Pamplona

Like a cowboy at a rodeo, I sit atop my spot on the fence. A loudspeaker says — first in Spanish, then in English — “Do not touch the wounded. That’s the responsibility of health personnel.” A line of green-florescent-vested police sweep down the street, clearing away drunks and anyone not fit to run. Then the cleaning crew and their street-scrubbing truck make one last pass, gathering any garbage and clearing broken glass. The street — just an hour ago filled with throngs of all-night revelers — is now pristine, sanitized for a televised spectacle.

Sitting on the top timber of the inner of two fences (in the prime area reserved for press), I wait for the 8:00 rocket. I’m thinking this is early… but for the mob scene craning their necks for the view behind me, it’s late. They’ve been up all night.

Cameras are everywhere — on robotic arms with remote controls vice-gripped to windowsills, hovering overhead on cranes, and in the hands of nearly every spectator that make up the wall of bodies pressed against the thick timber fence behind me.

The street fills with runners. While you can wear anything, nearly everyone is wearing the standard white pants, white shirt, and red bandana. The scene evokes some kind of cultish clan and a ritual sacrifice. This is the Festival of San Fermí­n. Fermí­n was beheaded by the Romans 2,000 years ago, martyred for his faith. The red bandanas evoke his bloody end.

The energy surges as eight o’clock approaches. The street is so full, if everyone suddenly ran, you’d think they’d simply trip over each other and all stack up, waiting to be minced by angry bulls. The energy continues to build. There are frat-boy runners — courage stoked by booze and by the girls they’re determined to impress. And there are serious mozos — famous locally for their runs, who’ve made this scene annually for as long as people can remember. They’ve surveyed the photos and stats (printed in yesterday’s paper) of the six bulls about to be turned loose. They know the quirks of the bulls and have chosen their favorite stretch of the half-mile run. While others are hung over at best, these mozos got a good, solid night’s sleep, and are now stretching and focusing.

For serious runners, this is like surfing… you hope to catch a good wave and ride it. A good run lasts only 15 or 20 seconds. You know you’re really running with the bull when you feel the breath of the bull on your pants. Mozos, like Spanish bullfighting aficionados, respect the bull. It represents power, life, the great wild. Hemingway, who first came to the festival in 1923, understood. He wrote that he enjoyed watching two wild animals run together — one on two legs, the other on four.

Then it’s eight, and the sound of the rocket indicates that the bulls are running. The entire scramble takes about two and a half minutes. The adrenaline surges in the crowded street. Everyone wants to run — but not too early. As if standing before hundreds of red-and-white human pogo sticks, the sea of people spontaneously begins jumping up and down — trying to see the rampaging bulls to time their flight.

We’re filming the event, and have chosen to be near the end of the run — 200 meters from the arena, where, later today, these bulls will meet their matador. One advantage of a spot near the end is that the bulls should be more spread out, so we can see six go by individually rather than as a herd. But today, they stay together and make the fastest run of the nine-day festival: 2 minutes and 11 seconds.

Like a freak wave pummeling a marina, the bulls rush through. Panicky boys press against my fence. It’s a red-and-white cauldron of desperation. Big eyes, scrambling bodies, the ground quaking, someone oozing under the bottom rail. Then, suddenly, the bulls are gone, people pick themselves up, and it’s over. Boarded-up shops open up. The timber fences are taken down and stacked. The nine-day cycle of the festival, built around the 8:00 am Running of the Bulls, is both smooth and relentless.

As is the ritual, I drop into a bar immediately after, have breakfast, and join the gang watching the entire run on TV…all 131 seconds of it. Many mozos felt the breath of the bulls on their pants. Then, with the routine mundane demeanor of a TV weatherman, a nurse with a clipboard reviews that day’s wounded before famous mozos are interviewed about this particular run. Hours later, at about noon, I drop back into my hotel and notice the hallway is lined with “Do Not Disturb” signs hanging from door knobs. It’s Pamplona, the incredible Festival of San Fermín, and the Running of the Bulls. Here’s a photo essay of this unique event:

The Fiesta de San Fermín — better known to locals as El Encierro (“The Enclosing”), and even better known worldwide as “The Running of the Bulls” — ceremonially begins in front of Pamplona’s City Hall	Mozos — the serious bull-runners — traditionally wear white with strips of red tied around their necks and waists. While these outfits honor the martyrdom of San Fermín, they also evoke the dress of the butchers, who supposedly began this tradition. (The bulls, who are color blind, couldn’t care less.)	The mozos line up, nervously awaiting the 8 o’clock rocket shot announcing that the bulls have been released. Then…
…they scramble to stay out in front of the thundering herd.	The bulls charge down the street, while the mozos try to run in front of them for as long as possible before diving out of the way.	The Running of the Bulls is party time in Pamplona. While only 15 runners have been killed by bulls over the last century, far more people have died from overconsumption of alcohol. (Most participants just wake up with a massive headache.)

I’m in northern Spain working hard, but it is a little discouraging because so few Americans are traveling here. León and Burgos are great old towns with awe-inspiring cathedrals and plenty of colorful tapas bars. (I just found the Spanish twin to Scottish haggis — it’s called morcillaand comes without the skin. You’d think a dog got sick on your plate. Smear it on toast with a fine red wine. It’s quite tasty…if you like haggis…which I do.)

Sure, it’s great traveling here. But I want lots of people to use my work. And the chances of that here, relative to just about anywhere else in Spain, are about nil.

Anyone walking through town with a backpack is likely a pilgrim, heading like me (but on foot) from France to Santiago. (Some 80,000 are expected this year — I figure that’s about 500 a day through the season.) I play a game: When they walk past, I spin around to see the scallop shell dangling from their pack — as it has from the rucksacks of pilgrims for over a thousand years. I love the idea that the first guidebook ever written talked up “going local, packing light, and watching out for pickpockets” for pilgrims traveling the Camino de Santiago a thousand years ago.

My guide, Paco, is from Pamplona — a famously conservative town with a famously rowdy drunken brawl each summer when the bulls run. Today in León we walked by a sex shop and Paco said, “Not in my town.”

Pamplona is a center of the super-conservative wing of the Catholic Church, Opus Dei (with a university, medical science center, hospital, lots of money, and lots of power). Franco put it here to tighten Navarre’s connection to the rest of Spain. I commented on the contradiction of pious Pamplona being famous for its annual drunken brawl, and tied it to the notion of a PK (a “pastor’s kid”…often the troublemaker in middle school). Paco, who stressed that Opus Dei neighbors are welcome and respected, explained that they may believe sex is not for fun. But when they party…they really party. He then said, “We say, ‘In Spain, you could never say that that priest is not your father.’”

When Franco died in 1975, the end of his repression unleashed an orgy of pent-up hedonism. A decade of movies was known as the Destape(disrobed) period — when every Julia Roberts in Spain had to play topless. Today, these actresses look back and see the irony in the end of Franco’s repression being replaced by what they now see as another kind of repression.

In Spain, humor changes from region to region. Paco’s take: Andalusian humor is noisy and simple. People in the north have a raw, edgy sense of humor, Saturday Night Live-style. And in Barcelona, people love Woody Allen.

Paco, like everyone here, is high on Obama. Europeans are buzzing about his recent visit at the G20 meeting. Paco explained that the press is famously unimpressed by politicians. “And for the first time in memory, the press corps gave a standing ovation to someone…and for an American president!”

Paco’s degree is in marketing. I asked him about “the brand of America.” He said when his grandparents were young, French sold. For his parents, Italian sold. For his generation (which came of age in the 1980s), American culture sold. For young people today, China and Japan sell. (Not coincidentally, the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao is featuring very popular exhibits by Chinese and Japanese artists.)

Paco said that back in the days of Ronald Reagan, people were charmed by American culture on TV and in the movies, and it seemed to match reality. In the last years, the American image on TV and in the movies didn’t match the uglier reality people saw on the news. To Paco and his friends, Obama isn’t the Messiah, but he has “the face of truth.”

I was impressed that Paco had the new edition of my Spain guidebook. He said, “Whenever we need an international book, Amazon.com is our answer.” They pay the same as Americans do — no extra for shipping. And rather than arriving in two or three days, the book comes in about 10.

Paco is from Navarre (in the north). He said, “We are shy and reserved, but when you talk to us, you open the door.” I have found this to be very true. He’s a good guide for his region, but he’s never been to Santiago de Compostela (the greatest city in northern Spain, just a day’s drive away). I ribbed him about this, but admitted that I’ve never been to Yosemite (and he has). So he ribs me that, since he’s traveling with me, he’ll get to Santiago before I get to Yosemite.