I wasn't exactly intending to shove myself in a street with a herd of charging bulls, but peer pressure has a funny way of making one do things like that. It turns out my ego was such that I could not, in fact, turn down the opportunity to participate in the annual Pamplona festivity.
Every morning for a couple of weeks, a couple of thousand people crowd themselves into a barricaded street. Today, I am one of them. At 7:30am, the gates are closed. After this point, nobody can leave. My friends and I chat nervously with a couple of Australians we've just met. They've come straight from the club. One of them is tying himself in knots and jumping about. The other stares into the distance. At least if he gets mauled by a bull, he'll be able to lie down for a bit.
We go off and explore the course. Half an hour to visit the 875m of cobblestone street in which we will soon be risking our lives. It stretches from the bullpen at the start all the way through to the arena, where participants will have the best seats in the house to witness the subsequent festivities. We pass some people praying to a statue of Saint Fermin, the patron saint of the area. He was beheaded; I can't quite remember why, but it is etched into the local lore and clothing: everyone around here is wearing a white shirt and the traditional red neckerchief, a somewhat gory reminder of the event.
A few people quietly do some stretches and warm ups. Others stare into the distance, preparing themselves psychologically for the event ahead. We walk past Dead Man's Corner, a spot notorious for bulls slipping and barrelling people into the wall. Probably not the best place to start: it's a common misconception that one is supposed to finish before the bulls, when really the goal is to have some time running with them. Those finishing early are referred to as "los valientes", "the valiant ones", and have various forms of produce launched at them. We settle towards the end of the course, which we've heard is "beginner friendly".
Some policemen come and push us around a bit – it turns out they need to check that we don't have too many people in the pen. The crowd gets shoved around until they're happy that we all fit within the markers they've left on the ground. After a few minutes in the mosh pit, people raise their newspapers in their right hands. I realise I do not have one, and I just raise my hand instead. Good start. A chant rises up, a prayer to the patron saint to protect us from harm. I hope it works. Two people apparently don't think so and are guided out through the crowd to mocking applause.
The police release us shortly before 8am, and we quickly find our spots near the entrance to the arena. There's barriers with holes here, allowing for a quick roll under, and medical staff on hand to treat any serious injuries. Only 15 people have died in the last century, but there are multiple maulings every year. It's not a statistic I want to hear.
I start jogging on the spot. It's just a couple of minutes until they're released now; it wouldn't do not to be ready. I look around. Furtive glances look back. Focused gazes look at the ground, while high knees bounce up and down in anticipation.
The first firework goes off at 8am sharp. My heart-rate spikes. The doors are open. The second follows shortly after: the bulls are running. I have just over 2 minutes before they arrive. I glance around nervously. They haven't arrived yet. Of course they haven't. The fireworks only just went off. I look up the street. They still haven't arrived. Come on. I look at my watch. It's been 30 seconds. I look across at Pedro, an athletic local who's meticulously been doing his warmups for the last 5 minutes. If anyone has this covered it's him. I notice my heart hammering. I look at the runners behind me again. I see someone further back start to jog. Another follows his lead. I peer through, trying to get a lock on the animals. Still nothing. The crowd starts to move, and I feel my brain freeze up.
Something whizzes overhead. The camera. It's filming the event, which means... Pedro takes off. I follow. I look to my left, just in time to see him get steamrolled by the first bull in the herd. I quickly veer to the side. I look over my shoulder and see several more come through. How many are there? Should have looked that up. No time now, not that phones are allowed. I jog along the side, glancing over my shoulder, taking the outside of a bend. The main herd takes the inside. I stay well clear, leaving space for the other runners to dart to safety. I keep jogging slowly as the final strays go through, and make it into the arena.
My friend Lewis bounces up to me like a golden retriever – "We made it!!!"
On the way back we crossed a gaggle of wine-stained tourists returning from the previous night. One of my friends convinced them that the gigantic hole in my trouser crotch had been caused by a bull. It had in fact been the tourist-quality product giving way as I climbed out of the arena. I was happy to eschew truth-telling for this particular occasion.
I will not comment on the morality of the Running of the Bulls, although I think there is an interesting discussion to be had there. I will allow myself to comment on the attitudes of the locals, which tend to be less well known outside of the arena.
One notable thing is the absolute respect for the person of the bull: If you touch the bull, you too will be touched, and significantly less timidly so, by the police. Honour is everything, and respect for the strength and person of the animal is central to the ethos.
Also, this is a full-time fiesta. The entire city is turned into a party town and celebrates night and day. It is actually one of many such fiestas in the Basque region, with some of the more famous ones including the Fêtes de Bayonne in Bayonne, France, and theAste Nagusia fiesta in Bilbao. The entire community goes out and watches from the balconies above the road or in the stadium itself as tourists pay large sums for the best spots to join them.
This is also a full-time sport. As a first-timer, your aim is to stick to the side and stay out of trouble. As you move up the ranks, the dream is "running the horns", where each buttock is encouraged by a different prong and the bull can smell your farts. I can think of less exciting ways to go.
I wasn't exactly intending to shove myself in a street with a herd of charging bulls, but peer pressure has a funny way of making one do things like that. It turns out my ego was such that I could not, in fact, turn down the opportunity to participate in the annual Pamplona festivity.
Every morning for a couple of weeks, a couple of thousand people crowd themselves into a barricaded street. Today, I am one of them. At 7:30am, the gates are closed. After this point, nobody can leave. My friends and I chat nervously with a couple of Australians we've just met. They've come straight from the club. One of them is tying himself in knots and jumping about. The other stares into the distance. At least if he gets mauled by a bull, he'll be able to lie down for a bit.
We go off and explore the course. Half an hour to visit the 875m of cobblestone street in which we will soon be risking our lives. It stretches from the bullpen at the start all the way through to the arena, where participants will have the best seats in the house to witness the subsequent festivities. We pass some people praying to a statue of Saint Fermin, the patron saint of the area. He was beheaded; I can't quite remember why, but it is etched into the local lore and clothing: everyone around here is wearing a white shirt and the traditional red neckerchief, a somewhat gory reminder of the event.
A few people quietly do some stretches and warm ups. Others stare into the distance, preparing themselves psychologically for the event ahead. We walk past Dead Man's Corner, a spot notorious for bulls slipping and barrelling people into the wall. Probably not the best place to start: it's a common misconception that one is supposed to finish before the bulls, when really the goal is to have some time running with them. Those finishing early are referred to as "los valientes", "the valiant ones", and have various forms of produce launched at them. We settle towards the end of the course, which we've heard is "beginner friendly".
Some policemen come and push us around a bit – it turns out they need to check that we don't have too many people in the pen. The crowd gets shoved around until they're happy that we all fit within the markers they've left on the ground. After a few minutes in the mosh pit, people raise their newspapers in their right hands. I realise I do not have one, and I just raise my hand instead. Good start. A chant rises up, a prayer to the patron saint to protect us from harm. I hope it works. Two people apparently don't think so and are guided out through the crowd to mocking applause.
The police release us shortly before 8am, and we quickly find our spots near the entrance to the arena. There's barriers with holes here, allowing for a quick roll under, and medical staff on hand to treat any serious injuries. Only 15 people have died in the last century, but there are multiple maulings every year. It's not a statistic I want to hear.
I start jogging on the spot. It's just a couple of minutes until they're released now; it wouldn't do not to be ready. I look around. Furtive glances look back. Focused gazes look at the ground, while high knees bounce up and down in anticipation.
The first firework goes off at 8am sharp. My heart-rate spikes. The doors are open. The second follows shortly after: the bulls are running. I have just over 2 minutes before they arrive. I glance around nervously. They haven't arrived yet. Of course they haven't. The fireworks only just went off. I look up the street. They still haven't arrived. Come on. I look at my watch. It's been 30 seconds. I look across at Pedro, an athletic local who's meticulously been doing his warmups for the last 5 minutes. If anyone has this covered it's him. I notice my heart hammering. I look at the runners behind me again. I see someone further back start to jog. Another follows his lead. I peer through, trying to get a lock on the animals. Still nothing. The crowd starts to move, and I feel my brain freeze up.
Something whizzes overhead. The camera. It's filming the event, which means... Pedro takes off. I follow. I look to my left, just in time to see him get steamrolled by the first bull in the herd. I quickly veer to the side. I look over my shoulder and see several more come through. How many are there? Should have looked that up. No time now, not that phones are allowed. I jog along the side, glancing over my shoulder, taking the outside of a bend. The main herd takes the inside. I stay well clear, leaving space for the other runners to dart to safety. I keep jogging slowly as the final strays go through, and make it into the arena.
My friend Lewis bounces up to me like a golden retriever – "We made it!!!"
On the way back we crossed a gaggle of wine-stained tourists returning from the previous night. One of my friends convinced them that the gigantic hole in my trouser crotch had been caused by a bull. It had in fact been the tourist-quality product giving way as I climbed out of the arena. I was happy to eschew truth-telling for this particular occasion.
I will not comment on the morality of the Running of the Bulls, although I think there is an interesting discussion to be had there. I will allow myself to comment on the attitudes of the locals, which tend to be less well known outside of the arena.
One notable thing is the absolute respect for the person of the bull: If you touch the bull, you too will be touched, and significantly less timidly so, by the police. Honour is everything, and respect for the strength and person of the animal is central to the ethos.
Also, this is a full-time fiesta. The entire city is turned into a party town and celebrates night and day. It is actually one of many such fiestas in the Basque region, with some of the more famous ones including the Fêtes de Bayonne in Bayonne, France, and the Aste Nagusia fiesta in Bilbao. The entire community goes out and watches from the balconies above the road or in the stadium itself as tourists pay large sums for the best spots to join them.
This is also a full-time sport. As a first-timer, your aim is to stick to the side and stay out of trouble. As you move up the ranks, the dream is "running the horns", where each buttock is encouraged by a different prong and the bull can smell your farts. I can think of less exciting ways to go.