Exercising brave bulls, "Jaral de Peñas"

I have read of the brave bull's place in mythology and of the religion of Mithra and have seen pictures of the painting on the wall of Altamira that has been said to date over 20,000 years and I am fascinated by it's history, but to me the brave bull represents something personal. I see in him his strength, his determination and lack of concern for us poor humans.

When I first I look at him I see his trapio, his over all appearance. The shine of a healthy coat, his well formed musculature, the shape of his horns with his head held high, and I cannot miss noticing his arrogance. Arrogance is a quality that is not admirable in humans but perfect for him and I see it in his "mirada," the look he gives us. He appears to be healthy, confident and ready.

When we see them in campo bravo, the fields where they have been raised or in the corrals before a corrida, it is impossible to not speculate about how they will perform. Even though none of us including the ganadero with his records of the animal's lineage, or a matador with his years of experience confronting them, nor the most seasoned aficionado can predict how they will respond when they enter the plaza.

But, its a game we taurine romantics can't resist playing. After the sorteo when groups of aficionados meet for lunch and talk of the bulls there is always at least one who will speak passionately about one bull that he "knows" will be exceptional!

With my years of experience I try to not speculate about my hopes concerning a certain animal, but to date my efforts have been futile. I usually find myself remembering at least one of the encierro/group and I dwell upon his appearance or the mirada he gave me and I wonder, how will he be?

Perhaps, that's one of the most fascinating details of the fiesta brava? With it's years of history and tradition and our devoted study of the many ingredients that make it the spectacle that it is, when the door to the toriles opens none of us knows what will happen. As one of the characters in the movie "Shakespeare in Love" said, "It's a mystery!"

Recently after a sorteo in Aguascalientes I was speaking with the apoderado/manager of a leading matador who was to appear that afternoon. When I asked him his opinion of the bulls his matador was to face, he shrugged and said, "Who knows?" That may very well be the most straight forward response I have ever heard from someone involved in the fiesta!

One afternoon I was driving with a matador friend who is also a "veedor" a man who visits ranches and approves of the bulls to be purchased for a corrida. I asked about this phenomenon of people speculating about bulls, and he agreed. He said that often in those last minutes before the corrida began, when he was being quiet and creating a mind set, he's had the breeder of that day's bulls come up to him and tell him details about his bulls. As if the ganadero was sharing inside information, something that would help. No one knows!

So we wait anxiously as the trumpet sounds and the door opens, and each of us watches the dark opening waiting for our guest to appear. Will he enter with a rush, or slowly amble through the door? Will he turn to his left, which for some reason I've never understood is referred to as the natural way, or to the right?

Will he be the proud brave bull we wish him to be and take command of the arena, defending and attacking anything that dares to enter his territory? Or will he be faint of heart, as sometimes happens, and spend his time disinterested and looking for the exit?

These few moments on the sand and how the bull behaves are the culmination of years of selective breeding, they are the end result. So if this seemingly strong confident beautiful beast falls and can't get to his feet, a sad gasp escapes from within us. I do not refer to those times when he slips on wet or loose sand and looses his footing to rise again, but when he falls and appears to not have the strength to rise.

And then to make the image less admirable, these men dressed in their colorful suits of lights have to go and pull at him to help him to his feet and we have to accept that the hopes we had for this bull today, have gone. This animal in whom the ganadero and we the fans had looked forward to seeing, will not be able to perform.

Why do bulls fall, has been the subject of which many articles have been written. Could it be their diet, are they missing essential nutrients? Is it lack of exercise? I remember a discussion I had with a veterinarian who believed that they spent too much time in corrals. His theory was that the dirt in the corrals was sodden with their urine and the acidic properties of the urine infected their hooves with mites and made their legs weak.

The first time I visited a bull breeding ranch was in the early 1960's. One of the many memories I have from that experience was that the ranch encompassed many hills and either by accident or plan, I never thought to ask, the water was in a valley on one side and the feed on the other. So throughout the day when the stock wanted to eat or drink they had to ascend and descend the hill. I cannot remember ever seeing bulls from that ranch fall and not be able to rise during a corrida.

The ganadero, Don Luis Barroso Barona is one of México’s legendary breeders of fighting bulls. In the nineteen sixties his bulls were so renowned that they were transported to Madrid and given the honor of being presented in the world’s most prestigious plaza de toros, “Las Ventas”. His current ganaderia, breeding ranch of brave bulls is named "Jaral de Peñas" and is located near the pueblo of Tequisquiapan in the central Méxican state of Quéretaro.

With bulls, as with human beings, the prime ingredients in building a strong healthy body are diet and exercise. For exercise, Don Luis has constructed a torodrome on his ranch, a running track almost a mile in length. It is approximately the same distance the bulls run from the corrals to the plaza de toros in Pamplona each July day during the Feria de San Fermin.

Every other day his bulls are released from the corrals and with a vaquero/cowboy mounted on a strong horse behind them, they go for a run in the country. It gives them exercise, increases their lung capacity and builds stamina.

From a small building constructed at the entrance of the track, we hear the clang of the metal corral gate swing open and the yells and whistles of the vaqueros as they herd the bulls and then, a rumble of hooves. We watch expectantly as the bulls come charging around the corner towards us, the clods of dirt flying behind them.

As they pass within a few feet of our safe haven you can feel the vibrations of their hooves striking the earth as it comes up through the soles of your boots, and smell that special odor that is ganado bravo as they turn and run away from us until they are lost in a opaque cloud.

They are lost from our sight but we know where they are, each of us is watching the dirt cloud and we know that just in front of it are the bulls. And even though we can’t see them over the tops of the green mesquite trees, we can envision them galloping up the hill, their leg muscles stretching, their chest’s heaving with each deep breath, their tails flying, their heads bobbing in rhythm, a mass of taurine power on the hoof!

As the sound of their hooves recedes, the small building where we are waiting becomes quiet and cooler, and then you realize the temperature that has changed is your own. The excitement you had felt as the bulls went by close to you had heated the blood running through your veins and your breathing had quickened.

You strain to watch the end of the road through the glare as the dirt cloud gets close to the turn and then they come into view, their bodies leaning as they come around the corner and start down the road towards us.

At first they appear as a mirage, the bright light released from the Mexican sun reflecting off the nearly white dirt of the high desert. The dust disturbed by their hooves is so dry that it envelops them and they appear to be floating in a huge diaphanous cloud.

With each moment that passes, each stretch of their powerful forelegs they come closer. You begin to be able to pick out the difference in the coloring of their hides, the pintas and watch as they move from one side to the other, finding different positions in the galloping group.


It is a unique experience seeing fighting bulls in campo bravo and it is extremely rare to have the opportunity to see them running in a group, an encierro. Or to sense their power coming at you, closer and closer with each stride.

If you are in the streets of Pamplona you can almost feel it but you’re senses are not allowed to run free. They are impeded by the mass of humanity surrounding you and your need for self preservation.

It seems strange to think that one who has aficion and feels the need to experience Pamplona, a chance to be next to and run with brave bulls, with only a few minutes in the street realizes that the animals that he is afraid of aren’t the toros with sharp horns but the mob of humans that surround him!

The beauty of running bulls becomes unnatural on city streets enclosed by buildings, and your desire to witness their beauty changes to the primary need to protect yourself from the pushing and shoving of the anxious partyers-runners as they jockey for position. Your fear becomes one of being trampled by the mass of humans!

As the encierro comes closer, their image grows! You can see the vaquero waving his rope and although you can’t hear his yells, you can imagine them and the sound the coiled rope makes as it slaps his leather saddle.

As they close the space between us you can see the different characteristics of individual bulls, the oval markings around their eyes, the shape of their horns and you begin to hear and feel again the rumble of their hooves striking the packed earth.

As they come even closer, they tighten up the group to go through the gate next to us. Each of them weighing over a thousand pounds and after a mile run in the heat of the day they arrive with their mouths closed, not breathing hard like the healthy athletes they are.

And each of them as he passes, looks at you with that disinterested gaze typical of ganado bravo, the proud look in their eyes and in their physical presence that reveals to you how insignificant we humans are to them. La Mirada, the defiant, arrogant stare of his majesty: El Toro Bravo!

Saludos,

Morgan