The atmosphere was electric. As a 605kg bull charged through a sea of brave locals, foolish tourists and sluggish drunks, a colosseum full of spectators went wild. The more stupid people attempted to agitate the bull by slapping or hitting it, whilst the more astute participants clung to the stadium's rim, praying that the massive animal would not come bounding in their direction.
Welcome to the San Fermin festival in Pamplona, Spain, home of the Running of the Bulls!
The 11-day, 24-hour festival kicks off with a massive foodfight in which everyone's traditional white shirts and trousers, red waistbands and scarfs are promptly covered in all kinds of ketchup, mustard, whipped cream and drinks. The festival is the kind that 99% of the town would absolutely adore (the other 1% being the council cleaning staff, who may as well be rearranging the deckchairs on the Titanic, their efforts are that fruitless).
The atmosphere is amazing, and whilst the festivities, at their worst, make Schoolies look like a Family Fun Day in the park, what's truly wonderful is that everyone gets in on the act. Babies in prams, elderly women breakdancing in pubs, people in wheelchairs, singles, families, rowdy Aussie tourists, all kitted out in the same, traditional, food-soaked dress... the sense of togetherness and community, whether you're in a massive Rio-style conga marching down the street, or passed out in the middle of the Town Square, is unlike anything I've ever seen. Incredible!
The bull-running kicked off the next day, as a crowd of runners partake in a three-minute sprint through Pamplona's streets with half a dozen bulls in tow (in the above picture, the quicker runners are waiting for the bulls to catch up). Whilst the animals tend to stick in a herd, it makes allowing the bulls to run past you - the make-or-break moment - exceedingly difficult, particularly as the track enters Dead Man's Curve, a bottleneck just before the arena. Hairy stuff!
Ultimately, everyone winds up in the arena. The massive amount of people who run is never truly apparent until this point, where everyone is packed wall-to-wall into a relatively large space. What happens next makes the run look like a walk in the park.
One-by-one, the six bulls are released into the arena purely to go ballistic against the brave souls who dared accompany them on their brisk jog through the streets just minutes earlier. People are trampled, beaten, thrown into the air and gored as the bull makes its way through the crowd with crazed efficiency.
However, the main event is the bullfight that evening. With tickets going for €25 a pop, typically sold out days in advance, we were lucky to obtain some for our last full day in town. The whole event is done according to tradition, with bands, horses, the whole shebang.
Eventually, the six bulls are released into the ring, one at a time, where a group of bullfighters do the hard yards as the bull is slowly and, one can only assume, painfully brought to the brink of death (the more faint-hearted of you may wish to skip over the following pictures).
Whilst the bullfighters are professionals, accidents can and do happen. The creatures themselves are immensely powerful and often unpredictable (more than once, they attempted to - and came close to - jumping over the fence separating an angry bull from thousands of spectators).
After a gruesomely drawn-out process, the matador is brought out to deliver the final deed. The goal is to try to kill the bull with one swift motion of their sword, straight between the eyes, which is easier said than done, as the beasts have incredible stamina, especially given the circumstances.
Whilst I'll spare you the gory details, the whole event - roughly clocking in at two hours in length - is bloody, primitive and is as strong and shocking as a cup of black coffee first thing in the morning, yet you are unable to tear your eyes away. The sheer spectacle, the sights, the sounds and, as the spectators pile into the arena afterwards, the smells are phenomenal. This is a culture unlike anything in England or in Australia (I'll spare judgment on some of the less scrupulous parts of Nerang).
This, after all my reservations, is why I am here; this is what this trip was all about!
All in all, a terrific five-day jaunt in Spain, complete with plenty of bull-running, bull-fighting and other bull-related shenanigans, all mixed up in a gloriously alcholic Spanish beverage called Sangría (not literally, obviously; that would require a glass of ridiculous proportions). Good times!
Tomorrow, Paris! Seriously. Just going for the day. Le Tour de France, you see. Au revoir!
