Travels: Surviving Pamplona

Bullfight.

Pamplona is a madhouse. As one yank put it, ¨it makes Mardi Gras look like a fuckin picnic.¨ The festival is supposed to be about some San Fermin guy, who was made a saint for some reason or other. I don´t who San Fermin is, but if he were indeed a saint, he would be spinning like a top in his grave.

Besides the wild parties and the abundance of Sangria, what the festival of San Fermin is known for worldwide is the Running of the Bulls.

Yes I ran, but before you get all googly eyed, you should know that the running of the bulls is not ¨all that¨. I found it rather tame. On a danger-scale of 1 to 10, I´d give it a 3...just slightly more dangerous than riding your bicycle without a helmet.

I did some research prior to the run, and most people said something like, ¨The bulls run like the devil. You cannot outrun a bull. Instead, run until the bull gets close enough for comfort, and then move off to the side.¨

Why are they running? You can barely spot me off to the left in a red shirt...waiting. See the guy standing on the handrail? If he were to take a mighty pee, he'd hit me.

The sweet, oosty, cutsy bulls.

Me checking out the chaos down the road. They called in some medics for something.

The fountain.

The marines who caught me. You'd trust your life to these guys wouldn't you?

The nice locals who lent me their t-shirt and socks, looking worse off than me.

Justine and I met up with Justine's sister, Claire, and her friend Kale. Kale re-enacting some Fanta commercial.

Even the statues are hardcore in Pamplona. Check out the bad-ass dog.

Aww cute, look at the little guy getting mauled.

They divide tickets into two classes, sun and shade. Peasants and tourists sit in the sweltering heat, the locals have season's passes in the shade. Somehow we scored tickets in the latter.

The bull getting a little of his.

Aww, they shoulda let him win that one.

Now this may have been true back when San Fermin did it (did he do it?), but methinks our present societal clime of "sue before accepting responsibility" has forced festival organizers to tame the bulls down a bit. Perhaps a switch from the ol' rubber band around the balls trick, to slipping them some Rohypnol would be enough. In any case the bulls ran at about the exact same pace as of their handlers, who whipped them from behind. Quite easy to keep up with really.

But people die, you say. True that. But the real danger isn't the bulls, it's being trampled by a thousand adrenalized drunk 20 something males who think really think they are running for their lives. Keep with the flow of traffic and you'll be fine.

I decided to run the "Corner of Death" section -- a sharp 120 degree turn in the road. Because of the organizers hose down the street prior to the run to remove debris, the road is quite slick. The bulls almost always lose their footing here and slam into the fence on the side of the road. Hence the name. Get caught on the outside of the corner, between a bull and the fence, and you are hurting. The bulls may be slow, but they are still heavy. Oh, and they have those pointy things on their head.

Anyway, being sober and aware of my environment, I didn't have any problems on the corner. I don't know, maybe I missed the point? I probably should've gotten shit faced with a bunch of frat buddies and then ran.

Speaking of such, there is another tradition in Pamplona, started by a bunch of drunken Aussies. Part of it involves climbing a fountain in the center of town. Seems logical...most people's introduction to buildering comes through getting drunk and feeling the need to scale things.

Given the fountain's sloping architecture, it is a little tricky to climb. However, the real feat is the second part: jumping off of it. The main risk here is judging the sobriety of your catchers, as doing a face-plant onto granite from 20ft would surely give you a headache. Like the guy who jumped the night before me and died. Yes died. Turns out instead of doing an ungraceful-yet-practical belly-flop onto the catchers below, he opted for the more graceful swan-dive. Bad choice. His catchers were unable to prevent him from smacking his noggin and he died.

Unfortunately I didn't hear of his dreadful fate until after I had jumped. I'm sure I must've been quite the jackass in the local's eyes, and anyone mourning their buddies death. Perhaps that's why I had such a hard time rounding up catchers. I did manage to find about six guys, four of them Marines, which should count as at least three regular people each.

The first jump was quite enjoyable, and possibly the highlight of my Pamplona experience. The second jump I could have done without, as it ended in one concussion, one messed up ear, and a charlie horse from hell.

Bullfighting on the other hand...now there's a San Fermin event worth indulging in. Yeah yeah, it´s cruel, whatever. Go hug a tree. Your dissent will not make one ounce difference to the thousands of season-ticket-holding-spaniards who enjoy this truly fantastic spectacle.

There were about 12 protesters, mostly tourists, outside the arena holding a banner saying, ¨A nation is judged by the treatment of their animals.¨ Really? That´s news to me. Then let's pardon the Nazi's, the Chinese Communist Party, and American rendition/torture and go after the real villains: dudes in tights prancing around with bulls. You know those prize fighting bulls live better lives than the average Somalian child right?

Anyway, the bullfight was amazing. I´d change a few of the rules if I could though. Like not allowing the little escape areas for the matador. That was a little unfair. And make it one matador per bull. They have five guys in there, each with different roles, all doing their part to not get gored by one measly bull. A 1-to-1 ratio would be much more sporting. Maybe they could have a special Thunderdome round or something. Is that what it´s called? I´m not up on my Wrestlemania terms. You know the one where they lock 20 guys in a cage and it´s last man standing? That one. Only make it a bull, a lion, an elephant, a bear, a marmot, and Russell Crowe.

But the most exciting San Fermin event, the one that gave me the biggest rush, wasn't even listed on the schedule. It's called the "Running of the Pack", and involves a race between an unsuspecting tourist and a petty thief.

Justine and I had been sleeping in a park, as it was impossible to find a vacancy anywhere in town. You have to book a year in advance. Fortunately I'm a heavy sleeper, which allows me the luxury of being able to sleep wherever I want -- under bridges, in ditches, parks, wherever.

This night was no different, except around 3am, when my pillow was yanked out from under my head. I challenge even the heaviest of sleeper to not wake up in said situation. Especially if your pillow is your backpack, filled with your camera, your passport, and all your clothes. That'll get you up quicker than a bucket of cold water.

So up I was, chasing a blur through town in nothing but my boxers. And literally a blur, as I'd taken out my contact lenses for the night. I'd just learned a useful phrase from the Lets Go Phrasebook: Socorro!!! Ladron!! (Help!!! Thief!). Unfortunately a crazed naked man gets nothing but jeers from drunken revelers.

I managed to catch the guy, shoved him and said ¨Tu mi amigo?¨ Translation: ¨You my friend?¨ I wish I had my (stolen) camera to capture the look on his face. He made a circular sign beside his head and said something like ¨Gringo Loco!¨. What I meant to ask was ¨where are your friends?¨ as this guy didn´t have my pack and there very well could've been two or three blurs. I thought I saw a someone run off in an opposite direction, so I took off to the jeers of partying tourists. ¨Hey buddy! You're naked!!!“

After running around in random directions, with my feet bloodied from broken glass, I finally gave up and went back to the park. Justine had gathered up the remaining stuff. I cried, Justine cried, we found some locals to partake in our sorrow. Because I only had my boxers to my name, the locals kindly donated me some socks and a T-shirt which read ¨THC¨ and had a big pot leaf on it.

We went back to the park to see if the thieves had dropped anything in their hurry -- and yes they did. Quite a bit in fact. In their haste they dropped my entire pack about 100m from where we were sleeping. I laughed, I cried, Justine laughed, she cried, the locals wanted their pot shirt back.

I must've ran right by the pack in my blind state. No wonder the guy thought I was loco. He must've thought I was going to kill him -- or ask him to be my friend.