Shot at and missed at San Fermin
It’s a rainy, depressing, and otherwise generally disgusting Sunday morning in Pamplona, Spain. I’m standing on the slick cobblestones of Calle del Mercaderes, just before it turns a corner and becomes Calle Estafeta — a corner lovingly referred to by those who know it, as “Dead Man’s Curve”. I’m exhausted, yet full of adrenaline. The weather (and, more likely, the sangria) has made me a little sick, and as a sea of corredors chased by large, angry, bulls with very, very sharp horns washes up the street and begins to catch me in the wave a thought crosses my mind:
“What in the hell am I doing?”
To get to the answer to that question, dear reader, we need to go back a bit.
A few days before I left for my Remote Year journey, I met a good friend of mine for lunch. We got to talking about the trip, and what I had planned to do while I was wherever it was I was going to be. I gave him a rough idea of what I had expected to do in my mind, a few different hypotheticals and things I’d like to do/see. The only side trip I knew that I was for sure going to be taking was in July to go to the Festival of San Fermin, or as I knew it then, the “Running of the Bulls”.
Running of the Bulls had been on my bucket list ever since I found out about it years ago. Everything I had heard about it was that it was an absolute Bacchanal on the same level as our Mardi Gras, or any of the other great festivals around the world. Additionally, being an Ernest Hemingway fan, I’ve made a few pilgrimages to the places he made famous in his novels. A summer spent in Key West several years ago helped to foster a fascination perhaps more in the author himself than his writing, and I’ve been tracing his footsteps ever since. It’s a curiosity that’s taken me from his bar stool at Sloppy Joe’s, to the cafes of Paris, and to his home just outside of Havana — preserved just as it was when he left Cuba before the Embargo, never to return. San Fermin was the subject of The Sun Also Rises, so it seemed like a natural place to continue my tour. We were going to be living in Valencia, Spain at the same time the run was to take place, the first weekend of July. I didn’t know much about what my future held at that particular moment, but I knew for damn sure I was going to Pamplona.
I brought up the subject of the Bulls’ to my friend and he emphatically agreed that I should go, having been there himself a few years prior.
“Are you going to run?” He asked
Now, I generally regard myself as more or less a person with a pretty normal degree of sanity, and like any person with a normal degree of sanity — my response was as follows:
“Hell no. Absolutely fucking not.”
“Why not? I did it. Once you get past Dead Man’s Curve you’re in the clear.”
I repeated that statement back to him, “Do…do you have any idea how insane that sounds?”
He looked at me with a sheepish grin, “…I mean, yeah.”
I shook my head. I didn’t understand it yet, but I would.
Around 2 and a half months after that lunch conversation, a couple of days before the opening ceremony, after weeks of planning and excitement building within our group (a small side trip has grown to 25-odd people), a strange thought — that annoying little voice — began to creep into my mind:
Maybe I should run
I don’t know exactly why I started to think this, but my best guess is that it’s a combination of a distinct lack of respect for my own mortality and the love of a good story, so here we are. I found myself Googling any article I could find related to the festival, specifically “Running of the Bulls injuries, ” and “Will I get gored?” I was staying up late at night in Valencia watching videos on YouTube of the run — trying to gain some small insight of what I might be in for should I decide to do something so very, very stupid. I wanted to know why people would do a thing so dangerous, so reckless, at all, and I began by learning the history of the festival, and of San Fermin himself. The first bishop of Pamplona, and the patron saint of the Navarre region of Spain — he was beheaded by the Romans for spreading the Christian gospel in 303 A.D., and the red bandanna that is part of the uniform that all revelers now wear is a tribute to him. The first record of the festival is in 1591, although it didn’t gain the worldwide attention it has now until after Hemingway published his book in 1926. The festivities, both then and now, included parades, celebrations, religious ceremonies, and of course, bullfighting. The actual running of the bulls began sometime in between those dates, as a way to get the bulls from the corrals on the outskirts of the old town to the bullring on the other side. To hear some of the locals tell it, a few pilgrims got a little deep in their cups one night and decided it would be a good idea to help escort the bulls along their route through town. The rest, as they say, is history.
It’s Friday, July 6th, just a little before noon, and I’m walking into the Plaza Consistorial, the square that contains El Ayuntamiento, Pamplona’s town hall. I’m wearing some inexpensively made, hastily bought, and ill-fitting clothing — a uniform of white pants, a red sash around my waist, white (for the time-being) shirt, and a red bandanna on my wrist. The bandannas are traditionally worn like this until after the opening ceremony, upon whence they are worn around the neck. Some in our group have found red pirate-themed hats sponsored by Captain Morgan, everyone looks, in a word, ridiculous. There is a dull roar emanating from the square that grows louder with each approaching step. We round the corner and are greeted with the sight of countless thousands of people dressed exactly like we are, it’s a strange and wonderful sight. The group packs into the square, the people are chanting, yelling, riding around on each others’ shoulders, drinking out of shoes — the true absurdity of the situation begins to set in. Sangria is flying everywhere and the bright white of the crowd has begun to turn into a dull pink, there’s seemingly as much wine on people as there is in people — or almost, at least. The entire crowd is soaked and no one seems to notice, I spray a stream of wine out of the leather skin I had purchased earlier and am sprayed back, falling casualty to the inevitability of ruined clothes. As noon approaches, the sangria starts to run low and the crowd grows even more dense. It undulates back and forth like an angry sea in a storm, nearly picking me up off my feet. For someone with a strong dislike of crowds, this is not my favorite place, but I’m not going anywhere (not that I really had the choice). From the balcony of the Ayuntamiento, the mayor and his guests emerge, the crowd shifts to see him speak. At this point the sun has started to come out, evaporating the sangria off the clothing and skin of the revelers. The vapors are so strong that the atmosphere is, quite literally — intoxicating.
As the crowd takes their bandannas and holds them high above their heads, the mayor begins his speech. It is a short one:
“Pamploneses, Pamplonesas, Viva San Fermín!”
“VIVA!” the crowd responds at the top of their lungs
In the regional dialect of Navarre — “Gora San Fermín!”
“GORA!”
The sea of people begins jumping up and down, waiting for what’s next. A rocket, the Chupinazo, is launched from the balcony and the festival has begun. The crowd erupts. The sangria flies.
Ladies and Gentlemen, long live Saint Fermin.
After the rockets had been fired and the crowd had started to thin out enough to where we could squeeze ourselves out, we regrouped in Plaza Del Castillo. Covered head to toe in sangria and still feeding off of all the energy of the scene we had just witnessed, we wandered to join the party at Pamplona’s legendary Café Iruña, made famous by its depiction in The Sun Also Rises. The scene inside was packed and raucous, with people dancing and singing along to the music that was being played. I hung out until the adrenaline rush from the opening ceremony started to wear off and hunger set in. With a tip of the cap to the statue of Papa Hem surveying the scene in the corner a couple others and I ducked out in search of a bocadillo — the ubiquitous baguettes filled with delicious, aged Iberian ham, to soak up some of the sangria that was currently sloshing around in our stomachs. Finding success in that endeavor, I set off to get a much-needed shower and a little rest before the evening festivities.
I awoke several hours later, rested and ready to go, got my stuff together, and trudged back up closer to the square where some of the others were staying. Stopping briefly at the same store I had bought a white T-Shirt at the day before to buy another, as the first one was stained beyond repair. The owner of the shop gave me a knowing glance as I got to the counter,
“Chupinazo, eh?” He asked with a grin.
I met up with the others and grabbed some dinner. We hung around for a bit, recapping the events earlier in the day and trying to account for any missing persons. A little later, we started to head over to get a spot for the firework show that was to take place that night. I didn’t have any prior knowledge of the fact that the Spanish take their firework displays very seriously, but believe me, they absolutely do. We found a spot among the thousands of spectators in a field a safe enough distance away from the Ciudadela, a 16th-century fortress in the shape of a star, a common design for the time period, and waited for the show to begin. Just after 11 pm, the sky above the fort was lit up with one of the best pyrotechnic shows I’ve ever witnessed. It went on for about an hour, getting increasingly more elaborate until the “grand finale”. When the smoke cleared, we headed back with the mass of people to hit the town.
A quick aside before we continue — Being from Louisiana, I consider myself to be pretty familiar with some world-class parties. Mardi Gras is renowned far and wide for being one of the largest celebrations on the planet. LSU home football games and the tailgates beforehand are on the bucket lists of sports fans all over the country. My home state, to put it mildly, knows how to have a good time. As a place that values food, family, and fellowship as much or more than anything else, it’s a proud part of our culture and heritage. That being said, I’ve never, ever seen anything like San Fermin in my life. Imagine if you took nearly the number of people who descend upon New Orleans each year for Mardi Gras and then condensed all of those people into a geographical area approximately 1/39th the size. That should give you a good idea of what San Fermin is like.
The throng of people headed towards Pamplona’s old town, drawn to the lights and music like moths to a flame. As we came up through the Plaza, we regrouped for a few minutes and then headed off to find a watering hole. We made our way through the masses and found a spot to duck into. Drinks were ordered, and then another round, and another. To the best of my recollection, it was about this time that the little voice began to creep back into the back of my mind.
Hey you, you should run in the morning.
Morning came quickly, as the night turned into a red-and-white blur and the members of the group began to fall off as we moved from bar to bar. The next thing I knew, it was 7:45 in the morning and I found myself alone on Estafeta St., talking with a nice local kid who was more than happy to show me his scars from getting gored on the run the previous year like it was no big deal. I waved to my intelligent friends who had gone up to watch from the safety of a balcony (In fact, if you’ll look at the picture at the beginning of this story, I had strategically placed myself in the doorway pictured to the top left), they waved back and I noticed several of those all-too-familiar “You’re a dumbass” looks I’ve gotten for doing other fun and reckless things my entire life. Whatever, I had come this far and I was running with those damn Bulls. After some light stretching and calisthenics, I was ready to go. Just a few minutes before the run was supposed to start, the police came along and swept everyone from where I was standing up to another checkpoint off the course. I was, unbeknownst to me, standing in the wrong place. They pushed us onto a side street through a wooden gate like a herd of cattle and shut the gate behind us. Looking back, this was probably divine intervention, but I didn’t see it that way at the time. Slightly delirious and fully furious, I scrambled, unsuccessfully to try and find a spot to see the run, but all of the viewing spots were taken. The sound of the spectators cheering and the hooves of the cattle hitting the cobblestones was all I got to experience that morning. Pissed off and determined to try again the next day, I walked back to the AirBnb, showered, and went to sleep.
I awoke sometime in the early afternoon, drank an Emergen-C, shook off the cobwebs and headed back out to meet up with the group. It should be stated that our place was about a mile away from all the action, so while it was mercifully quiet, the trade-off was that it was a bit of a schlep to get back and forth. I found a few folks at one of the cafes in Plaza del Castillo and got a few Pintxos to eat and a glass of the omnipresent sangria before heading off to find tickets for the inaugural bullfight of the festival. We came across a younger guy selling some outside of the bullring and talked him down to what we thought was a reasonable price for the tickets and went in.
We got seated and took a look around at the spectacle that was assembling before us. Pamplona’s bullring is the third-largest in the world behind the ones in Mexico City and Madrid, and today it was chock full of revelers decked out in clean white and red and eager to see a show. It was visually stunning in a way I hadn’t experienced a crowd before. The people were singing and chanting, and there was a noticeable electricity in the air. I’m not sure what it was like to have been in the seats to see the gladiators at the Colosseum, but it had to have been something a little like this. The crowd reached a crescendo as the festivities began and the Toreadors made their way into the ring.
I’d like to preface this next paragraph by saying that the detail of what happened next is graphic, and you may want to skip ahead. Bullfights are considered controversial at best, but they are also an important part of Spanish culture, and I wanted to experience it first hand before I passed judgment on it. I had come on the trip to experience new cultures, to get out of my comfort zone, and this seemed like an ample opportunity for both. We were told going in that yes, the bulls die, but they live the closest thing to a wild, free life that any of their species will ever get. The Spanish honor and revere the Toro Bravos and the fights are meant to be a celebration of their lives. That being said, it is hard to watch.
I didn’t know this at the time, but there are three phases to a Spanish bullfight, the first of which is the Picador, or the horse-mounted bullfighter. We watched as he trotted out on his heavily-protected horse and waited with him as he came to a stop to anticipate the first bull to be released into the ring. The bull exploded out of the chute like a rocket, took a lap around the edge of the ring, tossed its head a couple of times, and headed toward the man on the horse. Now, the job of the Picador is to spear the bull a couple of times at the base of its neck to pierce the muscle there so to limit its head movement and make it more predictable for the rest of the fighters. The horse pinned the bull up to the side of the ring and the bull responded by getting its horns up underneath the horse and thrusting its head upward — lifting the horse off its hooves briefly before the spear blow from the Picador brought the head back down. I had never seen the power of these animals on display in person before and this was pretty astounding. It became clear that these weren’t your average milk cows we were dealing with here. Before the thick armor padding, called a Peto, was added to the horses, the bulls would frequently kill them during this maneuver. Another quick blow from the spear and the Picador reigned his horse back, job done, and rode off into the tunnel. The bull trotted around, seemingly unfazed, as a thin trickle of bright red began to run down its shoulder. The next phase of the fight were the Banderilleros, two men on foot whose job it is to plant the banderillas, the iconic, colorful, barbed sticks seen protruding from the back of the bull in seemingly all images of bullfights. As they came out the bull fixed his attention on them and charged toward one. In a single, fluid motion the banderillero picked himself up onto his tiptoes, raised the sticks high in the air, and in less than a second, brought them down into the bull’s back and spun off to safety to cheers and applause from the raucous crowd. His partner did the same and they escaped to safety behind the wall of the ring. The bull stood there, a wide patch of blood now soaking his hide, every second lowering his blood pressure, calming him, and waited.
Finally, it was the turn of the Matador. As he strode confidently into the ring to meet the bull, the light from the sun glittered off of the many sequins on his colorful uniform. He got the attention of the bull and stood at the ready with his sword drawn and his red muleta cloth at his side, waiting for the charge. The bull lunged towards him and in a flurry of light and color the matador spun to avoid him, the crowd cheered. This mesmerizing spectacle went on for a few minutes, although it seemed much longer. The drama was palpable, the lives of two beings hanging in the delicate balance of the graceful movements of the matador each time the bull made a move at him. As the end of the fight approached, the matador readied his sword to plunge between the bull’s shoulders and into its heart. The bull lined up to take his shot and started toward the matador. Just as he went to deliver the killing blow, the bull threw his head to the right and caught the matador in the thigh with his long, sharp horn. The man spun in the air violently and hit the dirt floor of the arena in a cloud of dust, the crowd gasped. I found myself caught up in the action — almost rooting for the bull in that instant, and let out a small fist pump. Personnel rushed out to the matador’s aid and others went to distract the bull, which was still alive. The fighter struggled to his feet, macho-ingly brushing off any assistance and turned back around to face his foe, a deep crimson stain had formed on his sparkling white pants. He stood face to face with the bull, not moving, for what seemed like an eternity. After a few moments the bull, bleeding and exhausted, collapsed. He breathed a few last breaths as the matador stood over him and then, nothing. It was, mercifully, over. The matador was carried off and a team of massive Percheron horses came in to drag the vanquished bull out of the ring. To the delight of the crowd, they pulled him off to be butchered, leaving behind a pool of blood in the dirt. I wasn’t exactly sure how to process what I had just witnessed.
We stayed for 2 more of the 6 scheduled fights on the day, each of them ending uneventfully compared to the one we had just seen. While I’m glad I went, I’m not in any hurry to see another bullfight anytime soon. And, while brutal, it was also passionate, graceful, and somewhat beautiful in a way that I find difficult to describe. Somehow, I understood why the majority of Spaniards love it so much.
We hung out for a bit after that, but I went back relatively early to get some sleep. I was tired and knew what I had waiting for me in the morning. My alarm went off at 6:45 and I put my feet on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed and thought about what I was about to do. After fighting the urge to go back to sleep I got moving to Plaza del Castillo to meet up with the three other brave (or should I say foolish?) souls who had agreed to join me for the festivities. The ground was wet from overnight rain and I remember being concerned about slipping on the street during the run. We got a coffee and sat down for a minute under the awning of a cafe and gathered our thoughts. What we were about to do was dangerous, since record-keeping began in 1924, 15 people have died and countless more had been injured during their run. The most recent death coming in 2007 when a man was gored through the neck attempting to get back to his feet after a fall. One of the most famous pieces of advice given to runners is “If you go down, stay down.”, and these words were ringing in my ears as we walked to Calle Estafeta to get into position.
We stood on the street in the drizzling rain for what felt like hours, trying to psych each other up and convince ourselves that we weren’t going to die. I tried to look for a place to dive into in case a rogue bull caught me in his crosshairs and didn’t come up with much. If something went wrong, I was on my own. Medical staff and police walked down the street, looking for people noticeably too drunk to be on the route or anything else out of order, and reminding people that cameras were not allowed and to put away their phones or they would be escorted out. Other corredors walked up and down the street nervously, looking for a spot to start that suited them. There was a heavy anticipation in the air — people knew what was coming, but had no idea what to expect.
Finally, after the anticipation had gotten to a point to where it was almost unbearable, the rocket that signified the corral had been opened and the bulls were officially on the street was set off. This was it, no turning back now. The voice in my head was no doubt feeling pleased with itself. Everyone turned to look back down the street, waiting to see the pack come around the corner, about 200 meters from where we were standing. After a few tense, lingering moments, a wave of white and red washed around the corner and turned up the street, followed closely by the 6 bulls and the 6 steers they had to accompany them. As the bulls got closer people began to fly past, and then I heard the sound of the hooves hitting the cobblestones — dull at first, but soon bright and crisp as gunshots as they drew nearer. Before I knew it, they were on us. I pressed myself against the wall and tried to make myself as small as possible, a group of runners passed and I caught my first view of the lead bull. I froze, the sight of this thing, and those behind him, took my breath away. I had absolutely no idea how unbelievably massive these majestic animals were up close. Everything slowed down as the herd approached — the streets seemed to narrow and it was like an earthquake happening during a thunderstorm was coming up a hallway directly at me. 1500lbs of jet black muscle, bone, and testosterone cruised by me like an angry tomahawk missile at 20mph. Floored, but trying to remain aware of my surroundings, I turned around and saw the second bull coming up close behind. About 30 feet from our group, he swerved towards us. We were pinned against a flat wall with nowhere to go and I thought to myself “Ok, this is it,” the bull got to within about 15 feet and veered back on course and I remembered to breathe about the time its razor-sharp horns crossed in front of me. The rest of the herd passed and we had time to regroup before the second group of steers was released. I gave myself a pat down to make sure I wasn’t leaking anywhere, luckily I was all good.
The second rocket went off and a group of steers was set loose. The copious amounts of adrenaline coursing through my veins had given me a bit of courage, and when I saw the steers round the corner I got ready to go. They got closer and I did a couple of shuffle steps and off I went. The huge steer passed me on my right, completely unconcerned with me, and we ran in step for about a dozen paces until he passed me. I checked my surroundings and when I turned back around I saw two of my friends running right next to me, I hadn’t even realized they were there before. We rounded the aforementioned “Dead Man’s Curve,” or La Curva, and I saw all of the spectators sitting on top of the barricade watching us run through, it felt like I was floating as they cheered us on. Eventually, I pulled up to catch my breath and watched the steers disappear around a bend in the road on their way to the ring.
The group found each other and exchanged hugs, hi-fives, and “DID YOU SEE THE SIZE OF THOSE THINGS?!” We clamored back and forth to each other excitedly as we walked back to Plaza del Castillo. I felt amazing. The endorphins were all still screaming around my system, unlike anything I’d ever known before. I was ready to run again right then and there. We grabbed a quick breakfast and then went back to our places to gather our things for what would turn out to be a very interesting bus ride home. That’s a story for another time, but suffice it to say the driver had been partying just as hard as we had that weekend. Pedro, if you’re out there, Que Pasa.
I’ve never experienced anything quite like San Fermin in my life. I couldn’t fathom how exhilarating watching 3/4 ton livestock come flying up a narrow, ancient European street within a few feet of me would be. I suppose you have to come within a perceived “close shave” with death to feel that truly alive. I felt as Hemingway had described it, “Shot at and missed.”
The Run that day, as it was every other day of the festival this year, as it has been for hundreds of years, was eight-hundred and twenty-five meters long. It took the lead bull a little over two minutes to complete. In those moments, though, it was infinite.
Viva San Fermin.
