Running Of The Bulls

July 4 - 13, 2007

I don’t really know how to tell this story to do it justice. It all started with a 24 hour bus trip from London to Pamplona in the north of Spain. We pitched camp with about 800 other Aussies and Kiwis, all part of the Fanatics tour group who were in Pamplona for San Fermin, the running of the bulls.

The week long festival began with a crazy opening ceremony. Everyone was dressed in white with red sashes around their waste. Sangria was flying everywhere by 9am. Champagne was being sprayed all over the place and bottles dropped and smashed on the ground. Girls were being hoisted onto blokes’ shoulders and if they got their boobs out they’d get a cheer, if not they’d get a boo. The festival was officially opened at 12 noon by a massive fiesta in the centre of town. With about 20 minutes to go before noon, the crowd was so thick you couldn’t move. Then a surge would come in from one end of the crowd and you’d be helplessly swept off your feet. If you were one of the stupid ones who wore open shoes or thongs, you’d be getting your feet sliced up by the broken glass. Think of the craziest mosh pit you’ve ever been in and multiply it by 10, that’s what it was like.

After 12 the party progressed to Muscle Bar, a 6 metre high statue that people climb and then jump off. The only thing from stopping you going face first onto the pavement is a bunch of 8-10 drunk blokes with their arms linked down below. There are stories of tourists getting up there and the locals letting them fall at the last minute. Thankfully we didn’t witness this, but we did see one bloke over estimate his dive, going head first. He got up with a bleeding head. And a chick decided a pin drop was the best way to come out with 2 broken legs. Most people were mesmerized by the stupidity of what was going on, but it wasn’t stopping them from having a crack.

There was a sangria assisted siesta that afternoon, a bit more sangria then a failed attempt to get more sleep, partly from my mate snoring and partly from nervous energy.

Next day, the running of the bulls. One of the stupidest things I’ve ever done and I’ll quite openly admit, the most scared I’ve ever been in my life. We were up before the sun and into town to get a good spot on the track. The bull run is about 850 metres, it starts in a bull pen, runs through town to the massive stadium that holds over 20,000 people. The runners can start running at 8.00am, the bulls start at 8.05am. The idea is to get into the stadium after the first bull (not before or the crowd will boo and throw stuff at you) and not long after the last bull (before they close the gates).

The majority of the runners were hungover Aussies. The cops come through at about 7.30am and form a line and clear the track. Dodging the swinging batons is just as crucial as dodging the bulls horns. After this point no one enters or leaves the track until the bulls have done their stuff.

I was in Spain with my mates from vet school, Pete, Rob Dogs and The Stoff (or while in Spain, Pedro de Suza, Roberto Perros y La Stoff, mi llamo Senior Davo.) Rob Dogs and The Stoff have brains and intact egos – they didn’t run. Pete and I are unstable and relied on paper scissor rock to make our decisions for us – we tested fate and betrayed our promises to our mums’ and ran.

I remember my heart rate being very high, my mouth being dry, but Pete had to remind me later how much my hand was shaking when we stopped on the wall half way between Dead Man’s Corner and the stadium and waited for the bulls to come past. All it would have taken was one little turn of the head and 600kg of bull could be pushed through your abdomen. But it didn’t happen to us. I got a few pics with the desposable camera and then turned and bolted after the bulls to get to the stadium.

As I turned I was knocked by a runner and my camera went flying. I stopped and turned to pick it up and got steamrolled by another runner who dropped me on my left buttock. But I crawled through the legs, got my camera back and turned and ran even faster. Made it to the stadium just in time, alive!!!

The cheers of 20,000 people were pretty sweet. But not as sweet as going head first over the railing of the stadium to the safe side of the barrier, knowing that you’d run and come through without any puncture wounds.

Good excuse to drink some more sangria!

The fiesta went on for a week, people partying or sleeping on the streets day and night. The mix of sangria and urine created a beautiful aroma around the town. The day after we ran, we got into the fiesta. Drinking sangria in the streets; joining in with the locals chanting for the residents of the high rise flats in the streets to throw water from their balconies; helping Rob Dogs with broken spanish chat up the locals (his favourite line being 'Hello, my name is Roberto Perros. You are very beautiful. Will you permit me to have this dance?')

We were pretty happy to find ourselves in the fiesta free sanctuary of San Sebastian the following day, where the sea breeze and huge variety of tapas bars helped us rekindle our sangria drenched bodies.

Here we hired a car and drove across the top of Spain towards Pompenillo, a small village with 24 residents, including Kathy, Martin, Molly and Harry. If San Sebastian was a sanctuary, this was heaven! Kathy and Martin are friends of friends who I hadn't seen in about 15 years. Their amazing hospitality and barbequeing skills were hugely appreciated.

We trekked up to the Spanish Pyrenees for a day of breathtaking hiking. The views were unlike anything any of us had seen on our travels yet. We came back to Pompenillo via on of Spain's best wine regions where Kathy had organised for a friend of hers to take us on a guided tour of one of the wineries called Enate. We were treated to a 2-3 hour personalised tour which was very special.

The road trip ended in Barcelona, where we saw out the Spanish adventures in style by sitting in the sun drinking beer and maybe a little bit more Sangria. I left the lads to enjoy the sun for a couple more weeks while, I flew back to the cold and rain of the English summer.