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.”