Today is the last day of of the festivals of San Fermin.  The families are out in force, enjoying the traditional events of dancing giants, rural Basque sports and typical jotas (songs from Navarra).  The daytime San Fermin is such a contrast to the violence and risk of the bull runs and bullfights and the excesses of the nocturnal fiestas.  I’m finally finding time to reflect on what this long week has been.  In particular, I’ve now experienced the running of the bulls, from a runner’s point of view, twice.  Today I ran again.

After the quick bull run, I read an email from a concerned friend in which she repeatedly asks some of the important questions.  Kara’s opinions frame the issue as a moral one – especially in light of the recent death of Daniel Jimeno Romero.   So, I decided to quote the well-written email at length, as well as investigate some other opinions.  Leaving aside the subject of bullfighting, here’s the main question.
Is the Running of the Bulls event wrong?

My friend Kara’s answer is “Yes, the event is wrong.”  My answer is, “No.”   She writes:

My initial reaction to the first death of San Fermin was immediate condemnation of the whole event.  I wouldn’t say that I felt aversion to the festival as much as confusion over how it all could be worth the ultimate sacrifice. After some thought, however, my initial condemnation stands.  There are various reasons for this stance, and I am fully aware that passing judgment on an event that I have not attended and that is far older than I am is a bit arrogant, but I think that I have given the situation serious and informed consideration–at the least as much as possible in my circumstance.
Is a the rush of adrenaline, the sense of adventure and danger worth the risk and possible extinguishing of even one human life?  After much thought and consideration, I came to simple and unqualified answer–no.
Why was his life cut short?  Why did his family, the city, the country, and the world lose him?  Is the city of Pamplona, or even the country of Spain, better for the deaths and injuries that occur at the festival every year?  Do the men and women that run each year have the right to put their lives in danger for the cause of tradition and celebration?  Side note:  I do not question the danger of the event because various sources, including yourself, have expressed the certain amount of luck involved in running with wild animals over which you have no control.  Ian Usher said it best during your interview, almost to the point of admitting that a certain amount of naivete, bordering on stupidity is needed:

“Now, I should have done it when I was in my early twenties, when you think you’re invincible and nothing scares you.  I’m now forty-five I’ve got a lot more common sense and a lot more, sort of self-preservation.  It scares me because unlike skydiving, where you have a fair amount of control over the equipment and timing, here it seems to be completely out of your hands.  You go, and it’s a lottery out there.  You can be as sensible, safe and sober as you want but things can still go horribly wrong.  That’s why it scares me, because really I don’t see that I have a lot of control over what happens.”

But, back to my question.  Do individuals have the right to put their own lives in severe danger (and there are degrees of danger to be sure) for whatever fancy crosses their mind? One can argue both ways, but as I believe there is a higher purpose to life and that the gift of life is sacred and worth preserving, I do not think that individuals have that right… I believe that by participating in something like the running of the bulls (skydiving, bungee jumping, etc.) one is acting in a selfish and morally reprehensible way, ignoring the true beauty and power of life that can so easily be seen through various means and need not be seen only in stark contrast with death or the possibility of such.
I will not run because I am capable of valuing life by its own merits and not simply through the possible loss of it, and though this may sound arrogant, I am not so selfish as to take myself out of this world knowing that I can affect it and, possibly, make it a better place for even one person to live in.

Kara’s opinion condemns all high-risk sports – especially risk of the 1500-pound-horned caliber.  I don’t know if I can make a moral case for the Running of the Bulls, but I will offer my experience and some thoughts.
From talking to people here in Pamplona (visitors and locals), I’ve come to understand that many of them run with the bulls as a way of self-discovery.  It’s a natural and known phenomenon that human males like the thrill of taking risks.  Whether this has some biological, evolutionary purpose is beyond me, but I can speculate that perhaps the thrill of testing limits and flirting with danger increases risk tolerance, and thus, survival, when extreme daring is necessary.  Courage is an admirable virtue, and it needs to be tested in order to be strengthened.   I don’t think that the majority of participants in this event are mindless thrill-seekers.  Believe me, (unless you’re drunk or crazy) you KNOW the risk involved.  This event breathes danger and fear.  The bulls come thundering through the crowd of running people who look frail in comparison to the large, muscular animals.  And, of course, it’s exhilarating to be alive afterwards.  Strangers hug and raise their hands triumphantly to the sky and the crowd in the stadium goes wild as the bulls and runners enter the bull ring.  Something that feels so good and is so popular – can it be all bad?   The answer I’ve come to is that there are simply different ways to live life, and that’s beautiful.  I run with the bulls because I want to – and because I believe that the level of risk to which I’m exposing myself is acceptably proportional to what I think I’ll out of it – in terms of exhilaration and self-knowledge.

For some people, the experience of risk is living life to the fullest that they know.  There are people that would consider death-by-bull to be preferable to a quiet disease.  And there are some people who suddenly become more risk averse.  I talked to one local man who ran all 8 bull runs every year for 15 years – then he had children and gave it up cold turkey.  He won’t even watch the event live anymore.
A brief search of blogs on the topic resulted in some similar opinions.  Many people write off the whole event as sheer stupidity.
WaltSense insists the event was started by a drunk dare.
A. Lowhorn on TheBrownTweedSociety writes: “I say to Spain—how many more of these stupid, stupid men have to die before you address this crisis?”

And Ernest Hemingway boldly states: “Auto racing, bull fighting, and mountain climbing are the only real sports … all others are games.”

Some final questions: Should we outlaw other sports that happen to have many injuries and sometimes result in the ultimate sacrifice?  Car racing?  Motorcycles?  Boxing?  American football?  Whitewater rafting?

A final fact: only 15 people have died as a direct result of the bull-gorings in the past 100 years.  Granted, a handful of other deaths have resulted from the run, not involving bulls.

I’ll close with a good comment quoted in this NYTimes blog post, written by somebody who understands that this tradition is something to be experienced before it can accurately be judged:

“But, this is not my culture, though my husband and children are Spanish and I think it is short sighted to point fingers at a tradition that has been around for centuries and for example, is far more environmentally friendly than oh, Nascar. But I did not post to get into the ethics of bullfighting.
The guy that was killed was in Pamplona from Madrid with his parents and girlfriend and maybe, just maybe, before you put up such nasty and mean spirited comment about “another idiot down” you might think of him and his family. I am embarrassed at my fellow Americans cruelty. Que descanse en paz, Daniel.”

Like the magnificent fireworks every night over the Ciudadela, this festival has been an explosion of exuberance.  And like the bulls at the end of their run, the pace of the festival is slightly slower; we’ve come to the last tramo of the Fiestas de San Fermin.  And like the bulls that are fought each evening in the Plaza de Toros, the life has begun to ebb from this party.

Amidst a non-stop schedule of events (and in between necessary naps), I’ve been trying to understand what’s really being celebrated at this massive, week-long festvial.  This event is so intense, so distinct, so fuerte – such a unique combination of pagan ritual and 21st century globalism.  African immigrants sell handcrafted jewellery and Made-in-China sunglasses to boisterous Australian travellers while visiting gypsies operate the circus and Native American street performers sell dream catchers.  And, what other festival is so joyous while at the same time incorporating an event that regularly results in serious injuries and, at times, death?  It’s really too much for this guiri to understand, though it certainly does fascinate.

At another bullfight yesterday with my friend Riley, I witnessed again the ritual drawing out of the bull’s life.  It seems, the closer the torero can get to the line between life and death, the more honorable the fight.  Ernest Hemingway, the celebrated American author who made this festival world-famous, said:

“Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter’s honor.”

Even though they were some unusually ugly bullfights yesterday, I suddenly understood (as a fresh, magnificent bull charged into the stadium) that this festival is all about celebrating the strength of life, which the toros bravos symbolize. And the necessary contrast to the strength of life is the process of dying.  In the circular stadium the cycle of birth and death are ritually played out.  Perhaps it’s a fitting coincidence that the word corrida in Spanish means both “bullfight” and “ejaculation.” (My co-worker thoroughly enjoyed my mistake when I once misused the word on the website!)

Well, as the festival draws to a close, perhaps the readers of this brief blog have more insightful comments, like a recent reader, Ernest Hogan, who wrote a pithy summary of this event on his blog:  “The testicles that give life and the horns that tear it away are forever connected.”

By John Rhodes

“And thirty years later that one day is coming.  That ‘one day’ is tomorrow morning.”

On July 7th I caught up with Ian Usher of 100Goals100Weeks.com and talked to him about his goal number 49: Running with the Bulls in Pamplona.  Ian Usher is British, living in Australia for the past several years.  He recently put his whole life up for sale and dedicated these two years to accomplishing 100 goals in 100 weeks.  You can read more about Ian Usher on his website.  And here you can watch interviews with Ian Usher on various international news media.

Out of the millions of things to do and see in this world, you’ve chosen 100 goals to complete in 100 weeks. That’s about two years –

Yes, well actually I wish I’d chosen fifty goals in fifty weeks. This will be goal 49, though I don’t consider myself to have achieved it yet because I’m going to run with the bulls tomorrow morning.  I’ve watched from Michael’s balcony this morning, and I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing to see the bulls running because potentially it could make me a lot more nervous if it was a bad run and, you know, there was a lot of chaos down there.  But it went over fairly cleanly, though there was one guy I saw bowled over by a bull right below us.  I looked at BullRunning.com to see all the videos of runs from last year and that was really helpful to get an idea of how it goes.  There was lot of good information about the actual run itself.

Photos by Alexandra Browning

On your website you say that this goal, running with the bulls in Pamplona, really scares you. You also say that you reckon this was one of the very first goals that you ever set. Why do you think such a scary goal was one of your first?

Well, it was one of the first goals I every set because I saw a documentary about Hemingway when I was 12 or 13 years old.  When it got to the part of his life where he wrote The Sun Also Rises it showed a bit of the running of the bulls in Pamplona.  As a kid I just thought it was so incredible. Now, I should have done it when I was in my early twenties, when you think you’re invincible and nothing scares you.  I’m now forty-five I’ve got a lot more common sense and a lot more, sort of self-preservation.  It scares me because unlike skydiving, where you have a fair amount of control over the equipment and timing, here it seems to be completely out of your hands.  You go, and it’s a lottery out there.  You can be as sensible, safe and sober as you want but things can still go horribly wrong.  That’s why it scares me, because really I don’t see that I have a lot of control over what happens.

So why are you going to run?

Well, because I did say, one day I’m going to do it.  And I’m the sort of person that if I say I’m going to do something, I’m going to do it.  I would go home very disappointed in myself if I came here and watched it and didn’t do it.  As far as I can remember, it’s one of the first goals I ever set. I very clearly remember thinking, “One day, I’m going to do that.”  And thirty years later that one day is coming.  That “one day” is tomorrow morning.  A lot of my goals on there are sort of self-testing, adrenalin-fueled type things.

Of your 48 accomplished goals, which is your most memorable adventure so far?

Well, two actually.  One was in Japan where I was fortunate enough to swim with a mother Humpback whale and her calf.  You drop into the water and turn over and all of the sudden you see it and think, “Oh my God, look at the size of that!”  The most amazing thing was  you could see her eye and you could see who she was looking at.  But if you tried to get any closer, her tail came up, this big, big tail.  I was thinking, “Should I try to touch the baby?” And then this big tail came up and I thought, “Oh that’s more than play.”
The second most memorable goal that I’ve achieved was riding the wall of death, a vertical, cylindrical wall in which you ride a motorbike.  A guy built his own wall of death in a field with pallets.  This guy is amazing.  He’s a plumber and has a Youtube channel.  I went and saw this thing and it really was pretty rough.  After a couple falls and scrapes, and despite being scared, I finally got it and it clicked.  I was so proud when I drove away.  You push past the fear of hurting yourself.  In terms of personal achievements that was one of my proudest moments.

What’s been a memorable moment so far at San Fermin?

I went to the bull fight which they do on horseback on the 6th,  the opening day.  At first I thought, “I don’t like this at all.”  It wasn’t me, the killing of these magnificent creatures.  I understand there’s a cultural significance but I find it really hard to watch animals die for sport.

However by the second half I started taking pictures and thought I’d watch it just like a sporting event.  And I really was surprised and slightly disturbed about how sort of thrilling it was to see the skill of the guys and the bravery of the horses. You know you could really admire what was going on.  It was very interesting to me to see my own reactions change.  I really don’t think you have a right to condemn anything unless you’ve gone and seen and experienced it.  On my website I’ve tried to avoid all bias or controversy.  I try to just write about what I see and experience.  I try not to be too opinionated about stuff, especially in other cultures.

Ian Usher, at Michael Murphy’s (@PamplonaMan) apartment (pictured here with Murphy’s dog, wearing a typical San Fermin pañuelo):

The next morning both Ian and I ran with the bulls at the beginning of Estafeta street.  We’re both alive and relatively uninjured to tell the tale.

It’s the second all-nighter I’ve spent walking the streets of this non-stop, week-long fiesta.  The pulsating, packed streets of of Pamplona never stop dancing.  With marching bands, street entertainers, a circus, music in every bar and concerts in every plaza, there is always something stimulating happening.

Yesterday evening a couple friends and I watched the bull fights (photos to come).  The savage beauty of this event is hard to express.  It brings into such sharp focus the difference between man and animal and the delicate line between life and death.  As the calm torero gradually goads the life out of the instinctual animal, the man triumphs and in one swift movement buries the sword between the bull’s shoulder blades.

After six bulls were killed (and one torero was wounded – photos here), I took a short nap and stayed out all night.  This morning I watched the bull run from an excellent balcony (Estafeta 23) while enjoying some coffee and churros.  Little did I know when I watched the bulls run below us that a young man was killed just around the bend at the end of calle Estafeta.

As I walked home we were joking about the long night’s festivities, the people we had met, the surreal atmosphere.  I fell asleep immediately back in my apartment, only to be awakened by a phone call from my co-worker at BullRunning.com – a death had occurred! A man from Madrid, hit by a bull’s horn in the soft place above his left collar bone.

So, here I am, updating the website and Twitter and wondering how to balance the fun and tragedy that are a part of this event.  Like the bull fights last night, the joy of life and the nearness of death are never closer than at the festival of San Fermin.

This morning at 8am I ran with the bulls.  Well, it’s more like I waited in a huge crowd of white and red and stewed in anticipation and tired nerves.  To add to the obvious tension one feels while waiting to run with wild, horned animals, I had been advised by my Spanish friend that today the bulls were from a ranch (ganadería) known for it’s especially high-strung and fast bulls.  I tried not to think of these “toros bravos” as I waited in the chattering, testosterone-charged, slightly intoxicated crowd.  Despite all this, I actually felt calm.  I tried to make small talk with my friend, Ian Usher.  I think I thought I could be an island of cool-headed resolve, an agile runner ready to spring into instinctual action as I joined the bulls after their slow-down at the famous curve… until I heard the bang of the rocket which signalled the fact that the toros were now set loose down at the beginning of the course.  This was no longer an event only in my imagination.  It had begun.

Fear started to light up people’s eyes and I was carried with the wave of panicking runners.  Soon the cowbells of the steers could be heard approaching amidst shouts, screams,  and cheers; the bulls came careening around the Curve of Mercaderes and entered Estafeta where I was starting to run.  The boy in front of me tripped.  So did the guy next to him.  I stumbled over him too.  As I stood up the guy behind me grabbed my pants to help himself up.  The bulls flew by in a flurry of shiny black hair, wide pointed horns and big, brown steers.  The green-shirted “pastores” sprinted after them with long sticks, hitting people who tried to touch the bulls.

I ran with the crowd, not knowing if there was a straggling bull still running up behind us.  The sudden sprints and bursts of yells from the crowd created a very intense atmosphere of uncertainty.  But the bulls had passed in tight group and I found myself at the end of the course, known as Telefonica.  After running into the bullfighting stadium, full of cheering spectators, I think for an instant I recalled my past life as a Roman gladiator.

A minute later the last three steers came charging into the arena and ran straight to the corral.  The last rocket gave a bang, signalling the end of the encierro.

I thought that was it, but then I realized that all the entrances and exits to the ring were being closed off.  Soon a young bullock with padded horns was running madly around the sandy stadium floor, harassed by hundreds of (mostly non-Spanish) young men (and a couple of blond young women).  Occasionally the disoriented young bull would catch somebody, tossing ‘em in the air and charging toward the next group of hecklers.  Several times the crowd parted and the animal was suddenly running straight toward me.  Maybe I was too tired, because I didn’t quite catch the bug of enthusiasm to tease the creature.  I stood around, saw some people I recognized and congratulated them in having non-horn-punctured innards and then I climbed up in to the bleachers.  I found an exit and jogged back to the Plaza del Castillo, through the night’s trash littering the sidewalks and the morning trucks spraying down the streets.  I met my friend for churros and hot chocolate.

Despite the bruised knees and tired body (from sleeping just a few hours the past couple nights), I think I’ll run again tomorrow – but this time at the beginning where the bulls are fast and free and the experienced runners start at the Cuesta of Santo Domingo. It’s the bulls I fear as much as the people.  Thanks to the guy who dragged himself up from my pants as the bulls came charging by.

And now, here in the BullRunning.com office, I am recounting my experience just hours later.  For more info, see today’s summary of the second encierro of San Fermin 2009.

After a late night of calimocho, chistorra and excellent music, I awoke after a few hours of sleep to see the first running of the bulls (encierro). Pamplona’s main newspaper, the Diario de Navarra, reports just four injuries at this morning’s 8am run, most of them at the very beginning of the course on Calle Santo Domingo (the uphill cuesta where the bulls actually run fastest, bounding up the hill).  None of the injuries were from horn punctures.  The four hospitalized people suffered relatively light injuries from being knocked down by bulls or people.  One person was unconscious from a concussion on the cobblestone street.

On our Spanish website, see: Video of this morning’s bull run.

This morning I awoke to folk songs drifting up to my 5th floor apartment from the little plaza below.   I looked out to see a crowd of people sitting in front of the local bar – all dressed in white with red sashes (fajas) and red handkerchiefs (pañuelos) on their wrists.  Their loud singing over breakfast at 9am was a surprise.  So, after putting on my white pants and faja (which I bought yesterday from a street vendor), we joined the crowds below.  I ordered wine, eggs and chistorra to reinforce us for the coming mayhem.  Expectation was in the air.  After meeting a Spanish friend for some more food and calimocho, we went straight to the Plaza Consistorial – joining the crowd of white and red streaming into the city center for the opening ceremony at the city hall: the Chupinazo.

Just minutes until noon I was squeezed into a sea of chanting people.  Swept into the packed crowd, pushed back and forth, sometimes not even touching the ground, sprayed with champagne (vendors sell bottles in the streets) and calimocho (people carry large Coke bottles) – we finally looked up to hear the mayor of Pamplona greet the crowd: “Pamplonesas, Pamploneses!!”

And the rocket went off.  And then another.  And another.  The sea of people moved us back and forth as we battled our way back to the edge of the plaza.

Here’s a video from a few hours ago (I’m down on stage left near the Ayuntamiento (City Hall) building:

The traditional fountain diving was suspended this year because the fountain was removed for work.  So, instead, I witnessed the improvised new tradition of jumping from the dumpsters into the crowd below – definitely safer than the 15 ft. fountain.

Now, back at my apartment I can’t stop hearing in my head the song that I’ve heard all day,

Uno de enero, dos de febrero,

tres de marzo, cuatro de abril,

cinco de mayo, seis de junio,

siete de julio, ¡SAN FERMÍN!

A Pamplona hemos de ir,

por la fiesta, por la fiesta

a pamplona hemos de ir

por la fiesta y un buen botín.

I’ll be taking a break to post a few things, but meanwhile, check out our Twitter.com/BullRunning and our excellent photography blog and, of course, the Foreign Perspectives of John and Riley. Until tomorrow…

VIVA SAN FERMIN!

Today Pamplona’s main newspaper, the Diario de Navarra, mentioned that the rest of the bulls are arriving today from all over Spain.  As I read the names and weights of the bulls, it made this whole bull running idea much more tangible.  One of the bulls from Jandilla is named “Amante” (nº 54, negro mulato) and weighs in at a healthy 595 kilos (for the non-metrically inclined, that’s 1,312 pounds of rippling muscle).  Well, “Amante,” I have news for you: you may think this run is all fun and games, but you don’t know what I’m made of.  I have been training.  I may be 1,150 pounds lighter than you.  And it’s true that I don’t have sharpened, cylindrical weapons growing from my skull.  But I’ve got a brain and this blog – and from this public forum I am informing all your white and red running targets that you exist.  I am telling them your name, your size and your number.  So, be warned “Amante,” we are ready for you.

As I’m imagining the magnificent bulls now in Pamplona, from the most celebrated ranches (ganaderías) in Spain, I am beginning to understand that this event is more than an extreme sport for adventurous travelers.  No, the Festival of San Fermin (and the Feria del Toro which is a part of it) celebrates a real cultural heritage.  The bull has been an important and revered part of Spanish culture since, well, since the ancient cave paintings in Altamira and the megalithic stone sculptures (verracos).

In comparison to all that bull history, the encierro of San Fermin has a relatively brief history.   As the little city of Pamplona prepares for nearly a million visitors, I am preparing to see this place in a new way.  Amidst all the mayhem and debauchery, I hope to get a sense of the cultural importance of this festival – and to share a sense of the reverence that many Spaniards hold for these bulls.

For more info on the bulls and a recap of each day’s running of the bulls, see the blog “Foreign Perspectives,” managed by two Americans with a few years of San Fermin experience.

Expectation is in the air.  Last night I walked though the eerily quiet streets of Pamplona around 2am and imagined the transformation the city would undergo in a just 10 days.  Along the famous Calle Estafeta they have already erected most of the bull run barriers (vallados) and there are little paper signs along the street advertising rooms and balconies for rent.

This will be my first San Fermin, and from the pictures I’ve seen, the sleepy town of Pamplona erupts into a megalopolis of pure party for 9 days of mayhem.  Over a million visitors from all over the world are expected this year.  This blog will give a daily account of my experience at Spain’s most famous (and craziest) festival – as will my BullRunning Twitter account for BullRunning.com.