A Tour of an Unknown Arena

by Ida Bruland (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

A leap into the unknown Spain

I always thought of myself as someone who would never under any circumstances, go to a bullfight. So when I found myself in Granada, I was surprised at how drawn I was to the city’s bullring when I passed by, first in a taxi and later on foot. It was late October and bullfighting season was over. Still, when I heard of the guided tour of the city’s bullring, Plaza de Toros de Granada, I decided to go, as I convinced myself, it’s essential to educate oneself about those things we don’t agree. I was also safe in the knowledge that no bull would be killed or indeed be present on this guided tour. But it wasn’t a certainty I’d even get to go on the tour. As a solo traveller, this often becomes apparent as many guided tours only go ahead if you are plural. I went into the small exhibition area showing enlarged pictures of heroic bullfighters over the years, telling the history of Granada’s bullrings (this being the third) and displaying a bullfighter’s creased, torn uniform behind a pane of glass. A family of two parents and two children entered the exhibition room which meant we were now plural enough for the tour to go on. In the end, this tour would consist of six guests; four French, one English, one Danish, and our Spanish guide. Our guide, a young woman, showed us the area in between the arena and the seating area where the participants stand behind barriers that serve as protection in case the bull jumps out of the ring. These barrier-stands are also for journalists and VIP’s - the best (standing-)seats in the house, perhaps also because there’s an element of danger attached to these stands. That’s what bullfighting is about after all. Bravado, machismo, courage, violence. We saw the backstage chapel and infirmary. Most affecting was the small space where the bulls are brought in from outside; they run around in a rage while men control the mechanisms that allow the doors to open and close at a safe distance above the lethal bulls. The bulls will run into the stall-area, and the door will close behind them. The mechanic doors are all shut except the one they want the bull to enter through. This will prompt the enraged animal to run into its designated stall after which the door will slam behind it. When it is time to enter the arena, another door will open, and the bull will do the only thing it knows how to do in this desperate situation, run down the path leading into the bullring to meet its awaiting opponent and audience - and its inevitable demise. As I left the bullring, I heard the shrieks of delight from the two French children. The boy flaunted a bullfighter-cape pretending to be a bullfighter as the girl pretended to be a bull charging towards her brother, and the parents cheered on the sidelines capturing the play-violence on their smartphones. Safe in the knowledge that no children or bulls were killed in this bullring this morning, I went outside and sat down at a table at one of the restaurants connected to the bullring. Then it was time for lunch. Among its many meat options, the menu offered ‘bull tail’. I was in two minds as I ordered the bull tail, but the waiter ended up making my decision for me: ‘We don’t serve bull tail outside of bullfighting season’. I felt a sense of relief as I ordered a portion of wild boar instead, but my relief turned to queasiness when I started wondering under which circumstances the wild boar might have been killed - some other kind of, not bullfight, but ‘boar fight’. I’ve no more wish to see a bullfight after this guided tour than I did before, but I’m glad I went as it’s an integral part of Spanish culture and history whether I appreciate it or not. And surely that’s the point of travelling, to encounter the unknown and learn about what you don’t understand.