I Went to the Running of the Bulls.
By: Angi Suwoto
Tags: Interesting Stories, Traveling, Travel, Spain, Weird

I Went to the Running of the Bulls.

If you’ve ever wondered what the world’s most chaotic festival is like, it goes something like this.

For one week in July, the tiny town of Pamplona, Spain transforms into one of the wildest, craziest parties in the world.

The San Fermin Festival was, as the name suggests, originally held in Spain every year to honor Saint Fermin. But for many years now, it has become a wild, wild party–an entire week that kicks off with the chupinazo, an opening ceremony, and is followed by seven days of encierro: the famous running of the bulls, every morning at 8 o’clock sharp. Six furious bulls are released to race amount hundreds of mozos, or runners, on their way to the bullfighting arena.

Yes, this is a festival where countless runners willingly subject themselves to sprinting away from a group of charging live bulls.

It is customary to wear all white and red — white for Saint Fermin and red for blood–and to toss sangria during the chupinazo that lasts all the way from the kickoff to the first run the next morning. For just one week, Pamplona is a riot of action, adrenaline, and alcohol — and of course, when I was living in Spain, I just had to experience it for myself.

10:45PM

It was a warm summer night, and my friends and I boarded the bus from Barcelona and headed up toward Pamplona. We pulled into the station at 10:45, and it was immediately clear that the amount of people here was staggering, a riot of white and red. As soon as we stepped out, we found ourselves milling about in a sea of peppermint candy-colored Spaniards, shouting among themselves as they struggled to move past one another. The sky was already black, but the streets and parks were so full, there wasn’t a spare inch of ground to be seen.

We shuffled through the masses towards the arena park as the fireworks began to burst in gold and red showers in the black sky. Each blast sent a wave of oohing and aahing through the packed crowds. The froth of noise only grew in intensity as we approached the plaza del toros — thumping music, screams and shouts, the sound of broken plastic cups crunching underfoot and the wild hollering of drunks partying like wild animals on the sangria-soaked streets. We waded through trash ankle-deep past the bullring, where the sturdy wooden posts that would corral the soon-to-be runners and bulls were already nailed deep into the ground.

Pamplona is tiny and seems to exist purely for San Fermin, so there’s very little space — unless you’ve booked months in advance and paid a hefty sum, don’t expect to have a place to stay. For us, poor college students, we brought some blankets and towels and camped out in one of the nearby parks. By the dim lights of the lampposts we could see the people sitting on steps or the grass with their bottles of alcohol, the smell of urine and weed mixing unpleasantly with the scent of dirt and liquor. Everything felt crude and raw — people urinating in the streets, doing cocaine, and having sex in the bushes. We managed to gather all our friends in one small space, where the others were stringing up hammocks between the trees, but I didn’t expect them to have sweet dreams when the roar of the party, already half a mile away, still rang loud and clear in the night. During the San Fermin Festival, there isn’t a quiet space to be found in Pamplona.

12:00AM

At midnight, we wandered up the paths back past the plaza del toros, where the blasting music and rioting sounds of drunken partying were still going strong. As we turned down the narrower streets to try and find the bullpen, we were assuaged with the yells of descending festival goers clutching their pitchers, slopping red wine over their white clothes. Random strangers would holler at us, putting their arms around our shoulders as they jabbered away in slurred, rapid Spanish. We weaved over the narrow cobblestones to avoid the staggering mozos who clearly were only just holding onto the last fragments of their minds. I had never seen so much trash at once before. The ground was soaked to mud with sangria, and crushed cups, beer bottles, newspapers, and all kinds of mystery rubbish were strewn several inches deep.

We managed to find our way up Calle de Santo Domingo and peek at the bullpen, where the enormous bulls shuffled about with a docile kind of sweetness. They seemed so peaceful, turning their heads to ring the huge bells around their necks, but under their gleaming black coats rippled 500 pounds of pure muscle, and the moonlight sparked off their wickedly curved ivory horns in the dark. We pulled away from the pen and set off up the running course, where the streets were even more packed with celebrating, frenzied Spaniards. Watching my feet for broken glass and plastic and fluids and wondering why on earth I wore open-toed shoes, we meandered our way up Calle de Estafeta, turning at Dead Man’s Corner and taking the winding paths through Mercaderes and Consistorial. After a few minutes’ pause to deck ourselves out in white and red bandanas and sashes, we routed back around to the plaza del toros and, eyes wide with astonishment at what we’d seen, made our way back to home base in stunned silence.

3:45AM

It was time to split up. My family was scared to death and had asked me to not participate in the run itself, so I committed myself to recording the fray in as much detail as I could, while a few other friends decided to participate. A second friend and I decided it was time to stake out a vantage point for the absolute best view of the encierro–and we already had our eyes on the starting line. It was still pitch-black outside, but the entirety of Pamplona was still alive and roaring with the chaos of an all-night-long party. We grabbed some snacks and drinks and fetched a position on the top of the stairs, huddled in the cold while the commotion of drunk revels raged below.

7:10AM

The trash vehicles finished their daily last rounds, clearing the piles of trash from the running course, sweeping millions of plastic shards and paper and bottles from their crushed deathbeds on the sides of the asphalt. As they cleared the pathway, mozos started gathering in the narrow corridor, abuzz with excitement and adrenaline. Newspapers rolled, in hand, clothes still stained all over with sangria. A sea of white with red accents tied around necks, around waists, taking photographs excitedly with their friends at the starting line. As the sun rose and the view down the narrow and curved street became awash in light and visible from our station on the stairs, the mozos converged on the street en masse. They were in a frenzied mood, still fueled by the party from the night before. Everywhere, black heads bobbed, buzzing with noise and anticipation. It was packed so tightly, the street wasn’t even visible anymore, just endless runners stretching all the way from the orange starting line to as far as the eye could see.

7:50AM

A huge roar of cheers went up as the statue of Saint Fermin was placed in the altar, a small nook in the wall that they decorated excitedly with flowers and flags and candles. Chanting and singing and shouts went up as they cried in harmony, beating and waving their newspapers and asking for his blessing during the run. Each chant was ended with a round of explosive cheering and applause and shouting in excitement. Songs were sung by mozos in blue bandanas, raucously encouraged by the hundreds of white and red runners that had managed to cram into the street. As the time drew close, the crowd began to thin as the less experienced mozos retreated up the road, jumping in anticipation for the bull run to begin. Police stood among the crowd, firmly holding the eager waves of runners back from pushing against the starting line. 7:58. 7:59. I was craned over the railing, holding my breath. All eyes were on the bullpen, 50 meters down the street, and the gate that held back the raw force of nature. How many more seconds? 30. 20. 10. Zero.

8:00AM

There was a gunshot. Immediately, the mozos shouted in defiant cheers as one–and then, a split second of dead silence. Everyone’s breath held. All eyes were on the gate when all of a sudden, the first bull leapt out. It scrabbled for a moment on the wet asphalt, then turned and came bolting down the road. Five more black hides bloomed from behind it, each 500 pounds of rage and muscle and pure power, thundering down the street in a lightning-fast blur.

The mozos ran for their lives. They turned tail and scattered down the street in a panic. There was shouting and screaming. People dived out of the way of the pointed horns as the heavy hoofbeats burst in thunderclaps on the cobblestone, yells sounding as there was a mad dash for the top of the street. The bulls trampled everything in their way, trampling the unlucky few, mozos left sprawled on the ground in pain, and the bulls were gone. They raced like the wind up the incline, fighting for hold on the slick pavement, slipping and falling with the panicky runners, wide eyes full of adrenaline and pure fear.

And then it was over. The bulls had gone, torn through like the wind, and the roaring sound of their wake was all that was left. From my place at the starting line, I looked out down the road, where I could see people running, and heard the sounds of carnage. I hoped my friends would be okay.

9:30AM

The aftermath of the encierro was boisterous, lively, and happy. Fences were taken down for repair for the next morning, shops reopened, bands sang and played bright march songs as they paraded towards the arena. We regrouped with our friends, thankfully none of whom were injured in the slightest.

We gathered up our sleepy bodies and trailed back towards the bus station. Lively mozos flocked to the bars, the cafes, and the arena. By noon, braced up against the fences, I spotted white-and-red-clad runners breaking out the beer and sangria.

And so it begins again!