Colombia’s corralejas bull fights are a bloody free-for-all where only the humans die
the bull stares down hundreds of men. He’s a half-ton killer, black, head white like a skull, horns curled. Bred for the fight. There’s violence in his DNA. The bull scans the crowd in the ring, alert to any challenge. The crowd watches for the animal’s slightest of movements. When the hundreds of men flee, they move in tandem, like a school of fish dodging a shark. The blazing tropical sun beats down on us all.
The crowd hollers, shaking the wooden pillars, threatening to bring down the entire coliseum. The “jump of death,” a trick that has cost men their lives, had been perfectly executed — this time. A second too early or too late, the bull could hook Catalino, ripping him open. Now, he runs around the ring, celebrating like a champion. From the stands, adoring spectators throw money down to him.
The World Bank confirms what your eyes see in this country of small oases of wealth surrounded by widespread need, calling Colombia “one of the most unequal countries in the world.” Nearly 40 percent of the country lives in poverty, close to 14 percent in what is classified as extreme. These farmlands of the coast are concentrated in the hands of a small number of families, massive cattle ranches that stretch over the horizon. It feels close to feudal.
“My cause is the rights of animals,” Sen. Andrea Padilla says in her crisp Bogotá accent. “Wherever they are victims of violence, me, and I know thousands of other Colombians, are ready to speak up.”A lifelong dedication to animal rights earned her a seat in Colombia’s senate. She still volunteers at animal-rescue foundations and sterilization programs for stray cats and dogs, and she wants the corralejas shut down — forever.
“When I’m in the ring, I’m someone else. The world changes. It’s all different. I don’t know how to explain it. And when I step out of the ring, it changes back,” he says. Other bullfighters say the same: that the ring is another plane of existence, that life is sped up, concentrated, with all the dull bits removed.
Saltarin shouts at the bull and flicks the cape again to lure it in, and again the bull charges him. Again, at the last moment he steps out of the way. The audience cheers. This life is carved into the bodies of the bullfighters — crisscrossing scars. “Fifty-six gorings I’ve had,” says the Death, ugly scars crossing his body like a map. His life in the ring has left him only a few teeth.
“No one sober would fight the bulls. You’ve got to be at least tipsy so you’re less afraid of the bull,” says the Ball, a personable bullfighter and one of the few whose face is not drawn in scars. “It’s always better to be a little drunk with some rum in you.” In the crowds, men sell to the thirsty, carrying buckets filled with ice and beer. And when the bull comes, they run for their lives like everyone else, careful not to drop a single can. Other men carry huge publicity banners for local businesses or politicians around the ring.
The fans salute a good bull’s performance, his taste for the fight. The best bulls become legends. “Seven Boxes” earned his name after sending seven men to their coffins. After five minutes, the man regains consciousness, but is groggy and unsure where he is. A neck brace is fitted, and he’s driven to the local hospital.
“The bull got him. It went for him three times, and he didn’t understand it was trying to kill him,” says the sister, watching Negrete tend to her brother’s leg. Her face veers between anger and concern. “It’s not the first time a bull almost killed him. My mother will die if she hears.” Luis Sandoval, 62, is carried in by four men, their arms covered by his blood. His face is pale, his shirt and jeans both drip red with blood. On the back of his thigh is a hole that pumps dark blood onto the cot. Negrete applies pressure to the wound and finally manages to maintain a bandage over the wound.
“When you live in this world, it traps you — it’s a spell,” says Saltarin. “You don’t focus on the dead, you look away, you look at the people having a good time.… And the party never stops, it keeps going.” Some try to plan an exit from the corralejas, to not let the arena win. Mandarina is one of the legends of the sport. “In bullfighting,” he says, “you want to leave this in the best way possible, leaving behind the best image of yourself.” He’s instantly recognizable for his black shoulder-length curly hair, a deep scar that cuts along his jaw, ending at his lips, a memento of the afternoon when the bull got too close.
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