Toro de Cuerda

I watched from the top floor window as a line of men pulled a long rope, running fast and hard up the white Spanish street. A brown, muscle bound bull battered the cobble stones after them. It raised its horns to catch the legs of men who hung from windows. One man tempted fate by running in front of the bull towards the men pulling the rope. The bull thundered after him and rounded the corner. I went out, not knowing what I didn’t know.

At first I ran at the very first wave of building static which pulsed through the street, only ever running from the men with the rope, never seeing the bull. I stopped breathlessly at the town square and stood next to an old man who held a cane to his hip and leant back against the wall in the charged street. He called to everyone, and everyone called back. We were in danger, being outside the cage of erected poles which sunk deep into the ground and guarded the partying spectators who drank in the plaza. He was brave, but being only a few feet away from the poles, he was not foolish. I reminded myself as I saw the brown bull, to have gratitude for that moment. I did. The old man smiled.

What was this? A game? A sport? Tradition? I heard the Spanish word for death more than once. A thrill? Suicide? Men have died doing this. For me, it was all that and more: it was an escape, and almost ashamedly, it was a story to tell. Was I caring more about that story, the one I’m telling you, than the life I was living?

I kept running back to the house to do the small tasks which my volunteer position required for my keep, this is the only thing I regret. The first bull, being tired and well run, was slowly pulled back into the metal box from which it came. I watched as it reluctantly backed its way into the cage with the rope through its legs pulling its head down from behind. Everyone cheered, then I noticed the second cage. I went back to the house to do another bout of cleaning and bedmaking. Damn fool.

Back out I ran to the sound of a whistle from the open window. I followed the pulse of life, passion, and fear, which sparked from the men dragging the bull, to the men who ran, laughed and shouted. Women called from windows and threw bottles of water to sons and lovers. Children hid behind fences and cheered from balconies. The electricity was back and it brightened this small Spanish town.

The second bull was big, black, and beautiful. This time the bursting wind from forty men rattled past me in a matter of seconds as they ran from the beast. I stood still in the narrow street between the poles of the plaza and the houses which bent over us; I waited for the bull. Then came the men with the rope, I started running. They shouted at me in Spanish, when that didn’t work they shouted in English, “Keep going!!” I still did not know.

I slipped behind some poles down a side street. The men with the rope rounded two corners before I saw it. I stayed there as it got closer. Bulls really are beautiful things. Its face was soft like sea smoothed stone. I held my phone low with the video running. Would I enjoy that video tomorrow, more than the moment now? I followed behind it as it went up to the street where I have been living for two months. Then it stopped, and no amount of pulling from the men would move it. It beat its horns against the wall, tangled itself up in the rope and tripped. When it got back to its feet I could see that it was bleeding from the mouth. I was told to move back by one of the handlers, a man with a pink and orange blanket. I turned and saw the interested and eager faces of men behind me. When had I gotten so close? Fear and adrenaline filled me; I forgot all else as I watched this bleeding bull. I still did not know.

It had torn its lolling tongue and lips; its mouth was shining red. It made its way into a dead end alley. I’m sure it only wanted some peace but then men, eager for the chase, kept pulling and shouting. Nothing. The men with the pink blankets threw them at the bull, once literally as the cape flew from his hand, still nothing. Eventually it came out bleeding more heavily than before. The blood poured from its mouth, splattered the walls and spilled on the ground. It poured, really. You think, it must run out, it must stop, like piss, there’s an end, but this was blood. It kept falling in a thin line.

Finally, the bleeding beast began pawing at the ground, whilst above him two men hung from bars on windows. “As strong as a bull,” a simple phrase I seem never to have understood. Finally, it dawned on me what I had been missing all day. The bull turned to the handler, a kind faced man with grey hair and the strong, pouchy build of a farmer. I saw calculated terror in his eyes, he stumbled backwards around the corner with his pink blanket held up to his chest like a child; the bull went after him. It dragged the twenty men who held the rope along with it. Shouts and sliding shoes. The bull decides. When the men had told me to run at the rope’s head, they knew, and I didn’t. The bull meant death. All the rope did was slow it down.

The crowd teemed down the street after the bull. I was the only one going the other way. I was jostled and jousted but not questioned. When they had gone, I found what I had been looking for. The pool of blood that had poured from the animal’s mouth. The splashes of tainted spit on the walls, the red marks left on white paint. I took pictures, then turned back to the house, ever the fool, but this time with a sour taste in my mouth. When I returned, the gun had been fired to show the streets were safe again, it was back in its cage; the electricity had gone. The street had the same feeling as after rain.

I learned that there was a third bull later that night. I finished my work, showered, shaved, and went back out to face the evening. Many of the men knew each other, travelling a few times a year to various parts of Andalucia for the thrill of Toro de Cuerda. I understood why. It was unlike anything I have done. Men cheering with each other, and for each other. Sweating and swearing together, cursing the bull and its creator. There were tattoos of bulls on arms and legs. Old friends embraced, and new ones were made.

The bull was another monster but when I reached it, it was caught. The rope was twisted around its hind leg. When it tried to pull with its horns where the rope was tightly bound, this only served to jerk its legs and it fell and hit the hot stone. The local shop-keep, one of the few faces I actually knew, stepped forward. Small, with keen eyes, a mousy mouth, and a kind smile; he shouted orders and instructions. However, with all the shouting, it was the bull that freed itself. But just like the others, it soon got angry, tired, and unwilling. I guessed where it would go and made for the front of the rope past the plaza. A pretty girl with blond hair and red wine in her hand watched me go past. I bowed my head and went on.

I knew better now the danger. I knew what it meant to be at the front. No one to slow it down. But when I reached the men, the bull was gone. It had made its own way back to the entrance of the town where its cage awaited. The men still wanted the chase, the fear, the thrill. The bull stayed in a corner, watched by hundreds, but still. They left the rope on the ground. I thought it somewhat foolish, the rope not held by anyone, but the men seemed content now that it was cornered. The bull was loose.

Men wound up the wide road behind me. I wanted to be closer, to see, to feel, to take a picture with my film camera which I’d brought instead of my phone. I inched closer, thinking the great animal done. The bull had other ideas. We had closed in, nearer and nearer until, without warning, it charged. The broad street ran up behind me with men uncounted, old and young fleeing alike, me at the back of the pack. Screams from the women on the balconies above. Shouts from the men. A rush of ragged breathing and scrambling, legs forcing their way up the hill. I watched them running in front of me. I couldn’t help myself: I looked back.

Fuck! My body spikes into life. Muscle, weight, terror, and death. It’s nearly on top of us. I turn forward, my legs snap with adrenaline. I run into the man in front of me and feel his cold sweat; old and fat, he starts falling. His hands splay out towards the ground. Death, piercing horns tearing through your skin like a needle through wool. I grab hold of his arm. Drag him up. Heaving his weight along with me. Pulling and screaming: run! The old fucker keeps his feet and keeps his pace with me. I heard a cry. I turned again. The bull was on its back.

The men had tied the rope to a metal stud, the bull was jerked to the ground, it was never free. I looked around. The sweating man didn’t know it was me who’d charged into him, he looked red and afraid, I decided not to enlighten him. The rope was pulled through the back of the cage and the bull was inched inside; but not without a struggle. Men, old-hands, tried to flinch and feint it closer and closer to the cage. The hordes of onlookers up the hill, hanging off fences and hidden behind poles, cheered with glee and fear. I watched in silence.

Suddenly, one man was almost gored. The bull slashed its horn through the bars at him and he darted back, holding up his hands in recognition of the closeness of death. Then, tall and skinny, he slipped through the bars to help tame it. One man, small and strong and larger than life, pulled the bull’s tail around. Then the taller man took the tail as well. More must’ve been on the rope, the bull was struggling. It took four men on this end, and the score of men on the other to drag the beast to its cage. The metal slid down behind it.

Static erupted and the four men were crowned with applause. They were clapped on the back and the nape. They joined heads in recognition and called their names like heroes. Truly. I approached them too. To be close to it. To feel it. Then I went to the cage. That familiar smell of the North Wales countryside, bullshit. The unfamiliar sound of the bull’s breathing. Deep, heavy, and fast. The air cracked, the smell of gunpowder. The game was done. Finally, my camera echoed the gunshot.

The next morning the blood was black on the now quiet streets.