DISCLAIMER: As I recount my experiences in Pamplona, I am noticing that most people don’t realize that the bulls die each afternoon. While I am not going to post any gore or go into great detail on how this is conducted, you may be upset by this fact, and thus might be better off skipping this entry. Especially if you are into cruelty-free shoes and the like.
So starting with the dawn, and the morning run.
Actually no- let me back up a bit. Let’s set the stage by me telling you that everyone spends the previous night wandering from place to place, sampling various forms of beverage and bocadillo before hitting your bed (or park bench) for an hour or two. You have to get up early in order to secure your spot along the encierro. Although the festivities run all night (to include me being lulled to sleep by a brass band playing ABBA’s “Fernando” and Europe’s “The Final Countdown”), I manage to get a couple of hours of shut eye before hopping out of bed at about 0530 to start my day.
You don your red and white uniform and are out the door at 0630 to ensure you make it to your appointed station before liberty expires and you are turned away by the police. No really, it’s kinda like heading out to work. Your head hurts, you don’t wanna move from your bed, but you know you have to go in order to ensure you are in place well before the bulls are set free.
It is still kinda dark when you stumble outside. The streets are incredibly disgusting from the night’s revelry (no, that’s not overnight rainfall accumulated on the street above). It’s amazing to note that like clockwork every morning, the city gets on with assembling the wooden fence that lines a large portion of the path to the bull ring.
And accordingly the folks who are fortunate to own businesses along the run also do their part to safeguard their livelihoods against the 30 seconds of mad dash panic that occurs at their front door.
A view from the balcony vantage point I had at Dead Man’s Corner. All runners have to be behind a certain line if they are to participate in the run. Not everybody knows this, and they are quickly swept off in a drunken, confused daze by the indomitable police.
Down near the start of the run, there is a niche cut out in the wall. Every morning a small statue of Saint Fermin is placed there, and the most devoted (or ballsy) runners start their run at this location to ask for protection by singing a chant three times. Does it work? I dunno, but heck, I’d be praying with them too if I started my run that close to those imposing horns.
Ah. I think I know why they kick all of those stragglers off the route before the run. Right before Go Time is really the only opportunity the city has to scrub these disgusting streets down before the celebrations begin anew, post-run.
Those who did get themselves to the appropriate starting position are allowed a ten minute head start to strategically station themselves along the route. This is a smart idea, or else there would be lots of dead people to scrape off the streets each year. And then they’d outlaw this kind of activity. And we can’t have that.
You can hear the first rocket go off, announcing that the bulls have been released. Then everyone starts watching behind them, waiting for their own personal “Oh Shit” moment.
Our little group of travelers had a young rabbit in the pack, eager to try his luck on the day of the last bull run. Here he is, a mohawk among the rest of the crowd. It all happens very quickly.
As far as I know, Jake is still alive since he continues to post on Facebook. The run ends at the bullring, with the sprinters and bulls all penned together for a 30 minute spectacle of Amateur Bullfighting, if you can call it that. I call it the “Jackass: The Original Version”.
Yes, people really are this stupid.
Enough of the bullfighting nonsense. The morning activities wind down and people next file into the morning establishments for victuals ranging from croissants to cocktails.
You basically spend the remainder of the day wandering about, napping, drinking, and wandering some more in preparation for the evening activities (which are oddly enough similar to the daytime activities). The primary difference at night is the actual bullfight that takes place.
This poster is posted around the ring in various languages. It basically says: you had your chance to be an idiot this morning. If you are at this bullfight, follow the rules and respect the bullfighting tradition. Yes, this is a verbatim translation. You’re welcome.
I got to see two bullfights (what did you think they do with the bulls that run every day?). Only having ever read about such spectacles (ahem, Hemingway), I wasn’t sure how I’d take the entire experience live and in person. Luckily for me my companions were far more seasoned than I was, and they brought along some red wine refreshment.
Like I said, I’m not going to post anything that might make your stomach weak. Instead, I shall tell you a story about eating at bullfights.
Six bullfights occur and six bulls die. Easy enough. It is tradition here that after the third bull is killed, everyone breaks out this mystery of culinary cardboard known as a bocadillo. Essentially, it’s an old baguette with Iberian ham inside. Everyone, I mean everyone, has one of these stashed away, and it is bad form to eat it before the third bull is killed.
Everyone is chomping on their sandwiches, apparently oblivious to the fact that this bread tears up the insides of your mouth.
So I didn’t have a bocadillo. But I did have said wine stored in one of those bota bags that are so handy. I have said before that the people in Pamplona are incredibly nice. While I was climbing the stairs to our seats, for example, a lady tapped me on the shoulder and advised me to wear my purse in front of me.
Here in my seat, I got another tap on the shoulder as a lady essentially made me take some of her sandwich (I told her I didn’t speak Spanish, but I still got that she wanted to share her food with me).
“Wow,” I thought “these people put the Senegalese to shame in terms of hospitality!”.
I eat my meal and carry on watching the fight. I promise you I am nowhere near the stage of being drunk- at least not like the fools on the other end of the arena who are out in the sun and cooling off by taking sangria showers:
If you look closely, you will see that people are no longer wearing white, but instead have bright pink shirts on. Hmmm….wonder why….
Back to my little story: I eat the sandwich and shortly thereafter I get another tap on the shoulder. It’s the guy sitting next to the sandwich lady, and he is passing down the remainder of a dessert tray. Again, yo no habla espanol, but that doesn’t matter. I take the tray and am eating to be polite, as back and forth chatter surrounding this Thanksgiving occurs around me.
I don’t know what they are saying, but finally the girl sitting next to me (from a completely different group) says in broken English “They say you drink but no eat”. Ahh, the Spanish are concerned about my welfare! Little did I know that my spectating was being spectated as well. I felt like I had my whole family sitting behind me, and that I was breaking etiquette rules by drinking on an empty stomach. Everyone was exceedingly kind, and I was even advised by another gesticulating lady who wanted me to lick the tray clean.
I drew the line at cleaning my plate in this fashion, and instead the girl next to me wordlessly relieved me of my the cardboard tray, and put it with her own garbage. These people are great!
Okay, back to the fight for another little video:
They sing, they sway, the bands play. I found that the atmosphere is far superior than any sporting event I have ever experienced. Is it wrong to compare the two?
Hmm…not much else I can tell you without moving towards a PG rating. I am also now running late and need to get to the airport to pick my sister and brother-in-law up (I’m writing this from Paris). I’ll have you know that I still haven’t recovered from the San Fermin Festival, but I am moving towards health again.
I do have an evil cold as a result of all my cultural overload, but that’s far better than undergoing triage had I decided to try my hand at dancing with the toros.
Short wrap-up of Spain still to follow. For now I need to make my way to the metro.
Olé!