San Fermin is a ridiculous party. There is nothing like it in the U.S., and it just about blew my mind. I arrived on the last bus from Barcelona, getting in at 4am before pitching my tent behind the bus station to catch a couple hours of sleep before the cops kicked me and the others camping there out of the park (first time for that, felt kinda weird haha). So at 6am on a sunny Pamplona Saturday, I stored my stuff at the bus station and struck off to find the action. On my way I ran into a woman with blue eyes, blonde hair, and pale skin wearing the traditional red and white of the festival so I figured that she must be another foreigner and would therefore likely speak english. It turn out Karin was from Holland but spoke several languages including Spanish and English fluently (my lucky day!). We decided to hang out together for a bit, and we got some breakfast to build a good foundation for the drinking festivities later that day as we watched the town prepare for the chaos that is San Fermin. After wandering the streets drinking a breakfast beer or two (purely to blend in with the locals, many of whom were already staggering by now, 9am) we met up with her friend Javi, a Spaniard from San Sebastian. He let us put her stuff in an apartment of a friend where he was staying for the next couple of days, right next to a main street.
We set off from there to a local Basque bar where we met with the rest of Javi's and Karin's friends and washed down our earlier drinks with strong coffee and a sandwhich. After a few minutes exchanging hellos and drinking our cafe, we struck out to get a bottle of Sangria and to the Chupinastra in the Plaza Constitutional. The Sangria is part of the tradition, where the crowd soaks each other in Sangria, wine, and calimoxto (a red wine/coca-cola mix that smells terrible) at the firing of the rocket that signifies the start of the week's festivities. Well as we waited on the steps of the town hall, for the first time in the history of San Fermin, the rocket wasn't fired at 12pm. A large Ikurena (Basque nationalist flag) had been strung across the plaza in front of the mayor's balcony, and the mayor was refusing to start the festival until it was removed. The crowd began to get angry at this breach in tradition, with the traditional chant of "Lo Lo Lo Lo, Looooo, Loooo" being replaced with, "Hijo de puta!" (look that up). As the crowd boiled with anticipation and the anger built, the tension mounted until a lone police officer appeared on the balcony from which the flag was flown, and cut it down to loud cheers and boos from the crowd.
Moments later, the mayor and his officials arrived on the balcony and then lit the first rocket. The crowd exploded with the rocket, and the alcohol began to fly through the air as they celebrated the start of another San Fermin. It was incredible to see from such a close vantage point, and the steps we were on allowed us to watch the seething waves move through the crowd. All was right with the world. That is, until the second rocket was lit, but then dropped from the balcony about 10ft from where our group and I were standing. I jumped as far and as low as I could, then heard a massive BANG, and screaming as a woman who had suffered most of the explosion was lifted up with blood streaming from her leg, then carried through the crowd to get medical attention. Our group, fearful that the crowd might turn violent and press us against the building, or that the waiting riot squad might be called in, decided to leave the square "muy rapido." We pressed past the main crowd before realizing that a woman in our group had also been hit in the leg by the rocket, and was bleeding from her leg. It wasn't serious, but it was enough to shake everyone.
The obvious cure was to head to a bar and join in the jubilation that had engulfed the town. Everyone soon forgot the drama of that morning as drinks flowed and we danced our cares away. We hopped from bar to bar, meeting old friend and making new ones at every turn. The entire city was full of people who were just happy to be alive. Old and young, rich and poor, parent and child, local and tourist were all there for the same reason. Every street was more crowded than anything I have ever seen, but despite that, the heat, and the alcohol, there was not a single unhappy or violent person to be seen. My group was fun, and took me under their wing. They gave me the name "Harri" which is Basque for Stone, and apparently easier to pronounce. It was an honor to receive a local name from these incredible people who took me in.
We drank for most of the afternoon, until one of the locals pulled me aside to walk me through the route for the bull run the following morning. He warned me of the dangers, and told me that despite living there for 20 years, he knew only one person who had done it. His careful instruction soon sobered me to the dangers that waited for me with the rising sun. He showed me the starting point, a slight uphill before turning into the Plaza de Constitutional where he showed me the spot that the last American died. Matthew. He lead me past the dead man's corner where bulls are known to slide and then charge, disoriented. We walked along the narrow street that constituted the longest straightaway, safer than a corner but with nowhere to escape should a bull begin to gore the crowd. He provided me with the most thorough education any "guiri" (Basque word for foreigner) has ever received.
Later that afternoon our group lost each other in the press of the crowd, but managed to meet back up after the grand opening fireworks show at sunset. Javi insisted that I sleep a few hours at his friend's place, instead of in the park as I planned, so I would be fresh for the bull run. After 2.5 hours of sleep, I woke and donned my stained white and red garb, tied my laces, and walked through the ruined streets where the crowd was only just beginning to thin out at 6am. I felt strange walking sober over the broken bottles and passed out people that littered the streets, which were slick with drink, piss, and grease from food vendors. I was pretty calm, sure in myself and my teacher, when I took my place in the plaza with the other runners.
We waited for hours, the square packed with eager runners until the police broke the line and let us place ourselves along the route. My plan to start near the plaza, before deadman's curve, was ruined when the press of the crowd carried me far past my point. I staged myself, and my heart raced as the first rocket exploded. The bulls had been released and the crowd began to surge past me as giddy runners began to move down the street. I held my ground until I saw the tip of a horn and heard the clanging of the bell on the bull's neck. At that, I plunged into the street and ran as fast as possible, with people tripping and falling in front of me and screaming behind me. I looked back to see the bulls quickly overtaking me, and at about 3 feet away from them, I dashed to the side to let the two pack pass before resuming my race to the bullring. Right before the turn to the ring, the police closed a large gate, blocking me out of the ring for the day. My disappointment was apparently echoed by my fellow runners as a large wave rushed the gate and I was swept past the cops swinging batons at the unruly mob. I avoided the cops, runners, and bulls that day as I made my triumphant entrance to the Plaza del Toros.
The runners were all jubilant at their survival, and most were celebrating as the first of 5 bulls were released back into the ring to the excitement of the crowd. These bulls fortunately were a bit smaller and had their horns capped so one would only get hurt, not killed if gored. I stayed for three, but left as the press of the crowd made it too hard to see where the bull was at any given moment. Imagine that you are in tall grass with a bull running around looking for you, only the grass can trample you or hold you in place as the bull charges. I preferred to watch the excitement from the first level of the ring, as people were tossed left and right, trampled, then got up to limp to the side. I have never experienced something so exhilarating in my life, as I walked exhausted through the streets to find my friends and start the day's drinking again.
We drank the rest of the day, Karin joining me in the evening for the first bullfight of the festival. Its a sad, but memorable tradition, loaded with metaphor. This great pageant was a true spectacle, and I found myself admiring the Matadors who stood so fearlessly close to death. It was sad, but beautiful.
Our friends had gone home, but I convinced Karin to stay one more night so we could watch a concert by the band, Pegatina, which was amazing. Afterwards, we went back to the apartment where I caught two more hours of sleep before heading to my second run.
The run went well, but right before I made it to the gate, it was closed again. The police guarded it with clubs this time, daring us to cross again. I was in the front row, but standoff only lasted about 30 seconds before the crowd began to cry out behind me in panic. There was still one last bull. I jumped to the side as it raced past me and the cops scattered, no longer confident in their clubs. The bull stopped, only feet from me, then turned and eyed the crowd as it had nowhere to go but back the way it came. Suddenly, the crowd surged around the bull to wrench the large gate open. We rushed from the bull towards the arena, the bull eventually running alongside me in the tunnel to the Plaza. Once again I had narrowly avoided a gory (pardon the pun) death and made it to the Plaza del Toros.
This time I stayed for all 5 bulls that were released back into the ring, and satisfied myself with touching the flank of the last (and most aggressive) bull. By now I was completely exhausted, and I went with Karin to the bus station so we could go to San Sebastian (a little beach town an hour away) for some rest. I was exhausted and before we passed out on the bus ride there, we exchanged a sleepy, "Viva San Fermin, Gora San Fermin." We were done with San Fermin.
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| Walking to the Chupinastra, with some riot police just in case... |
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| The chaos of the Chupinastra or opening ceremony of the San Fermin Festival. 50,000 people in a tiny square getting ready to start. |
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| Embrace the chaos of a mob! |
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| Waiting for the rocket from the mayor's balcony above to start the festival.... |
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| The crowd raises their bandannas to ask the mayor permission to move them from their wrist to their necks, signifying the start of the Festival. |
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| Camera crews crowd the balconies, and the wire to the large flag can be seen from the top of the building. |
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| The press was eager to grab the action of the event, yet avoid the mix of Sangria and Calimoxto that drenched the participants. |
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| Karin and I stroll from the plaza, a little more pink, but white enough to keep on partying! |
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| Drinks and local sausage with bread fuel our long day ahead. |
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| Sadly it was a fake, its a shame cause that coulda bought a lot of sangria! |
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| Vendors weave through the crowd, selling everything from hats to lit up plastic swords. |
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| Local musicians and bands stroll the streets playing music for the crowds, adding to the atmosphere of celebration. |
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| Crowds of red and white as far as the eye can see. |
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| From the balcony of our apartment, a far better view than from my place in the park haha |
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| Street vendors selling blood sausage and bread, one accepting some coke for payment (a pretty expensive sandwich if you ask me) |
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| The crowd never ends |
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| Local musicians and Don Simon sangria... |
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| Two young boys enjoying their vantage point of a bull run fence on the second day of the festivities |
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| Silly, but oddly menacing after my first run |
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| Senor Don Simon and I became fast friends at this party. |
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| We tag along with a local band as they process through the dancing crowd |
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| A procession of the mayor, who wasn't very popular to begin with but had now reached an all time low. People shouted, "Chorizo!" which is Spanish for sausage, and slang for a corrupt politician. |
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| With me to the end, after nearly 48 hours of no sleep I find myself napping in the park with my friends around me |
