop eating, but the food they are being fed is distributed twice a day for 5 minute periods. And it is good quality food. The rest of the day the goose is given free range to walk around in. Consequently, the argument follows that most fois gras comes from geese that lead a far better life than the
average chicken. But the purchase and use of foie gras is scorned on average far more than the average chicken breast. The same goes for the bull. It will lead a far better life than the average cow, but its death is looked down upon because its death is publicly evident. I would have bought a ticket to Cargill. In fact, I once even tried to visit the 'factory' but I was stopped at the entrance. Spain is proud of its bull fights. The greeting I received at Cargill conversely indicates to me that Canada is ashamed of its slaughter houses. If not vegetarian and forced to choose, ought we give animals a painful life or a painful death? Both are present realties.
John and I closed our conversation and I went to bed at a ridiculous hour. Scotty our roommate informed us he was headed out to the club. Scotty is Australian, and has told us that Australians 'know how to go clubbing'. It was 5 am and suddenly I heard the door to our hostel room open. I heard panting, the zipper of some luggage, and loud steps. I then heard Scotty in his Australian accent:
“Sorry to wake you guys up, the police are here waiting for me.”
“What? What's going on?”
“I witnessed a street crime in Madrid!” Scotty said out of breath. He was rushing around frantically.
“Sorry to wake you,” said an officer standing at the door to the hostel. He seemed calm and pleasant. Scotty was the exact opposite.
“What police?” Sarah asked.
“The police officer right there!” Scotty yelled. “Don't you see him?” But Sarah didn't see him, because Sarah didn't have her glasses on. Scotty rushed out the door with all his bags, and I went back to sleep. When I woke up two hours later Sarah and I had to leave to catch a bus, but Scotty had returned to his bed. He was fully clothed and passed out. I will never know quite what happened that night in Madrid to that Australian man, but I like to imagine it was wild and sensational. Upon Scotty's return that morning, Sarah recalls him announcing that he had a police report to show us, but I don't think anybody cared enough to read of the event by that time in the morning.
Oh... and
we saw the King of Spain drive by, but all I saw was his hand waving from behind bullet proof glass. People were pretty stoked. All I could think of was this song, courtesy of Moxy Fruvous:
If Moxy Fruvous is new to you, listen to Q on CBC - Jian Ghomeshi, the host used to be a member of the band. And that was my adventure in Madrid.
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Tamara Larter
non-member comment
Philosophy major?
Great blog, Tim. Your question of whether it's worse to have a painful life or a painful death is a brilliant one, and I must say that a long drawn out life full of pain and torture is probably worse. Of course, this doesn't change my opinion regarding the flamboyant brutality central to the bull fight. Not surprisingly, I would argue for the end of bullfighting and the end of the "meat" industry (even this statement demonstrates our desire to separate "meat" from "living creature". It's not just an industry that magically 'creates' meat, it's an industry that depends on the efficient slaughter of living creatures for a profit. Then again, bull fighting operates on largely the same principle). Hugs to you and Sarah.