I met Antonio at La Bolera, a bar right next to the parking lot where we slept at night in a kiddie-sized rental car. La Bolera came to be the parking lot’s bathroom, restaurant and a place to charge your phone for the price of a small coke. Decently priced bar food too, I may add. Of course no one came here to drink when you could legally drink on the streets.
In a mixture of Spanish and English Antonio and I discussed football, women, Basque independence and of course all things a foreigner needs to know about the sole reason for my trip to Spain. The Running of the Bulls. Stay on the side of the streets, don’t move when you get hit and where to start to run.
According to my new friend the Yanks are a bunch of drunks with money and the Ozzies were well, just drunks. There is nothing the good citizens of Pamplona can do about their drunk antic though, because the local economy thrives on this week of the year when young people from all over the world come to this city to drink heavily and show their machismo.The drunk antics I’m talking about range from sleeping on the streets which is actually acceptable, to defecating and coitus in public in broad daylight. For what is supposedly a Catholic holiday, the Lord still has a lot of work to do here.
Me and my friend R. positioned ourselves a little before where Antonio adviced us to wait for the bulls. Municipal workers soon started putting up the barricades that have been the fine line between life and death for numerous people for centuries. The sun hasn’t risen fully yet and it was hard to see wether the people around you were drunks, runners or perhaps both. Hard to see for me but not for the Guardia Civil. The Guardia Civil has a feared reputation and they don’t dick around. Many a friend has felt the impact of a Spanish nightstick beating on his skull after a night out on the town. Better not to fuck around with these guys. Fifty more minutes to go.
” This signal makes any man go from zero to devout Catholic in two seconds.”
Twenty minutes to go. While the bulls were still in their cages the crowd got more anxious with every minute. The street was getting packed with white-clad people. As if I wasn’t scared enough, a girl next to me fainted and was quickly dragged to higher grounds. It wasn’t all fear though. My fellow runners lifted the mood by singing the Seven Nation tune with utter devotion. Every time someone from the balconies took a picture, or when a pretty girl appeared, he or (usually) she was greeted with great enthusiasm and cheers.
The police lifted the barricade and slowly the runners walked to their position of choice and did their stretches. Five more minutes to go. More cigarettes were smoked than Philip Morris could possibly manufacture. By this time I already lost my friend and staggered forlorn on Estefeta. By this time my heartbeat was going as fast as Usain Bolt on the Olympics. And believe me, that man can run.
With a loud bang the first rocket went off, signaling the runners that the bulls have been released. This signal makes any man go from zero to devout Catholic in two seconds. God, let me survive! Now where I stood, it was key not to panic and run straight away. You want to be close to the bulls but still join the action in the arena. The thundering hooves and the ringing of cow bells came closer and closer and so did the bangs of either animals or humans against the barriers. Wait for it, wait for it. Go!
Contrary to what I though the running itself was not scary at all. I was obviously pumped up with adrenaline and I thank Mother Nature for that. As a matter of fact, the running was fun! There was something enjoyable about dodging people, the overall panic and the fear of death. That may sound strange but this is not a game where you win or lose. In this game you win, die or get gored and that’s what gives you the rush. There is no inbetween.
I started running really fast when the medics and cops behind the fences yelled ”venga, venga!” and motioned me to run for dear life. The thunder of the bulls came closer and closer Knowing this meant serious shit, I wanted to hop over the barricades right before the arena but there were already people on top, on and underneath them. ”Fuck it, I’ll run a little faster.”
When I saw the footage later on, I was inches away from a 600kg fighting bull when I entered the arena; an enormous thrill.
I bet every runner felt like a football star when we came in as the crowd was cheering and clapping hands. You don’t want to come in too early unless you like being called a coward and being booed at by thousands of people.
The callejon, where you enter the arena at the end of the run.
With the intense feeling of being alive comes a livelong membership of the peñas
As we walked around feeling gods amongst men, highfiving strangers with racing heartbeats, the biggest surprise was yet to come. After mere minutes the good people of the Plaza de los Torros released an angry steer into the crowd.
People who say that steers are way less dangerous than their male counterparts are only partially telling the truth. Surely, they lack their viciousness and sharp horns but they are experienced. The whole point of bullfighting is that it is the first encounter between a bull and an unmounted person. Even if a fighting bull survives the fight, it will never fight a man again in his life. The steers however are reused over and over again and gain experience over the years. Where a bull charges blindly at whatever target he has in sight, a steer is more likely to single out a target and attack it.
This part of the encierro is perhaps the most exciting and depending on how you control your nerves, you’re either lucky or unlucky to make it to the bull ring. While on the streets, it is common knowledge that the danger comes from behind you. You can hear it, smell it and the people running away from it is a big giveaway. In the bull ring there are no corners and with all the people blocking your view it’s hard to tell where to look at. Only once you hear the trampling of hooves and people in chaos, you know where to flee to. A very exciting game indeed.
Casualties are rare in this part but it’s important to always pay attention to our two-horned friend. Another piece of advice; don’t touch the steer. People in the stadium will chant ‘hijo de puta’ and I’ve even seen a guy getting beaten up after repeatedly doing so by an angry local, much to the amusement of the crowd.
Chaos in the bull ring
The constant chaos was nerve wracking after I while so I hopped over the barricades and looked at the amateur corrida from a distance. To my great surprise I ran into my friend R. again who narrowly escaped a one on one encounter with the steer. We were pumped up with adrenaline and had a long ride to go before reaching Barcelona again but what the heck. We made it.
Later that day the bulls, coming from the Dolores Aguirre breeders in Seville were killed in the arena on the second day of bull fighting of the festival of San Fermin. Every game has its loser.
Thirsty Larry 