Morocco: Sahara Trip Day 3, Crazy Camels Causing Chaos

        We woke up about an hour before the sun, and helped break camp. We were supposed to be on our camels and riding in time to see the sunrise. One of our camels had other ideas apparently. While all the camels were quietly waiting for us to mount them, one decided to go on strike. He stood up, then started to walk off. One of our guides began to chase after him, but every time the guide got close the camel took off into the desert again running circles around the group. The entire time he was doing this, the camel had a very obvious smirk on his face as if to say, "lets see how YOU like being led through the desert... not very fun is it?" After about 15 minutes of these charades, the camel called it quits and let himself get harnessed back to the group by the furious and embarrassed guide.
         The group got mounted, and was making its way through the dunes when my camel apparently decided he was hungry. Or angry. Not sure which, but he started to bite the leg of the camel in front of him, before proceeding to gnaw on its ass. The camel in front of me was not amused, and a camel road rage (or I guess dune rage) battle ensued until a guide came and broke the feuding beasts apart. Our frazzled guides eventually announced that we should turn around to watch the sunrise, which was spectacular, before quickly resuming our trudge back to civilization. It had been a long morning for them and they wanted nothing more than to be done with the stupid camels.
        Back at base, we had a nice breakfast before hitting the road for a long (12 hour) drive back to Marrakech. The drive itself was fairly uneventful, just the same thing as the last couple of days in reverse. The scenery of the Atlas mountains was incredible though. Absolutely breathtaking.
      Luckily, we made it back to Marrakech in time to see a really beautiful sight. The call to prayer during Ramadan at the main mosque in Marrakech which attracted over 20,000 people. It was one of those incredible things you see that sticks with you the rest of your life. That seemed like the perfect end to a long day, so I made my way back to the hostel, and called it a night for Marrakech.

Khotubia Mosque at night

Lunch with the crew in the Atlas Mountains

Morocco: Sahara Trip Day 2

       The next day we started with a traditional breakfast of bread and fresh jam, before heading to our first stop, a small Moroccan Berber farming town where we visited some local rug makers. The skill and variety involved in the creation of those famous rugs was very impressive, and we looked through dozens of carpets while drinking the traditional Moroccan mint tea (Berber whiskey as the locals like to joke). The only thing they might be more skilled at than weaving rugs, is selling them. No less than half of our group of nearly broke backpackers ended up bemused that they had somehow bought a rug despite protests that they would never want a rug. There’s a reason these Berber traders have a reputation for fast dealing.

      Our group gathered their wallets (now much lighter) and made our way up into another canyon, which served as a springwater source for a local river. We enjoyed the cool water as a respite from the heat of the day, and the girls in our group gathered quite an audience as they decided that it would be ok to go swimming in their underwear. In a Muslim country. During Ramadan. Fortunately they recieved nothing more than a few gaping stares. After lunch at a nearby restaurant, we had about an hour break while our driver napped for Ramadan, so I went wandering down to the river behind the building (fed by the same spring). As I walked out, a bunch of little Moroccan children squealed excitedly, then ran off. Bemused, I found a perch where I could enjoy the sounds of the stream and still see the rest of the group if they left.

      Then the children came back. They started to try and talk to me, but since I speak only enough French to order a croissant and then say I don't speak French, it soon turned into a series of funny pantomimes. The kids  then  pointed to the stream, then me, then waded in (only about ankle deep water) and beckoned me to follow. I figured what the heck, might as well humor them. I waded in after them, and they thought it was hilarious. Then they took me across the stream to show me what appeared to be where they were making balls of mud, and they very seriously showed me through the motions. After a few minutes of splashing around (mostly them splashing each other), a man appeared on the stream bank and said, "where the hell have you been, the bus is waiting for you and the driver is very mad!" 

         That pretty much killed the fun I was having, so I quickly bid farewell to my funny little friends and grabbed my shoes and dashed up to the bus. Everyone was apparently bewildered as to where I could have gone (despite me telling them) but they thought my story was funny enough not to kill me for making them wait. So we pushed on across the desert in our lonely bus all afternoon, until we reached the base of a giant sand dune about an hour before sunset. It was here we met the camels and Berber  guides for our night in the Sahara. I decided to name my camel Bob, because of his dreadlocks and calm demeanor. We hopped on our camels and started the hour long trek to our campsite. 

       Camels, despite their seemingly ergonomic shape, are not in the least bit comfortable. Especially, when your camels are not actually camels, but instead one humped andromedas. I was not aware there was a difference before my trip, but I was keenly aware of it after an hour having some of my most delicate areas mashed by that stupid camel (andromeda, whatever) hump. I can honestly say that when we arrived at our camp for the night, tucked in behind a massive dune, that I had never been so happy to get off a camel in my life.

       Our group decided to scale the dune to try and catch the sunset on the other side while our guides prepared dinner. After about half an hour of trudging up the soft sand, we arrived at the top. We had missed the sunset, but there were still some spectacular views at the top. We all just sat there for a while in the warm red sand as darkness slowly crept across the barren desert below us. It had been a long journey to this spot, and we were all just happy to enjoy our moment in the Sahara. 

      It was dark by the time we made it back to our camp, where we sat on some rugs and had a delicious dinner of couscous with meat and vegetables, with some more Moroccan whiskey (mint tea, for those of you who haven't quite picked that up yet). After dinner we played some traditional drums with our guides, who put us to shame with their skills. After they left we halfheartedly tried to sing some songs, but realized that not a single one of us knew the words to an entire song. It was pretty sad haha. We called it a night, and moved our beds from the tents out to the carpet so we could all enjoy the spectacular view of the milky way, and the millions of brilliant stars. I have never had such a magnificent roof over my head at night.

Our group walking through a lush river area.

The shade of the Kasbah

Tea pouring ceremony in the house of the Berber rug trader.

A beautiful berber village stretching out of the entrance to the canyon of the spring.

Our freshwater spring that was oh so refreshing at midday.

My young Moroccan friends.

Meeting my camel for the first time.

Bob the camel, no smoking habit which makes him even cooler than Joe camel.

Goin native with my camel in the Sahara... Like a boss.

A Sahara sunset.

Sometimes, you just need some thinkin time on a massive sand dune.

Morocco: Sahara Trip Day 1

  I got up with the sun, the call to prayer drifting over Marrakech as I scrubbed my face and made my way down to a breakfast of Moroccan breads and jam. I finished quickly and joined Mike then headed out to meet our tour group in the main square. It turned out to be a great group of backpackers, most of whom happened to be Dutch. 

      We pulled out of the square and headed out towards the Atlas mountains, winding our way along narrow passes as the landscape changed from desert scrublands to mountain valleys (still pretty bare though). Our drive was punctuated every so often with a stop at a scenic overlook site or rest stop to stretch our legs and grab a snack. A little before midday, we stopped at a 12th century village,            , that has been in dozens of movies from Gladiator to Prince of Persia. Ait Benhaddou is a fortified Kasbah that once flourished due to the salt trade across Algeria, but has since dwindled to a movie backdrop since the 1963 Sand Wars (I swear I didn't make that name up) caused the border to shut, thus halting the trade. It was cool to wander around the village, seeing how ancient building materials provided relief in the midday sun, and how it must have been when it was still a bustling town.
       After a nice lunch, we hopped back on the bus and headed out to the Dades Gorge, a beautiful ravine cut into the mountains by little more than a stream, and inhabited by small ancient villages along its shores. We stopped at a beautiful hotel for the night, with enough daylight left to go swimming in the shallow waters and wash off the day's heat. It was nice to feel the cool, muddy waters flowing around me... then I noticed a farmer tending a good sized garden tucked in next to the river. Gardens are often fertilized with manure. Which would definitely find its way in the water. That I was immersed in. And I bet that there are dozens of gardens and farms like that upstream. So, I hopped out and took a good shower before I had dinner with the crew.

We all had hearty communal meal of Moroccan couscous with chicken and fresh vegetables, before going for a long walk in the dark canyon. The sounds of the water rushing through its twisted path below us, and the brightest stars you could imagine shone above us. It was a good end to the first day of our journey. 

Our view as we started our ascent into the Atlas range.

All the things you can buy roadside in the Atlas mountains. Rocks, clay pottery tajines, fossils.... all things great to take backpacking!

The 12th century fortified city of Ait Benhaddou, famous from movies like the Gladiator film. This was a major stop along the salt trade route until the border with Algeria was closed, making this Kasbah a relic of times past.

Our guide pointing out the construction technique of using straw and mud, which forms and excellent insulator but has to be replaced after rains.

 

The love for Russel Crowe in this little Moroccan village was outstanding. Long live Maximus!

Headed into the Dades gorge... its beautiful landscape in the lush river plains.

Morocco: "You Can Land in the Motherland, Camelback Across the Desert Sand..." -Lupe Fiasco

Disclaimer: Sorry, I'm about 10 days behind on my blog right now due to a  mix of a crazy travel schedule and a serious lack of internet connection (every place that has had wifi, also apparently doesn't care if it works)

    Marrakech is a crazy place to a westerner.

            I arrived from Seville bright and early, 7:45am, and haggled my way into a taxi to take me to my hostel. He dropped me off in the main square of the Medina, which was nearly deserted as I walked towards my hostel. I had arrived in the height of Ramadan, meaning most Moroccans were busy sleeping, and would be avoiding the streets until they were allowed to break their fast at sunset. But still, the “Morocco “ started as soon as I left the main square. My backpack and directions in hand marked me out as an obvious backpacker new to the area, and as such I was soon the focus of a dozen men calling out for me to follow them to my hostel, they knew the way. Its typical in Morocco to lead a tourist into the confusing maze of the Medina and ask for money, or just straight up rob them so I just ignored them and followed my directions to the hostel. One particularly persistent man insisted on following me as I went along, offering to show me the way, and that “ahh I have spotted a clue to where your hostel may be, lets follow it my friend!” 

Once again I ignored him, especially when he pointed to a small alley about 4.5 feet tall and said, “this looks clean, let us check down here!”

I might be young and naive, but I’ve seen this movie, and it ends bad for the trusting white kid.

      My hostel turned out to be pretty nice, and I managed to score a spot to sleep on the roof, which is prime territory since the temperature is regularly above 100 degrees (f) during the day, and not much cooler at night. I planned to stay there for a few days and explore... then I met “Rasta Pasta Man” Mike (as the locals called him for being a white guy with dreadlocks).  He was doing a two day, three night tour of southern Morocco and the Sahara the next day and he convinced me to go with him. When an opportunity arises, take it.

        I went out with some American girls vacationing from their study abroad in Spain, and we got a tour by a local guy at the mosque for a good price. He took us to a Berber pharmacy, where they use natural herbs and spices to make medicines and skin creams. They specialize in Argon oil, which is apparently really a big deal since all the American girls got very animated when it was mentioned (they also bought heaps of it, probably funding the place for the next few months). We toured around and stopped at a lot of shops (most of the guides who offer tours work partly off of commission from the shops they bring tourists to), but eventually hunger got the best of me. I paid my part of the tour, bid my new friends farewell, went to grab a quick bite to eat in the main market square, and then followed suit of the locals to head back in for a nap and to wash my clothes (still dirty from San Fermin, I have never seen such dirty water, and I’m pretty sure it was about 20% alcohol from all the sangria, beer, and calixmoto that had soaked into the clothes).

The oppressive heat got the best of me and I napped away the afternoon, then joined Rasta Mike and some British girls for dinner and a beer (we searched for way too long for that beer, but it felt like quite an accomplishment when we found one. In a Muslim country, during Ramadan). After a few drinks I called it a night and went to pack for my Sahara trip, which promised to be quite an adventure...

Looking up through my hostel to the boiling sun above... and its only 9am! 

Me at the Koutoubia Mosque, which is the main mosque of Marrakech and the sister mosque to the one in Seville that was turned into the Giralda. I saw both in under 24 hours.
#winning 

The prayer area for women at the Koutoubia mosque, over 20,000 people come here to pray at night during Ramadan

A traditional Moroccan meal in the central square of the Marrakech Medina with new friends from my hostel, joining the throngs of locals as they break their Ramadan fasting with heaps of food.

East meets west... Coca-Cola in Arabic with a traditional Moroccan meal in the central square of the Marrakech Medina.

  

Solo Backpacking: Pros and Cons

    So from personal experience, solo backpacking has a lot of pros and cons. Its not for everyone, but I thought I would list some that I have noticed in order to help potential backpackers decide if they would be up to roll solo for a bit! This is by no means a comprehensive list, so feel free to add to it through comments at the bottom!
 

  Pros: You make your own schedule- sleep when you want, go where/when you want, eat on your               schedule, etc.
                        Example: When I went abroad for the first time to Colombia, I was supposed to go with friends, but they had to cancel, leaving me solo. My original plan was to party, but going solo made me link up with other backpackers who gave me great advice, and eventually allowed me the flexibility to meet and stay with a local family in one of the poorer areas of Medellin for a few days. If I had been beholden to the whims of friends that likely would not have happened... and it was my favorite part of my trip!!
           
              You are forced to meet new people- when you travel with a group of friends, you are likely                 to spend more time with them, doing things you would normally do but in a different location,               than actually meeting the travelers on the road around you and the local peoples wherever you               are traveling.
                         Example: Travelers have to rely on each other on the road. Advice from fellow travelers about your next potential stop is more accurate than any travel guide, if only because the info is fresher. If you make friends with them, you begin to build a global network.

             You can live cheap- Spend as much money as you want, you don't have to go to a fancy                       restaurant if you wanna live cheap and just snack on a baguette and cheese for dinner                             (followed by breakfast, then lunch, then dinner...).
                         Example: At the San Fermin Festival, I was solo so I didn't have to worry if other people would be ok with sleeping in a park. Would they be squeemish? I felt ok with it so that was good enough for me.

             You do lots of thinking- You are alone a lot of time, something that doesn't really happen all                 that often in daily life. If you want to be completely alone with your thoughts, just go stroll                     through a city where you don't speak the language!

Cons:    It gets lonely- No matter how much you enjoy solitude, the thought of being on the road for                   extended periods without any continuous company to share your experiences is tough. You go               through a roller coaster of highs and lows, excitement at where you are and what your doing                   followed by periods of the blues when you want a good friend from home.

             You make, then leave, awesome friends- Hosteling is great, because most of the fellow                         travelers are similar minded, and its really easy to find great friends after a couple of stories                     over breakfast or a local drink. The hard part is, that its likely that your nomadic ways with                     take you apart after a couple of days. Its unlikely that you will see these friends again, and                       thats pretty hard.

             When you get home, you can tell the stories, but not share them- You don't have the                         friends you met at the stops along the way to relive the crazy stuff you did that one night in                     Barcelona (like when you drank out the 24hr hostel bar with a bunch of Aussies and Brits to                   celebrate the 4th of July)... You can tell these stories, but they are yours alone.

Pamplona to Seville: One Last Run

   So, despite being completely and utterly done with San Fermin and its craziness only 24 hours earlier, Karin and I found ourselves on the last bus to Pamplona with a jug of Don Simon and plenty of excitement. We met up with some of her friends and actually partied the whole night until 6am, when we all said our goodbyes as her friends left, I went to my final bullrun, and Karin went to spectate. My last run went really well, the locals were a bit more aggressive this time and I had to work pretty hard not to get shoved down or in front of the bulls, but I made it into the Plaza del Toros once again.
      Playing with all five bulls was a great cap to my experience, and once again I was able to touch (respectfully) the last and most aggressive bull. As I walked from the Plaza, dirty, tired, and hungover, I felt pretty satisfied that I had made the most of my San Fermin experience. At this point, all I wanted was sleep, but sadly I had to contend with a slight hangover and finding my way to Seville that day. Fun Fact: Seville is on the opposite side of the country. It is very difficult to get there from Pamplona. It is not where Salamanca is, as I originally thought, and a train will be incredibly expensive. It will make you feel even more terrible than your hangover when you realize how much you've paid to get to Seville in time to check in to your hostel.
     So 8 hours later, and way too many euros poorer, I made it to Seville. This old town was incredible, and I was greeted by a  couple of women in the street who were headed to a bar at 12am. They were intrigued by my backpack, and they seemed nice and friendly, so I joined them after checking in to the Boutique Hostel (http://www.sohoboutiquehostel.com/) for a beer or two. They gave me the lowdown on Seville, which is apparently fairly quiet until 10pm due to the oppressive heat (123 F), and then becomes a lively party town until 4 or 5am. As much as I wanted to keep up, I had to bid my farewells as my Pamplona sleep deprivation caught up with me around 2:30am.
     The next day was full of exploring Seville, which was the most confusing city I have visited so far. The winding streets and extremely narrow alleyways make for an incredibly disorienting day, even with a map. I managed to visit the city's most important monuments (the Tore de Oro, and the Giralda which is a mosque that was converted to the largest gothic Cathedral in the world, and the stunning Alcazar palace that was used by Muslim and Christian kings alike) and snag a decent lunch before I headed back to the hostel to avoid the heat and prepare for my next leg of adventures...
Morocco, here I come!

The Giralda Cathedral in Spain from the windy streets of Seville

The entrance to the Giralda Cathedral

Stunning sculptures inside the church

The former mosque tower from the orange garden of the Giralda

La Tore del Oro or tower of gold, which looks over Seville's waterfront as a reminder of its strong nautical history.

Fountain at the Alcazar

The courtyard at the Alcazar palace

Fountain of Mercury at the Alcazar palace.

The bath of the Kings mistress in the Alcazar Palace

Beautiful signage in Seville

The orange garden from the tower itself

San Sebastian: Shelter From the Storm

       We arrived in San Sebastian, and after a quick shower we parted ways again. Karin went to teach English and I went to the beach with the sole mission of thoroughly exploring the insides of my eyelids. I have to say, the beaches were stunning. After my nap (and subsequent sunburn) Karin took me on a grand tour of the city, harbor, beach, and then culminated in a walk around the old downtown. We hopped bar to bar in search of pintxos (PEENCHOES), the Basque form of Tapas, and washed them all down with short bursts of a sour cider. After making our rounds, our San Fermin exhaustian caught up with us and we headed back to her place where I fell asleep before I even landed in my bed.
     The next morning we grabbed some breakfast and wifi before she left to teach again and I went exploring. I made my way around the old town in the daytime, and enjoyed the famous Conche beach, which due to an island at the entrance to the bay and its sweeping nature, mimicks the famous seashell of Santiago De Compastela. After wandering in the heat, I met up with Javi and a few friends to enjoy a dip in the ocean while we waited for Karin to get off work.
      Once she joined us, we both remarked how remarkably fresh we felt, and then a dangerous idea began to circulate. She didn't have to work in the morning. I didn't need to do anything but be on a bus to Seville in the morning. She missed the sangria. I wanted to touch the bulls one last time. Well, we could still catch the last bus and just stay up all night partying in Pamplona, then part ways after the running in the morning... hmmmm....    

The Conche bay with its clear waters.

Where sea meets river in San Sebastian

The cathedral of the Buen Pastor, seen from the older cathedral across the town.

Such clear blue/green waters... very inviting on a hot summer day

Conche boardwalk

Pamplona: Viva San Fermin! Gora San Fermin!

     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.

Walking to the Chupinastra, with some riot police just in case... 

The chaos of the Chupinastra or opening ceremony of the San Fermin Festival. 50,000 people in a tiny square getting ready to start.

Embrace the chaos of a mob!

Waiting for the rocket from the mayor's balcony above to start the festival....

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.

Camera crews crowd the balconies, and the wire to the large flag can be seen from the top of the building.

The press was eager to grab the action of the event, yet avoid the mix of Sangria and Calimoxto that drenched the participants.

Karin and I stroll from the plaza, a little more pink, but white enough to keep on partying!

Drinks and local sausage with bread fuel our long day ahead.

Sadly it was a fake, its a shame cause that coulda bought a lot of sangria!

Vendors weave through the crowd, selling everything from hats to lit up plastic swords.

Local musicians and bands stroll the streets playing music for the crowds, adding to the atmosphere of celebration.

Crowds of red and white as far as the eye can see.

From the balcony of our apartment, a far better view than from my place in the park haha

Street vendors selling blood sausage and bread, one accepting some coke for payment (a pretty expensive sandwich if you ask me)

The crowd never ends

Local musicians and Don Simon sangria... 

Two young boys enjoying their vantage point of a bull run fence on the second day of the festivities

Silly, but oddly menacing after my first run

Senor Don Simon and I became fast friends at this party.

We tag along with a local band as they process through the dancing crowd

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.

With me to the end, after nearly 48 hours of no sleep I find myself napping in the park with my friends around me