Running with the Bulls?

July 6, 2013

First View of the Streets

Before we left on our adventure to see the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain, we signed up with a tour group called Spyns, who promised to prepare us for the experience, giving us a chance to walk through the streets of Pamplona where the bulls would run and guaranteeing us a place on a balcony to watch the ordeal.

Our Pamplona crew (Charlotte, a Scottish-French girl), met us at the train station and took us to our hotel, where we met Ryan, the originator of the tour.  We arrived at our hotel shortly after the opening ceremony, where we received our white T-shirts, red sashes, and red bandanas. Ryan took us on a walking tour through the streets of Pamplona.  He said, "No one can get lost here," but I'm pretty sure I could.  

The streets were packed with people who had attended the opening ceremony--300,000 people all waving their red bandanas, spraying champagne and slinging sangria over everyone else.  Everyone was wearing white and red, but you couldn't tell because almost everyone was splattered with sangria.  In no time at all, we ran into Dan, a guy we had met at the train station the day before.  Dan had told us about his experience with the Spyns group the year before, but this year he was going it on his own.  He was pretty drunk, even though it wasn't even noon, but so was almost everyone else who participated in the opening ceremonies. 

The cobblestone streets were covered with trash and broken glass, so we had to watch where we stepped.  Lots of people were passed out in the grass, on benches, on the sidewalks.  One guy was actually just sitting in the middle of the street, where people politely sidestepped around him but left him there.  I'm sure I've been that drunk before, but I think I would have been able to crawl over to the side of the street.

 Ryan walked really really fast.  I guess  you're supposed to be in shape if you're even considering running with the bulls.  He explained where the race began, where the two dangerous curves were; showed us the pen where the bulls are kept.  I wanted to hold onto Jerry's belt loop like a little kid so I wouldn't get lost in the mob, but I kept up OK.  Ryan took us to a store where we could buy white pants and white shirts.  Jerry tried on some white pants, and we both bought a souvenir T-shirt.

                  

              

We weaved our way through Constitution Square to the gate of the arena, where the bulls run in.  The runners, if they're brave or crazy enough, can follow them in.  They put cows in there with the bulls, but if you go into the arena and try to crawl out of the pen, the natives push you back in.  So, we were told, "Don't go into the arena unless you're ready to dance with the bulls for an hour or so."  

After that, we all went to Hemingway's bar, where Ryan bought us several pitchers of Sangria.  My memory of sangria was from college days, and I found out I liked it better than I remembered, maybe because I like wine more now, maybe because I was thirsty.  We got to know some of the people in our group a little better.  Jim, the other guy from the train station, showed up to say hello to Jerry and me.  He told us Dan had had to go back to the hotel for a nap, but he was going to stay up all night and run with the bulls in the morning.  Dan might have had a better idea.  Jim's clothes were solid purple from the wine.  He and Jerry had a good, long conversation.

By the way, no one that I know of ever went to the bathroom from 4:00 to 7:15.  I did see some drunks peeing in the street. I must insert this little story from a guy named Randy:  "When I was a little kid, my parents took me to the Mardi Gras.  I really needed to pee, so I tugged on the arm of a policeman to ask him where a bathroom was.  'Hell, kid, just piss on the street like everyone else.'"  His conception of policemen was forever shattered.

We came back to the hotel at 7:15.  This hotel his fancy with hardwood floors and green marble bathroom.  (Lots of marble in Spain.)  The hotel was like the one in Lima, where you have to put your room key in a slot before the electricity will come on.  Good idea, I think.  Do any hotels do this in the U.S.?

Jerry and I walked a few blocks away from the hotel, where we found an inviting cafe with outdoor seating.  It had cooled off, like Denver in the summer.  Most of the people seemed to be from the neighborhood, celebrating in their white clothes and red bandanas while their children played soccer in the small square.  

Jerry and I couldn't read a word on the menu, and our waiter couldn't speak a word of English, except "water," so we decided to just point to something on the menu.  The waiter was relieved.  We were pretty sure we were getting seafood, and I thought maybe salad since I do know the Spanish word for salad, but when the tray came, we had potato salad with french fried onions on top, mussels, whole shrimp, octopus, calamari, and squid, oh, and four fried peppers.  Every single bite was delicious.  This came with a bottle of cold white wine.  We realized we hadn't eaten anything all day except for a pastry early in the morning and some peanuts and raisins on the train.  

Back to the hotel, I realized I was not really going to have time to blog.  I was just going to type up my journal, and when I got back, post the blog.  For now, people would have to have to be happy with Facebook posts.

July 7, 2013

Watching from the Balcony

We met downstairs at the hotel at 6 a.m., left with an entire busload of people to be taken to our respective balconies.  Ryan had given us red rubber bracelets with a number to designate which balcony was ours.  We hiked through the streets still covered with trash, broken bottles, and plastic bottles and cups, smelling like hominy and sangria and beer.  

Jerry and I were led to #61, a law office, with seven other people and a guide.  We just walked right in as if we owned the place.  There were three balconies for all of us.  We stood on our balcony with a couple we had met the day before at Hemingway's.

Lots of runners milled around in the street below us, thinking they could find a good spot to run with the bulls.  They were standing in the doorways of the buildings, thinking they'd be able to jump in as the bulls ran by.  They didn't realize that the police would be coming shortly to shoo them all off the street.  Runners have to start at a designated point in front of the bull pen.  You're not allowed to sneak ahead like a Sooner.  These Sooners were being shepherded by the cops, exactly like the bulls and the pastoris (cowboys). Sure enough, at the end of the street, we saw a human barricade of guards wearing red to make sure they didn't weasel back in.

Looking toward the east, we could see the barricade behind which the runners were held.  They were packed together in a crush, waiting for the rockets to go off.  The first rocket means the bulls are in the pen; the second rocket means they're out, and you can start running.

There are six bulls and six steers running the course.  Until today, the day of their death, these bulls have never been anywhere except the pasture they grew up in. The steers, having run the course many times, supposedly calm the antsy bulls giving them other bulls to follow.  The steers are generally bigger, brown and white, while the bulls are dark brown or black, shorter and sturdier, not fat but hunks of muscle.

When the first rocket fired, everyone squealed.  When the second rocket fired, in practically no time the bulls were right below us, surrounded by runners.  One steer started kicking at the runners, and one of them fell to the ground.  The rule is to stay on the ground until you're tapped on the back that it's safe to get back up; otherwise, as you climb up, you can easily be gored.  (Ryan told us a story of a man he knew who fell and got back up, only to be gored in the heart by a bull, dying instantly.) This fallen runner, however, lying in fetal position in the street, caused a road block, and several runners toppled on top of him.  No sooner had they all recovered until another group of steers and bulls ran by.  It was all over as fast as it began.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q8ffvqcgc2E&feature=youtu.be

Afterwards, we watched the office TV to see the bulls after they arrived inside the arena.  Several of the runners were there, and the bulls charged at some of them.  We saw one girl crawl between the rails of the fence to escape one of them charging toward her, head lowered.

Tonight there will be six bullfights.  Before the fight begins, the cowboys with lances sever the neck muscles that will keep the bull from being able to swing his head around.  The bull fighters start with a large cape, tantalizing the bulls, to determine if they are right-horned or left-horned so they will know how to approach the fight.  The matador trades capes--they get smaller and smaller--until the end, when he finally gores the bull.  

At least, this is how Ryan explained it to us.  Rather than being enthused about the process, he acted as if he would be surprised that we would actually want to watch such a thing.  His description made me decide I probably did not want to see a bloody bullfight.

After watching the process from the balcony and talking to Dan about his experience, Jerry decided he would definitely be Running with the Bulls.  All he had to do was to find a safe place on the run, hover in a doorway, and trot along beside the bulls for a few yards as they ran through the street.  (The next day, he would find out it wasn't all that easy.)

Jerry and I rode the bus back to the hotel and then later caught a local bus #2 to go back down to the square. It's very different in Pamplona today than yesterday.  Yesterday, everyone had been splattered with sangria and drunk or hung over.  Trash had littered the streets.  I had seen one guy literally sitting in the middle of the street, while people just side-stepped around him.  

Some people who had earlier been lying in the shade were now passed out in the sun.  I wanted to go tap them and tell them to move, but I left them alone.










 Jerry and I had fun at the Running of the Bulls statue in Pamplona, crowded with tourists with cameras and sangria- splattered runners.  All around it, people were posing in various ways.  Jerry had to take his turn as well.



Today seemed so much calmer and cleaner.  The locals were coming out to celebrate San Ferfin Irunea. The women were dressed in white eyelet and white cotton dresses, wearing red shoes and red belts.  They had dressed their little girls in precious white dresses trimmed in red, red bows in their hair, red shoes.  The little boys wore white shirts and pants with red sashes and, of course, red kerchiefs.  

We had dinner at the same restaurant, this time with a nicer waiter. Inside the restaurant, before we sat down, we watched the first bull fight on live TV.  The bull had already been stabbed in the back of the neck.  He was dripping with blood.  He wasn't moving very fast, so the matador, dressed in his finest pink regalia, tried to make the bull look fiercer than he really was.  Watching him stab the bull was gross and gruesome.  (Just so you'll know, to me, it looked like the matador had a sock stuck in his pants.)

We went to bed fairly early, hearing the fireworks display at the end of the bull fight.  We found it on TV.  It was weird, watching it on TV but hearing the fireworks outside the window before we heard them on TV, like an echo.

July 9

Jerry Runs with the Bulls

Last night, Jerry was so full of adrenaline that he could barely go to sleep, worrying about all the things that could happen.  But when he woke up this morning, the fears of the night before were back in perspective, and he was fired up to go.

We had planned to meet up at Hemingway's after the bull run, but luckily, a friend named Randy we had met on our Spyns shuttle from the train station had an extra balcony spot to give us because his girlfriend had decided to run rather than watch from the balcony.  I was able to see Jerry in the street below right before the bulls were set loose, and he was able to see me.  He stayed in that area, waiting for the bulls, and I was able to video his entire experience.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kTCvuveJmGs

Staggering with the Steers

Last night I was scared shitless. When we first booked the tour and I was asked if I was running with the bulls, I said, "No way."  And then after research knowing we had the tour, I said, "Well, if it's safe, I will."  By the end of day,  I was pretty sure I would run.  When we had balcony time, I thought, Piece of cake.  I'm doing this.  As the day wore on and I thought about it, I realized that I had no control over where I would be when the bulls came, and that's when I was freaking out.

This morning I woke up before the wake-up call, and I was excited.  No real fear today.  The worst part of the day was waiting.  We had to wait an hour and a half in the holding area on the course.  A lot of nervous energy, a lot of interesting characters including a cool Italian who looked like one of the Three Musketeers.  Everyone was paying attention to the time.  As our time neared, I could see and feel the intensity level rise.

No one looked scared, but I could see everyone's focus start to narrow.  There was more bouncing and stretching and people warming up.  I was standing with Norbit, a Hungarian, who I lost once we started moving forward.  I didn't see him again. I hope he was okay.

Once the crowd started moving, all I could do was walk, and pretty soon I started worrying that I was going to be in a bad place if we didn't start making progress.  I had planned to run a little bit, but all I could do was walk because of the crowd.  I made it past the first turn and was halfway to Deadman's Turn when I saw Janis on the balcony.  So that's where I had to stay.  I did have a hidey hole door to hide in, so it was OK.  

I was watching intently and talking to two gentlemen at least my age who were experienced runners.  They were there to "watch."  One of them said he had run 41 times (8 opportunities a year).  He had a cool little goatee with twists on it, a very interesting character.  

When the rockets went off, I knew it would be at most a minute before the bulls came. I was very intent on seeing the bulls come (obviously) and then I saw them coming.  As soon as what I thought was the last bull passed me, I was starting to run.  Then a steer went down in the street right behind me.  I was very aware of everything around me.  I was waiting for him to get up--a great opportunity to run with the steer as soon as his horns went by.  Then some jackass grabbed this downed animal by the horns.  I yelled at him to stop, but the pastori with the big stick took care of him.  The pastori finally helped the bull up.  I was afraid he had a broken leg the way it was situated under him.  But he finally struggled up and took off.  

I tried to move forward just to run a little bit, but the gate was already closed to prevent animals that fall down in dead man's corner from going back against the crowd--very dangerous.  I was walking back to meet up with Janis when people started running towards me--the wrong direction.  I knew something was up and wham I heard something hit the gate and then people started running toward me, yelling.  My fear was that a bull was coming back, so I headed to the other side so I could bail through the fence if I got in trouble.  It was a steer, not a bull, and he went back to the previous gate, which was closed, so he had to turn around and here he came again.  As soon as he passed me, I did my only "running" with the "bulls."  I took my three or four cumbersome, awkward steps--(Chris, I know you'll laugh at my old-man attempt when you see the video)--the only running I did.  Janis thought I was hamming it up, but that was honestly my best old-man effort.  After my short jog, the steer was too far ahead of me, and there was no reason to continue.

Two people near me were carted out on stretchers and left in an ambulance.  The actual bull encounter was very short-lived but very close.  I never felt in danger except when I didn't know what was coming back, a bull or a steer.  

Because of the preparation of our tour operators, I felt prepared and relatively safe.  Seeing the running of the bulls has always been on my bucket list, but not running with the bulls.  I had no desire to get in front of a bull and run a hundred yards trying to stay alive, but my experience was age appropriate.  It was an adrenaline rush I'll never forget.