The Festival of San Fermin and the Running of the Bulls: an Alternative Viewpoint

The Festival of San Fermin and the Running of the Bulls: an Alternative Viewpoint

In high school I was forced by my tyrannical English Literature teacher (who shall remain nameless) to read Ernest Hemingway’s, “The Sun Also Rises”. I found the book incredibly dull. For two weeks, while my friends ran the streets, I was forced to “dull away” with the likes of Hemingway’s dysfunctional group, herded by the lead steer, Jake Barnes (whose metaphor I only recently understood, because such things were not discussed in 1960’s middle America, even in English Lit). As the years passed however, and having grown a bit more mature, I found I harbored a real fondness for the tome, but not because of the story line. Rather, those chapters of the book dealing with Pamplona and the Festival of San Fermin had conjured a remarkable picture for me to remember, a veritable siren’s song that completely engulfed me with themes of gay attire, strolling musicians, dashing matadors, parades of the Gigantes and, of course, the encierros, or “running of the bulls”.

Sitting at a local wine bar one evening with old friends, we enjoyed a lively conversation of lives past. The discussion regressed from grown children, college experiences, high school and the fact that we had lost contact with so many people from those years. Since we both shared the same English Lit class, my friend lamented the fact that he had had to read the Hemingway book, while most of his friends were out partying. Even so, he, too, was enthralled by the spectacular descriptions of the festival and all that accompanied it. As the evening progressed, one thing led to another. By the end of the night and not a few bottles of wine, I had agreed to the task of making travel arrangements: we were going to Spain! Five months later, we had landed in Madrid; a few short hours after touchdown, we were on our journey to Pamplona.

Pamplona is an ancient Basque city in the northern section of Spain. It lies in the shadow of the Pyrenee Mountains, just a few hours from the French border. Located in the rural country of Navarra, it is routinely described as one of the most breathtakingly beautiful places Spain has to offer. As we traveled by train through the magnificent Spanish countryside, we gazed in awe at the beautiful castles, churches, farms, vineyards and olive groves, interrupted, occasionally, by the numerous villages that dot the landscape. We found the ride to be a leisurely experience, the melodious clacking of the wheels extremely relaxing after a long, tedious plane ride. Little did we know, it would be the last leisurely thing we did until we left Pamplona.

As we disembarked, we were looking forward to the awe-full experience ahead. Almost
immediately it became an awful experience. The station platforms were crammed with
thousands (literally) of people attempting to flag a taxi to their ultimate destinations throughout
the city. While we were all seasoned travelers and this eventuality should have been anticipated,
it seems that in the euphoria of participating in the encierros, it “slipped our minds”. So, after what seemed like hours during which time we tried to understand the system (or lack of) of obtaining transportation, we finally decided it was an “every man for himself” situation. I proceeded into the street and around several blocks beyond the platforms. I was able to commandeer a taxi large enough for our luggage and us. We arrived at our hotel in the new section of the city, one with a magnificent view of the mountains in the distance. After a small dinner at a nearby tavern, we went to bed dreaming of the romantic times to come. As it later turned out, a better term would have been “nightmare”.

We awoke with great anticipation of the beautiful, medieval town we were sure to encounter, replete with quaint shops, cobblestone streets, and friendly, warm inhabitants to greet us. After dressing in the traditional rubio y blanca attire, we greeted the walk to old town with enthusiasm. Everywhere we looked, all was bathed in red and white. After a twenty-minute walk to old Pamplona, we began to wade into the hundreds of thousands of persons—unwashed, inebriated, boisterous, obnoxious and unruly--that quintuple the normal population of 100,000. The “old town” Pamplona that received us little resembled the accounts of the numerous books, films, and reports that described the fabled event.

The Festival of San Fermin opened at noon on the 6th day of July. A rocket known as the chupinazo was sent aloft from the Plaza Consistorial to open the festival. Our attempt at reaching the Plaza could better be described as an assault. Located across from the Ayuntamiento, or town hall, we were confronted with a mob scene. To navigate the area, we joined hands, with myself leading the way. I was immediately separated from Bob; my attempt at keeping our two other companions close was made all the more difficult by their sudden discovery of fear of closed in places or claustrophobia. Rather inopportune, I think, since we were surrounded by thousands of drunken youths, each holding aloft their red kerchiefs or “panuelos”, and shouting, “San Fermin! San Fermin! San Fermin! (the scarves are blessed by Saint Fermin to start the celebrations). To further hamper our crossing of the “quaint” cobblestone plaza, broken glass, several inches deep in parts, penetrated the sneakers of my two remaining companions. Not to be deterred and knowing that I needed to extricate us as well as locate my lost friend, I continued to work my way through the plaza. We finally made our way through to Estafetta Street. Here, I climbed a barrier to scan the hordes for my lost friend. It was not a comfortable scene. On my trek through the crowd I had been doused with kalimotxo (a popular festival concoction comprised of cheap wine and cola), making me wet and sticky and getting stickier with each step. Still, I was better off than the girls; they had been drenched with the same concoction, thoroughly groped and fondled, and needed medical attention for their wounded feet. Wet, sticky, groped and wounded: not the quaint experience we had expected.

After locating our lost companion, we retired to one of the numerous medical stations located throughout the area, and after having had the girl’s minor wounds repaired, we continued our experience of the opening day’s activities. We had read a great deal of the Pamplona housewives who, in response to reveler’s shouts of “Agua! Agua! would dump buckets of water on their perspiring, smelly bodies. Since we were still uncomfortably sticky from our earlier showers of kalimotxo, we needed some quick relief. No housewives were willing to assist us however, so our discomfort continued. Hoping to make the best of the situation and feeling that a distraction would do us good, we began our search for the numerous roving bands of troubadours we had read so much about, serenading the streets and throngs with a wide variety of music from the ages. None were to be found. About the only “music” we encountered were the continual chants of “Ole! Ole! Ole, Ole, Ole! Es la verdad! Es la verdad! “ (It is true! It is true!). So desperate were we for musical entertainment, however, we even made an attempt to search out this musical source. To our great disappointment, we found that this “song” was actually recorded and sold by street vendors for instant chanting on an electronic megaphone. We were destined to remain covered in our kalimotxan muck for the remainder of the afternoon. Still, we were an optimistic lot and we ended our first day by returning to the hotel, only a tad disheartened.

Again, as on the previous night, my sleep was, at best, sporadic. Anticipating the encierros that awaited me, I was restless and anxious throughout. I was told that local veterans run for only for alegria, or “a sense of joy”. As we made our way to the course, we felt no sense of joy, just a complete and total adrenaline surge, one that buoyed us along at a frantic pace, worried that we would miss the run (even though it was 5am, more than three hours before the opening event). We were actually here, about to participate in, to be a part of the romance of the immortal Hemingway.

The encierro itself lasts a mere three minutes, on the average. Roughly the length of three football fields, no one can hope to outrun the bulls, since they cover Santo Domingo Street alone at the pace of an advancing thoroughbred racehorse. The course begins at the Corralillo from which the bulls are released and ends at the Plaza de Toros or the bullring, where, that evening, the matadors will end the lives of the bulls that have run earlier that day. The path from start to finish consists of five streets or calles, of varying lengths. As the bulls leave the corral, they immediately enter Santo Domingo, the first leg of the run. From research we had done, we knew that Santo Domingo was the most dangerous part of the run. Comprised of cobblestones and with an uphill slant, the pavement presents an extremely dangerous point for beginners. In addition, the street is the most narrow of the run, with high, steep walls as enclosures, offering no escape from a charging, 1500 pound mass of muscle. Santo Domingo was to be avoided at all costs.

The second leg of the course is the Plaza Consistorial (sight of our previous day’s glass, and kalimotxo showers). While the grade is more level and there is more room to maneuver, our research had shown that it, too, was a dangerous place for beginners. We continued to move down the course. Next to traverse was Calle Mercaderes. As the bulls speed through the Plaza, the short Mercaderes makes an abrupt, 90-degree turn onto Calle Estafetta. It is at this point not unusual for many of the bulls--frightened, confused and disoriented--lose their footing and crash into the fences of the course, crushing many of the frightened, confused and disoriented runners.

Calle Estafetta, it seemed, was the place to be. This fourth leg of the course consisted of a long, straight passage that widened, somewhat, about three-quarters of the way through. Even though it led directly into Curva de Telefonica, the last leg before the stretch through the tunnel and runners tend to “bunch up”at that point, Estafetta offered the most maneuverability and the ideal avenue for beginners. It was here we would make our stand. We entered the course at Santo Domingo Street and proceeded to work our way up the course until we found our safe niche at Calle Estafetta. While slightly tempted to begin the run at the opening of the corral, we were not fools! We would play it safe.

Positioning ourselves near a wall, we quietly discussed how we were determined to run in the finest traditions of runners past, with“noble y bravo”, or with bravery and honor. We had researched, planned, and processed everything with care. What could go wrong? Even the date was special: July 7, 2007: 7-7-7. A rocket dispatched at the Corralillo each day heralds the start of the run. Ignited at 8am, the rocket marks the release of the bulls. A second rocket signals that the last bull has left the corral. As we approached the 8am start, hundreds of runners continued to arrive. Our adrenaline continued to flow as our anxiety mounted; we neared a euphoric state. We began to show a sense of bravado—no fear—strength and honor. In a few minutes, I would have my revenge on Hemingway and my English Lit teacher! Our fates were in the hands of those greater than we. We neared the summit of our climb. It was, unfortunately, at this point that our descent peaked and our descent into rapid oblivion seemed inevitable. Although we had researched our plans meticulously—or so we thought—there was one small detail that had eluded our preparations. If one intends to participate in the encierros, one must position oneself between the corralillo and the Calle Mercaderes before 8am. These areas are then cordoned off prior to the run. If you are not within those confines, you cannot run. The local policemen clear the remainder of the course—forcibly.

Unaware of this “trivial” fact, we were quite confused when the police officers began pushing and shoving us up the street. I attempted to speak with the constabulary, but they refused to explain or even to speak at all. We were being herded up Estafetta to an alleyway that runs just short of the Curva de Telefonica. There, a large gate, approximately 7 feet high would be swung closed and fastened, preventing anyone from returning to the run. There was mass confusion. An official senior citizen, I have a tendency to obey orders barked at me from an intimidating police officer. Unfortunately, my youthful compatriots did not. The young, inebriated runners, exhausted from the previous 24 hour partying, were in no mood to be pushed. Still, the crowd continued to move along at a snail’s pace. However, this was not fast enough for the police officers. They began to get quite physical, slamming into us with their shoulders and backs. A few even began kicking members of the crowd. After such tactics, the crowd pushed back. It was at this point that complete pandemonium broke loose. A shrill whistle pierced our ears. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, appeared 30-40 orange-bereted, baton-wielding “storm troopers”, more dangerous than any bull I was to face. With only the whistle as a warning, these jack-booted thugs began swinging their clubs with both hands, smashing legs, shoulders and faces. As an added reward, we were all doused with pepper spray.

Requests from regular police officers have a tendency to be ignored by an angry, resentful crowd; however, bludgeons and pepper spray are a little more hard-nosed. The crowd was quickly herded into the alleyway, locked out of the run. For a few moments, despair had engulfed me. Separated from my companion, I was locked in an alley, eyes and throat searing with the pain, blood dripping from just above my left eye. It appeared as though I was finished. The reality of the situation then sunk in. Had I traveled 5000 miles only to be robbed of my revenge on English Lit? All of a sudden, I was seized with a desperate fury. Looking around at the dejected faces of my youthful compatriots, I ran towards the gate and attacked the bottom panel of masonite that covered it. Kicking again and again and again, first with my left, then my right foot. I turned to see the incredulous look on the faces of the dejected youths. I screamed, “Vamos! Vamos”! With a thunderous yell of “Sigamos al viejo hombre” (follow the old man), they sprung into action, joining my assault upon the gate, each kicking and pounding the panels as I did. We were elated when the panel gave way, but I heard a collective groan when another panel was revealed on the opposite side of the gate. We persevered, however, continuing the attack. In a few seconds, the second panel gave way, just as the sound of the first rocket rang through the air. Poking my head through the 3 x 5 foot opening, I searched the immediate area for any orange berets. None were to be seen. Estafetta was now full of eager runners, awaiting the arrival of los toros. Pouring through the hole, my compatriots and I were soon caught up in the excitement of the run. The pain of the clubs was gone; the effects of the pepper spray dissipated. Before I knew what was happening, I was caught up in the assault of terrified runners, each pushing, shoving and gouging their way to escape the onslaught of beasts of the Dolores Aguirre*.

As I ran towards Curva de Telefonica, I found myself pushed towards a massive, muscled monster that could destroy me __with little thought or effort--with a slight turn of his head. As I sit here, now, and reflect, the only way I can describe what was surging through me at that time, is “primal fear”. In an attempt to distance myself from the brute, almost instinctively, I struck out with what I held in my hand: the rolled up copy of the newspaper, The Navarra (as traditional an accoutrement for a runner as the red scarf and sash). But in the blink of an eye, the run had passed me by. The bulls were gone. The empty feeling that immediately engulfed me cannot be described. To say I was completely drained would have been an understatement.

Heart pounding, dripping profusely with sweat, I made my way to the fence which, although had strained with the crushing weight of onlookers a few minutes earlier, was nearly deserted. I stumbled my way to the Plaza Del Castillo, since it was here that my friend and I had decided to meet after the run, in case of separation. There, at a table in front of the Windsor Bar, we sat. I found that after our separation, he had been pushed against a door along the street. Surprised when it gave way, he and a few others quickly barricaded themselves in the hallway until the police line had passed. When the rocket exploded, he exited the door and participated in the run, albeit from a literal “back door passage”, as had I.

As dawn of the following day approached, I lay awake, engulfed in a strange sense of emptiness. I could not explain it, other than my experience with the riot police the day before seemed to cast a shadow on the encierro. My shouders, feet, head—my entire body covered with welts—ached too much to allow any refreshing repose. Even though I was physically spent and completely exhausted, the empty feeling created a void where satisfaction should have rested. Throughout the day, we strolled the medieval streets of old town as well as the confines of the rest of Pamplona. We watched the Parade of the Gigantes, enjoyed the food the town had to offer, and we were able to interact with the locals as well as the visitors. All in all, it was a very enjoyable afternoon. Still, there was a nagging feeling that dogged me throughout the day. I could not forget the brutality of the previous day. I don’t mean the brutality of the bulls or the crowd; I mean the brutality of the crowd control. I was haunted by the clubbing, the pepper spray and by the total inhumanity of the orange-clad thugs. It had marred my run and left a deep scar on my psyche. At dinner that evening, over wine and cheese at the hotel, I decide that the only way to eliminate my feelings would be to experience the whole affair again, without the police. I announced that I would run again. My companion wife was distressed; my friends shocked. They did not understand. Still, they accepted my decision. Soon, I would reenter the run!

As I had previously, I left the hotel at 5am. I was accompanied by my good friends (my wife, unwilling to face the possibility of my injury, remained in bed). Now that I was a “veteran”, I entered course at the end of Santo Domingo, determined to experience the entire run, as well as assured that I would not be forcibly removed. Beginning at the Plaza Consistorial, I would have some maneuverability while enjoying the ultimate intensity of the run. While awaiting the rocket, I conversed with several individuals in my immediate area. The veneration they showed me was immense as they found out I was a veteran (I failed to mention that my experience consisted of one, nearly botched, attempt). One young man, who explained he was from Norway, seemed, to me at least, particularly concerned. He appeared extremely nervous, almost petrified by the aspect of facing the bulls. Perhaps it was the effects of the alcohol, since he was in the final throes of an all-night party. As the police lines were removed and the crowd was allowed to move, we stayed in place. When the rocket exploded, pandemonium broke loose. Just as it had occurred earlier, the herd was on us immediately; before we knew what had happened, it thundered by and was gone. For a split second, I was engulfed in the familiar feeling of dissatisfaction. I wondered how it could have gone differently. But today was to be different. Just as quickly as the herd had gone, it reappeared. The return of los toros caused familiar feelings of pandemonium and primal fear that engulfed the scene.

When the bulls stay herded, the run passes smoothly, again, lasting approximately three minutes. Today, however, two of the bulls had become separated from the herd. Terrified and loosing all sense of direction, they reversed the direction of their run, retracing their path towards the Corralillo. Extremely territorial, they attacked everything that appeared in front of them. As one beast ran for my immediate vicinity, I turned to run. Everywhere I saw stark fear on the faces of those around me. I lunged for the fence, climbing for my life. As I turned to look at the destruction below, I saw what appeared to be the young man from Norway, who earlier had been so paralyzed with fear. He had been gored beyond belief. Screaming as the bull lifted him, the horn had entered his leg at the ankle before traveling up his shin, where it—almost—protruded out at the knee. Two others were gored that day (of which I am aware), American brothers who were visiting the festival in celebration of a victory by one of the brothers, over cancer. I could only stare, incredulously, at the horn as it ripped through a young man’s leg, a young man I had conversed with several minutes before. As the medics attended to the blood and gore, I stumbled to the Curva de Telefonica, where my friends and I had decided to meet. I stumbled to the hotel, in silence. Exhausted, both mentally and physically, I was finished with the Festival of San Fermin, Ernest Hemingway, and my high school English teacher.

After a quick shower, we quietly packed and boarded our train to Madrid. Several days later as I moved across the Atlantic, I reflected on my experiences. What was I thinking? Fighting the crowds, the bulls, watching the injury, the blood and the mayhem. What had possessed me to travel halfway around the world to take part in such an activity? Then, I reflected on my quiet life in South Carolina, where I could roam the beaches, watch the dolphins, play leisurely golf, and experience the peaceful, beautiful sunsets from the serenity of my back doorstep. Yes, I deeply contemplated the serene life that awaited me on my porch in my home along the beach. After what seemed like hours of contemplation on my serene life, I turned to my wife, who was deep into her book, and explained, “If I make reservations now, we may be able to get a hotel closer to the run next year”!

.

Trip's date: July 5, (2007)
Submitted date: October 13, (2007)