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written and photographed by STEVE MAISON

“My informant used to take his father’s bull to the beachfor a dip in the sea (they like a bit of swim apparently).I would have liked to see that”.

head to head
Fridays on the Batinah
Acting on a tip-off from a work colleague, we headed on a Friday afternoon to the bullring four kilometres west of Barka. Crowds of men were taking their seats on the white concrete stands while
others with slightly less concern for their safety sat on the sand a few metres inside the ring. The elders carried traditional sticks; the younger men carried the modern equivalent, the mobile phone.
Between the concentric layers of spectators stood an assortment of black, brown and grey bulls tethered to posts. Regardless of colour, shape or size, these are all highly valued animals, specially bred and nurtured for competition and treated to special diets like pampered family pets. My informant described how he used to take his father’s bull to the beach for a dip in the sea (they like a bit of swim apparently). I would have liked to see that.
Half an hour later, the master of ceremonies announced the opening of the event using unintelligible Arabic broadcast through a megaphone held at a steady 45 degrees to the horizon. Every so often the device would release a burst of teeth-shattering electronic feedback. He wandered around pointing at groups of people with his stick, still chatting through the megaphone. This appeared to be some sort of selection process.
The first two bulls were led to the centre of the ring, comforted by sticks rubbed along their backs and the occasional handful of sand thrown onto their hindquarters. The handlers struggled to get the two contestants to face each other. When close enough, the two bulls locked heads and pushed. A small amount of dust surrounded the animals as they attempted to get more grip in the loose sand. They continued to push, moving slowly round in circles.
To the side of the animals stood the referee, shouting commands and making various hand gestures. Suddenly one bull decided it had had enough and wandered off giving the result to the remaining animal, which looked a little surprised at the ease of victory. The referee’s left arm stretched out to indicate the victor. It was all over.

The losing animal crept back to his station with minimal fuss, embarrassed by his poor performance. The winner however, was full of beans and felt less inclined to return to his post to become a spectator for the rest of the day. The MC announced the result with much garbled excitement and stick waving.
I sat with the chaps in the inner ring to watch the next few bouts that went a similar way. It was like watching cricket or American football; hard to work out the rules or understand who has won, or why. Many of the contests ended in a draw indicted by a double extended-arm gesture from the referee. Often the only sign that a contest had finished was the arrival of the handlers to separate the animals. Each fight lasted for just a few minutes; the worst injurysuffered was a bruised ego for both the losing bull and its owner.
During the interval between bouts, the audience would sit and chat quietly. Men carrying large boxes wandered along the lines of spectators selling nuts and other less-recognisable snacks in small home-made paper wrappers. Occasionally, a rickety truck would enter the arena to off-load a bull. Not an easy job removing a burly animal over a tailgate. Even harder trying to put it back again.
Much excitement was caused when one of the bulls decided to let off steam by running through the ring of spectators. Men would scatter in all directions to avoid being trampled upon. The bull made his way to the car park before being hauled back into the arena. I wondered if we were covered for bull damage on the car insurance – I'm guessing not. The kafuffle was soon over as the animal was brought under control and the crowd returned to their places on the sand as if nothing had happened.
Numerous bouts took place late into the afternoon as the sun set, turning the sky a deeper blue and casting a pale orange hue over the sand and the animals. Dust in the air reduced visibility as I looked across the ground towards the mosque with its minaret peeking over the stands.
When we left the arena, the competition was still in full swing. While sipping coffee with our local host in the comfort of his majlis in Barka, we reflected on the differences between this and the European bullfight. Competitions are usually held on Friday afternoons at several places along the Batinah coastline, particularly in Barka or Sohar. Smaller events are held on a more ad-hoc basis. Try to find one and judge for yourself.