How to Avoid Angry Bovines: A Pamplona Tale

“Running with the Bulls? I would never do that. That’s crazy. You could die! They’re all idiots...”

Two years later, there I was standing in the sea of red and white people packed like sardines on the narrow cobblestone streets of Pamplona, at an appropriately named junction called “Deadman’s Corner”. Amazing how things change.

I was in the middle of my trip around Europe. My mate JD and I had left the tiny suburbs of Canberra for the grandeur and excitement of a modern continent that combines both the old and the new. After working in the UK through a miserable but apparently ‘mild’ winter, I had had enough. Sunshine, beaches, pubs and good times, here I come. JD had left to go home to his sister’s wedding so I was in it alone.

I had found a Van Tour crew in London, and we had journeyed south in our hired Wicked van from London to the city of Pamplona. The campground we chose to stay at was at once a mixture of the Spanish countryside, debaucheries and alcohol. It had character. The first day of the festival began with a bang. On the strike of midday on that Sunday, the fireworks went off, and the festivities began in earnest. The entirety of the streets were packed with people wearing the traditional dress of white with red sash and kerchiefs, to the extent that it was impossible to move except in the direction that the crowd was moshing. Sangria, that infamous drink of the Spanish, was being thrown around in copious quantities, along with mustard, tomato sauce, flour, and water. People on the balconies of the buildings above were contributing by throwing buckets of water onto the awaiting crowd below. Corner stores were filled to the brim with both casks of Sangria and the people who wished to buy it; the corners themselves each had a band playing, or at the very least speakers playing music. Picture a city-wide street-party/food fight and you have some idea of what it was like for the next few hours.

Next day was the first run with the bulls. I was too hungover and missed it. It doesn’t matter! They add an extra bull each day for the week that the festival runs, so there’s plenty of time and bulls left.

The second day of the run I was there, on the 6am bus to get there in time, with my mate Jason who I met for the first time in London. We raced to get into the starting area before it was closed off by the police to prevent too many people running. Since we had gotten in with about 1hr 15mins to spare, we just waited in that mosh pit. But eventually the time came to choose where you were going to start your run.

The event is organised like this: you have an 800m or so track, created by blocking off side-streets. The track leads to an arena which can sit about 5000 people. Everyone finishes their run (hopefully) in that arena, but you can start your run just outside the arena (and get booed by the crowd) or around the middle somewhere, at a place called Deadman’s Corner, where most people start.

I had chosen Deadman’s Corner as my start. And we waited, lining the streets three people deep. Suddenly we hear the first rocket, the one which signals that the gate to the bull pen, out of our sight around the corner, was open. A general murmur runs through the runners. Five seconds later the second rocket explodes. This mean that all the bulls are out and running along the street! The excitement increases. Some people start running. Everyone else shrinks up against the walls of the street. The guy next to me, in his effort to assimilate with the wall behind him, is actually pushing me outwards! Then the sounds of the bulls hooves starts echoing on the cobblestones, and their bells can be heard approaching. Most people break at this point and flee. I did. Run! Everyone is desperately trying to run through the streets. People grab you by the shirt and throw you back. Others trip in front of you, only to be trampled by the people behind you. Its mayhem. Chaos. Everyone is trying to get to the relative safety of the stadium. At least the bulls in the stadium have corks on their razor sharp horns...

We finally reach the stadium, with a ‘good distance’ (maybe 20m) between us and the bulls. I feel disappointed. I didn’t come to Pamplona to run ahead of the bulls, I came to run with them. We were in the stadium for another 45 mins, which in itself is quite dangerous. Once you get to the stadium, the next three-quarters of an hour is dodging angry, energetic steers before you are finally released.

Chatting to Jason afterwards, he expresses the same disappointment about the way we ran with the bulls. But it took him to suggest we do it again the next day. Crazy! Ah heck, let’s do it!

The next day. Running with the bulls. Again. This time we held back long enough to actually run in amongst the bulls. Madness. I run as hard as I can, losing Jason in the process. Eventually I am overtaken by the last of the bulls. I keep running, and as a result I only just squeeze into the stadium gates as they close. But the excitement doesn’t stop there. They release the steers. Feeling ever more cocky and confident, I take the more exhilarating option of chasing the steers rather than hiding behind the hundreds of people. Whilst it is very much frowned upon to touch the bulls (foreign hooligans who try to mount the bulls were often bashed by the locals afterwards), chasing them is allowed and the crowd love it. The first steer that was out I chased around, following its erratic path as best as I could. This immediately backfired. The bull stopped on a dime and turned around to face me.
It looked at me and the guy next to me.

The guy next to me decided to run. Good idea.

Just as I’m thinking “I should run too” it charges. I try my best to dodge but it’s no use, and I feel the horns on either side of my hips, its head in my stomach and the next thing I know I’m flying through the air. I flew a good 3 or 4 meters before landing on my elbow in the hard sand. Feeling a bit dazed I brush myself off, noting the blood coming from my elbow. I hear the crowd screaming! They loved it! I bask in my moment of glory before the bull gets someone else and all the attention is shifted there. The adrenaline!

Forty-five minutes later we’re exiting the stadium. Jase and I celebrate by swigging a litre of Sangria each. It was our last day in Pamplona, and we were going to make the best of the traditions we had discovered and come to love.

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