The dust catches in my throat. The sun beats down harder than a Guardiola film in its prime. In front of me, about thirty cows, each bearing a circled and crowned A, rush into the first corral and stop in front of the gate of the second. The three of us are there: Javi, Chico, and me, on foot. We're running after them, pushing them toward the pens where three of them will be chosen for the midday bullfight. "Habla le!!!" Javi yells at me.
First lesson in life at the ranch. Here, the herdsman's main tool is his voice, his vocal cords. We shout, we yell, in short; we yell like herdsmen. The animals flee before us. With the help of stones and sticks gathered along the way, the herd is guided, driven towards the top of the corral. A swinging gate acts as a sluice gate, preventing them from turning back. The animals slow down before the opening. We yell even louder. We approach closer, to within a few meters. We charge them… They flee, and accelerate as they pass the invisible obstacle. A few leap over a shadow. Third corral. We mustn't give them time to think. We press in closer, shouting even louder. The second gate closes. Thirty animals gather in the middle of a 40-square-meter corral with an earthen floor. They form a whirlwind in the middle of what could be a patio. The cattle are in front; two open gates await them. Fabrice, perched on the accessible walls, manipulates the gates. He opens them, closes them, showing them the way. He creates a vacuum. He sucks, and we push. After five minutes of howling, the clanging of metal gates, and the clatter of hooves, the herd of cows enters the left gate and plunges into the labyrinth of the bull pens. Three enclosures, three bull pens, and an access to the holding corridor. Ten sliding gates, like so many switches for the train of hooves and horns. We go up to join the foreman to help him with the maneuver. He looks at his notebook, observes the animals, and announces, "Number 17, number 57, and number 44." Javi and Chico know what to do; I follow orders. Open! I open a gate. Close! I close it; wait! I wait… The cows go through, or not. They are turned back by a gate closed beneath their muzzles or pushed by Chico's determined shove. In one pen, the selected cows; in another, the rejected ones; and in the middle, the sorting area. In ten minutes, it's all over. Each cow is placed in a pen. The others return to the main corral to live out their days happily, awaiting their Tienta. And the verdict. Ten percent of them will be approved. The others will go to fill the stalls. Such is the law of the fighting bullfight.