Pamploma's Running of the Bulls newspapers, everyone, Running, hearing, safety

tiffiant

Pamploma's Running of the Bulls ignites passion for life

Dripping with booze, blood and exhuberance
The clock ticked down. At about 7:55, a small shrine to Saint Fermin was set up in a wall, and everyone chanted some ancient creed, rolled newspapers waving, to the 12th Century saint for safety and well-being. After hearing it a few times, I shook my fist and chanted “Viva San Fermin! Gora San Fermin!” with the rest. The sun finally broke over the tops of the encierro’s narrow street and then I heard the first fireworks go off. Everyone started running ...
Drinking on the street isn’t particularly pretty, but sometimes going with the flow is the thing to do, and everything was flowing that sunny day in Pamplona. July 6 marks the beginning of the Festival los San Fermines, which includes the infamous “Running of the Bulls.” This fiesta is one giant party, like Mardi Gras only hotter, sexier and includes the unique element of danger.
That morning, I muscled into the surging crowd, trying to get to the main square by noon for the “official” beginning of the Festival. Donning the traditional white shirt and red sash, plus the ubiquitous red bandana, I joined the march.
I saw undulating seas of white and red, people moving, dancing, shouting. Glistening crowds of mostly young, semi-inebriated men and women stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the narrow streets filled with the laughter of thousands.
I made it to the Plaza Consistorial, and the old City Hall building with its Renaissance facade. Amazingly, as I got closer, champagne and wine bottles littered the street by the hundreds. People were leaning from rows of balconies overhead, pouring liquid down onto the crowd below. Getting soaked by these unknown liquids made me dirty and wet, like everyone else. The streets smelled like stale alcohol and sweat, but it was warm and the music was honking. A bizarre chaotic scene, but somehow, fun. I then did the only thing any right-thinking person would do — clamoured to the nearest besieged wine shop and bought a bottle of Cava. Nothing great, but at least it was cold.
Popped the cork at 12:30, and now I was really “in it,” drinking in the scene and listening to the roving marching bands playing accordions, drums, and trumpets. All the musicians had drinks in their hands. I met a group of locals, eager to try out their English on me. One woman from nearby Bilbao chatted easily in passable English, and a big bear of a man named Juanto warned me about the bulls. “Don’t touch them,” he said. “And don’t run on the weekend, too crazy.” I asked him if he had every run with the bulls. He smiled sheepishly and said, “No.” We both laughed.
I joined their festive group and we all passed around bottles of Cava. “Can you help me find a place called Ruggles, the bar?” asked Jenny from New Zealand. I shrugged, then pointed down the street. The narrow alleys overflowed with thousands of people crammed into the cafes, bars and shops. Many just sat on the pavement. During the festival, most of the bars remove their doors entirely, since they don’t close at all for eight straight days. Squeezed into one bar, I overheard a guy in a “proper” British manner say, “These Spaniards are simply crazy. I like it.” The cramped streets boomed as all manner of sound bounced off ancient cobblestones.

Hungry now, I found some fresh pollo y frites at a tiny café. It was dreadfully hot, and the food was greasy, spicy, messy — delicious. With it, I of course drank two glasses of fresh chilled Navarra wine. The meal hit the spot and the hot air made the wine even better. I ventured back to the main square and ended up at the Iruna bar, one of Hemingway’s renowned haunts. The place was packed with history, laughter and booze. Upstairs I bought a “Special Kas” — some secret tangy mix that included copious amount of gin. That did it: Finally the knockout punch. I danced with a tasty blond, then thought I saw bulls flying toward the ceiling, singing some song that reverberated in the back of my head. Reality and a dream state were now intermingling.
Stumbling back through the folding crowds, a sign said it was 39 C. Hot. A nap at the hotel was in order. A park loomed in my foreground and I decided to rest for a moment. As soon as I hit the grass I was out — cold. I slept in the park for over two hours, with my passport, money, and camera lying at my feet, unprotected in the open summer sun. Fortunately, no one touched anything. I got up groggy but somewhat refreshed.
The festival draws over a million and a half visitors and it’s an accepted tradition that vast numbers sleep in the city parks. And people were sleeping everywhere, just like me.

tiffiant

I stopped for a couple of café con leches then sashayed back to the hotel, sweaty, grass-stained and full of life. Day One was over in Pamplona with plenty more excitement to come. The bulls would begin running early the next morning.

Somewhere between dream and nightmare, I startled awake at 5:30 a.m., and again barrelled through the throngs into old Pamplona. I found my way to Santo Domingo Street, the first portion of the Run, and camped out. I encountered some American guys: one from around Dallas, one from New York, two from L.A. and another from Atlanta. Two English blokes and a huge grizzled man from Jamaica rounded out our little party on the street.

There were lots of people here already — this being Sunday, the most crowded day and the one I had been warned never to run. “Many drunks, tourists, and just too many people,” said my knowledgeable Spanish sources. Yet here I was with countless other fools, drunks and testosterone-infected specimens. There were a few women, but it appeared 99 per cent men. I listened to all sorts of stories and rumours about what would, and would not happen during the Run. People made bets, and some read their newspapers, with backs to the walls, anticipatory sweat forming on upper lips. The police made periodic sweeps pulling out the truly inebriated, those with backpacks, large cameras or other hindrances.

It would be happening soon.

The time had finally arrived. The second fireworks’ blast went off signalling that the bulls were in the street; now people ran in a frenzy. I ran too. Why not? They seemed to know what they were doing, or perhaps it was simply irresistible fear. I ran hard in step with the guy in front of me, while I felt someone running up my back. I vaguely heard the roar of the crowd and a looming thunder, looked over my shoulder and there they were.

Huge, black, wild and smelling like barnyard fury; the bulls were nearly upon me and I kicked into another gear. They ran straight up the middle, like a perfect halfback draw, and I deftly moved to the side of the narrow street. The first bull was about a foot from me, and then he was gone. Tan and grey mansos or steers came up fast, and I kept pace. They passed and I paused briefly to watch the scene as if in slow-motion. It was absolute chaos. Several people in the street were standing still, others running, some walking backwards, some clutching the doors and walls.

Above the street, hundreds — maybe thousands — of men and women on balconies and ledges cheering, screaming and taking pictures. Some simply stood pointing with eyes wide and jaws dropped. I then heard someone yell in my ear as two more bulls charged fast and passed on my left. I chased them up the street until I could only see a distant blur of black, white and red.

I made it all the way to the Corrida gate. Wheezing, I looked around then high-fived the nearest guys. I had done it! My elbow had a little cut where I’d brushed a wall but other than that I was intact. Thrilled. I could see paramedics attending to a few fallen victims. I saw one unfortunate with a bloody eye, and another talking excitedly on the ground with blood on his pants. I hoped they’d be OK. Perhaps fate was not kind to them that day, but for me it grinned.

I walked back, grabbing a café con leche along the way, marvelling at the spectacular morning, understanding that the world is indeed a crazy, insatiable place.

“I’ve been coming back for the last 20 years now. Wouldn’t miss it,” said Dr. Moss, a pediatrician from California. He stood tall with his red and white uniform slightly askew. “Have you ever been hurt?” I asked. “Yes, I have,” and he lifted up his shirt and showed me a four-inch scar on his right side. “Three years ago, a bull lifted me right up.” He laughed and took a swig from his beer. I laughed too and wondered about his and my own sanity.

Hemingway knew, and came back to Pamplona year after year. Joy, blood, and verve — it’s all here in the blink of an eye, a crack of a drum. This sensual, unforgettable place is still very much alive and that, ladies and gentlemen, is one of the things that makes life worth living.

If you go

The Festival los San Fermines, which includes the Running of the Bulls, takes place annually in Pampoma, Spain, July 6 to 14.

tiffiant

Kicking off on Sunday, Festival los San Fermines in Pamplona, that includes the famous ‘Running of the Bulls,’ is like a hotter, sexier version of Mardi Gras, with the added element of danger.





Kicking off on Sunday, Festival los San Fermines in Pamplona, that includes the famous ‘Running of the Bulls,’ is like a hotter, sexier version of Mardi Gras, with the added element of danger.During the music and booze-infused festival, most bars will remove their front doors entirely since they won’t be closing for eight days straight